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⋮⟢ drabble: jack abbot and his controversially young gf who’s overly possessive (and he loves every second of it!)
⋮⟢ feeling tired couldn’t write a full fic so here’s a self-indulgent thought!
jack dating a girl who hasn’t quite kicked her petty and possessive tendencies™. it’s definitely a learning curve for both of you, and the fact that he is objectively the most charming man you’ve ever met implies that he definitely comes across as that to everyone else doesn’t help your case. what does help, though, is how keen he is on showing you he’s spoken for, has been for a while, and is not planning on looking anywhere else.
he’s both endeared and confused by it. he’s confused when it pops up at random times. he was also confused about how when it first showed up in your relationship – when you started giving him the silent treatment after a barista left a little heart on his coffee – and he felt so giddy proving to you that he’s only got eyes for you. he’d lit up like a christmas tree on the inside at the idea that you’d gotten mad over him. there was probably something wrong with him.
he knew someone else may have considered this somewhat of a red flag. but jack, instead, found that kissing you all over underneath a tree outside the coffee shop – your cheek, your neck, the corner of your cute scowl, hands holding your waist until the sulk gave out – undid you inside of ninety seconds. it also undid him considerably faster.
he’d thrown out the cup without mentioning it, tucking you both into the dappled shade. the bark of the tree caught roughly against his palms where his arms braced your head, and he was too busy watching the tightness drain out of your pretty face to notice the sting of it. he felt the exact second your fists uncurled from where they’d been pressed against his chest, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, forgetting what they were mad about.
this would not be a problem, he’d decided. he’d take about four hundred more of what people considered a ‘red flag’ if it meant you were entirely his to soothe.
he’d be scanning the groceries at self-checkout, and you’d turn to see one of the workers looking at him. your spine went stiff, a frown marring your face. and then you’d start tugging on his sleeve from beside him, telling him to hurry, hurry up, hurry up, let’s go.
“who wants to have their way with me now?” he’d mumble, bumping his hip into yours, still not looking away from the register.
“no one,” you’d say. you didn’t want to boost his ego anymore. “just fucking hurry up now.”
“who is it?”
“me. i do. let’s go home so i can have my way with you.”
he clicked his tongue. “liar. you’re just gonna yell at me.” still, he turned his neck slightly to where yours was, murmuring a small “ah” to himself.
you groaned, but he did speed up. with bags in hand, he turned to walk out with you, placing himself behind you, free palm on your shoulder, thumb finding the curve where your neck met it. you’d come face-to-face with the poor woman you’d theorized was already in love with jack.
“hey, my girlfriend here really wants some lottery tickets. can you let my girlfriend know where she can find them?”
he couldn’t help it! he loves the little way the corners of your mouth curves up whenever he makes it clear that he’s taken.
the woman would blink, an obvious wedding band catching under the lights (jack would snort softly from behind you), as she pointed toward the front counter, entirely married, entirely not the threat you’d decided she was.
“good,” you murmured later, grabbing the lottery ticket as it printed.
his free palm would settle on your waist and he’d murmur, “did i make you happy back there?”
“yup.”
and jack would smile because he truly did feel like he’d won the lottery. he’d watch you over your shoulder as you fussed out a coin, brow furrowed as you did the scratch-off.
“i won two dollars,” you’d say after revealing the last symbol. you’d twist in his arms, ticket held up with a smile like you’d just told him you were pregnant with triplets instead of two dollars richer.
“lucky girl,” he’d say, matching your smile. his mouth would brush your hairline.
“uh-huh,” you’d say, letting him stay there, nose tucked against your hair.
“c’mon then, let’s go.” he’d put his hand on the small of your back after a minute, turning you around, to lead you out. clearly still hanging onto your short burst of jealousy. “before someone else decides to steal me.”
“don’t.”
“i’m vulnerable,” he’d tease.
or you’d go to pick him up in the morning, watching him handover the shift to robby, and then he’d go and say goodbye to one of his patients who thanked him profusely.
when he’d come back out, you’d roll your eyes and turn your back to him, already walking to the exit. “aren’t you just a ladies man?”
robby’d look at jack slightly confused and maybe even a bit put off, but jack would just wet his lips as he watched you leave, looking completely and utterly delighted.
“your girlfriend’s got a jealous streak, i think.”
“she does, doesn’t she?” jack would still be watching the doors you’d gone through, tugging the lanyard off his neck. “i love her. i gotta go.”
robby would rub his chin as he watches the man he’s known for too long look utterly delighted to get chewed out and wonder what the hell was going on in your home.
meanwhile you’d be at the car with your arms crossed, watching jack walk toward you with a little smile on his face that should’ve been wiped off with the long shift.
“i’m sorry,” he’d say immediately, slightly out of breath because he’d sped up to find you. “she thought i was her son,” he said about the patient, an eighty-year-old woman who truly did think he was her son. “but i’m sorry.”
“you’re too old to be her son.”
“too old to be a lotta things.” he’d back you gently into the passenger door, hands finding your hips. “not for this, though.”
and you’d keep going anyway, muttering how he was too nice, that he should only smile at you, that it wasn’t fair, that he was doing it on purpose.
“tell me to shut up,” you’d say out of nowhere, in the middle of your rant, furrowing your brows as he let you go on and on.
“no.” he’d rear his head back like he was confused by the demand. “i’ve wanted to hear your voice for the last twelve hours.”
you’d stare up at him with your mouth slightly open and nothing at all to say. his thumb would come up to press gently on your chin, keeping the expression there.
“there she is,” he’d murmur, pleased. “quiet at last.”
in the car, on the way home, he’d respond to bits of your rant.
“all my patient satisfaction scores are gonna go down.”
“so those are more important than me?”
his hand would land on your thigh as he kept his eyes on the road. “nope. i like the girl more than the scores.”
a lot of the time with you, he’d feel like a puppy getting a trick right. which is why he’d started doing it on purpose; introducing you before he introduces himself, texting you the logistics of his life unprompted, taking your hand in the condiments aisle for no reason, calling you after physical therapy simply because his physical therapist – sam – had touched his arms during the lesson and – like he’d been pavlov’d, some conditioned little bell going off in his head that only you were allowed to touch him – jack felt an immediate pressing need to hear your voice.
he knew that he was only feeding into it, selfishly craving more of your teeth in his shoulder and your fingers wrapped around his forearms in public even if your positioning hardly ever allowed for it.
it was getting out of hand. on a night off, when he’d come in with swat during the day and stayed until the end of day shift, robby and dana asked him to come to the bar and get a drink.
“yeah – let me just ask her if she can come, too.” he immediately said, already pulling out the phone to ask you.
except you were on shift till nine p.m., and you’d said so – go!!! have fun!!! tell dana i said hi!!! – when he texted you. jack made a small noise in his mouth.
“i can’t,” he’d said.
“she’s not letting you go?” robby asked curiously.
no, you’d in fact told him the opposite of that. but he didn’t want to say that, quite liking the idea of you having that hold on him. so, he’d say, “somethin’ like that,” hoisting his bag over his shoulders. “i’m gonna sit in her bar till she gets off. you’re welcome to grab a drink there.”
“so we can all watch your girlfriend make drinks?”
dana would simply chuckle, shaking her head, already knowing that jack would somehow manage to convince half the staff clocking out to come watch you work.
he’d never felt as doted on and claimed as you made him feel. you’d swapped out the ancient bar of soap in his shower for something that smelled like you. there were bobby pins in every crevice of his car now. you’d somehow become his emergency contact, too, leaving robby a little stunned.
you’d spend all night leaving small marks on his body (the crescent of your nails at his shoulder, your teeth marks just below his collarbone that would be evident with one wrong movement under his scrubs) and he loved finding each of it randomly while getting ready.
this is also why he’s so confused when dana brings up your jealousy and how a little bit of couples counseling could help. nothing feels wrong about the relationship at all!
he’d go through all the questions he assumed a therapist would ask.
was he unhappy? not at all. he was actually stupidly happy. he’d started humming in the car and coming home early.
was he worried? about what – that you’d give him the silent treatment for twenty minutes and then hold onto his bicep for hours just to make up for it? that you’d get a bit vicious about someone and then fall asleep on his chest like an overheated animal?
that you sat tucked him in the corner in restaurant booths so you could see the whole room and he could only see you? jack hardly thought there was anything worth looking at besides you anyway.
“even the healthiest couples do it,” dana would say.
“what would it do?” jack would ask curiously, indulging her.
“well.” dana would settle in, elbows on the desk, warmly concerned. “it’ll help with her being less possessive, for starters.”
jack would just look at her, head tilted, genuinely lost. then he’d rub his thumb along his jaw, feeling eerily unsettled by the words. “it’d make her stop?”
“ideally, yeah. that’s the idea.”
oh, he hated that thought. he knew your possessiveness didn’t come out of you being insecure. he knew that it was easy to assume some poor anxious girl white-knuckling her way through the relationship, checking his phone, counting the women, but that wasn’t it.
it came out of you picking him up and putting him in your pocket. you’d simply decided that jack abbot was yours, and so what if you got a little feral when the world got too near him?
“nah,” he’d say, shaking his head as he pressed his lips together. “we’re alright.”
“you may be fine with it. but, she’d have healthier relationships in case – ”
jack’s eyes would widen, and dana would look a little caught off-guard, realizing what she’d said.
“no.” he’d make a small sound, shaking his head again. “we don’t need that, then.”
“jack –”
“she’s not goin’ anywhere.” he’d knock the desk twice. “neither am i.”
“you know what,” dana would say, blowing out a breath. “i believe that.”
later that afternoon, he’d settle on the couch beside you, mind still reeling from the idea of there being an after him for you. his arms would go around your shoulders, pulling you in impossibly close. one hand would fit around the back of your neck, thumb under your jaw, tipping your face up until you had nowhere to look but at him.
“never gonna leave me, right?” he’d ask.
your brows would pull in together, the corners of your lips curving downwards.
“why?” you’d drawl. “planning on doing something bad?”
“nope,” he’d say. “just askin’”
your jaw would tighten as you tried to gauge his expression. “then stop. nobody’s leaving anybody.” you fixed him with a pointed look. “you’re not going anywhere.”
“damn right i’m not,” he’d say. his hands would slide up your neck and into your hair, fingers spreading wide. “say it again.”
you’d laugh shortly. “you’re not going anywhere.”
“mm.” his thumb would drag along the column of your neck as he felt you go pliant under his hold. “again.”
“jack – ”
“humor me, angel,” he’d say, the words coming out in a barely-hidden plea.
“you’re not going anywhere,” you’d say, humoring him, half breathless and the other exasperated. he’d kiss you on the last word, catching it in his mouth before it finished.
the other hand would come down at your lower back and haul you across to settle on his lap.
both your knees would land on either side of him, and his hands would immediately settle on your hips.
“you’re being so strange today,” you’d say, chin tilting up as his mouth dragged down your neck.
“yeah.” he’d smile against your skin. “gonna hold it against me?”
you’d laugh, surprised at the dramatics. and he would smile so hard and spend the entire day proving to you he would never. which mostly meant he let you do whatever you wanted for eleven straight hours.
you’d put a face mask on him. he’d sit there on the couch, a decorated combat medic, and let you take four photos he’d only found out you’d posted when javadi and santos looked at him funnily during handover. he’d let you try different colors of polish on his nails, and then paint yours with the one you liked best.
he’d watch you scroll on your laptop through different clothes, pointing out things he liked, which you’d taught him to do while being visibly delighted the one time he’d said “this one’s nice.” now he did it constantly, never quite holding himself back from voicing his opinions (it was often, he thought everything would look great on you).
jack is exactly where he wants to be! and people would just have to grow used to your claws and your terrible manners spawning out of nowhere, because the man they came out for had no intention of asking you to put them away.
Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it.
Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart
Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.
Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)
1
“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.
“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”
After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.
Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.
Focus.
You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”
“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.
Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.
“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”
Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”
You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.
God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.
Handsome. Not rugged.
Competent. Doubtful.
Caring. Well, caring enough.
“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.
“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?”
The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —
“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.
He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”
His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat.
Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”
“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?
“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost.
“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.
“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.
Jack huffs. “Just go.”
You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.
Well.
Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.
As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.
“Penlight. Incoming.”
You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.
You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.
The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.
“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.
“Nick seems like a good guy.”
“Noah.”
“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”
You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.
“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”
“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”
A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.
“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.
“Yes, you just sai —”
“Only care about yours.”
That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.
Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.
You quickly regain your senses to retort.
“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.
“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.
The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”
You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.
Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”
"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."
"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.
"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.
"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."
He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”
“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after.
“She prefers lattes, by the way.”
2
Bzzzzzzz
“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”
Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.
Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today.
“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.
“Yolanda, you listen to music?”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”
Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second.
“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”
Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.
“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.
“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”
Huh, Strange.
***
The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —
Bzzzzzzzzz.
You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”
The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.
You hate loud. So much.
You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.
Look at you being fiscally responsible.
“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you.
Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.
“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys.
“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.
“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks.
In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.
You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.
Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”
“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”
Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”
“Only women?”
“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”
“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush.
In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face.
You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."
“Oh, I tried.”
You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —
“Did he forget his Roblox password?”
You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.
“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.
Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”
You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.
You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.
You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.
You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.
Does he want you to hold…?
“Your phone, nurse.”
Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.
“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”
His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.
“You're not a teenager.”
“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.
Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.
Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.
“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.
He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”
With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.
Kid.
You need a chair.
3
“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.
“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.
Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.
You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.
“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.
Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”
“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.
Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.
“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”
You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.
“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.
“How much is a while?”
This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.
“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.
“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.
It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.
You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left.
“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.
“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”
Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.
You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear.
Is nobody watching this?
You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.
His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.
“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair.
Oh. Oh. OH.
“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.
You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.
***
You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.
“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.
“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”
“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.
Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.
“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”
“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”
“Thanks, sir.”
A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”
“Hm?”
“Where he took you. Nick.”
“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.
“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”
“What?”
He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.
“I'm an anything person, really.”
Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.
“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.
Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.
“I know.”
He says your name.
Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.
Please say my name again.
“I know, kid.”
“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another.
You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.
You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.
By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.
“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”
Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.
You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though.
Desperation.
You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.
+1
“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.
You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.
The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”
“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.
Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.
Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.”
For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.
No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.
You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier.
Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.
Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?
As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.
Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”
The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.
9 missed calls from Noah.
“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.
“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.
“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”
“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.
“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”
You take a deep breath.
“What do you want?”
“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”
“No.”
“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”
That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.
“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears.
When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.
You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”
“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.
You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.
This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!
Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.
You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.
“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”
The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.
“Jesus, Jack.”
“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.
Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.
“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.
“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”
“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”
“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.
“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.
“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.
In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.
“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”
He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.
“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.
“I know that. Do you?”
“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.
“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.
Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.
Nurse, there's people that are dying.
“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.
“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically.
“Why do you care so much?”
“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”
Sweetheart.
“You're killing me.”
“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders.
A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.
“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”
You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.
The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.
“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.
Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.
“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.
Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.
“I asked you something, kid.”
You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes.
And, oh.
His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.
He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.
“You can continue yelling at me now.”
In and out. Deep breath.
“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.
“As I said —”
“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.
A pause.
“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.
“Jac —”
“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”
His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.
“Me? What about me?”
He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”
You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip.
He thinks that?
Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.
“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.
He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.
“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.
“What? You're my senior, you're older —”
He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.
“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."
You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.
You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.
You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.
“Why haven't you sent it?”
“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”
Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.
“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”
With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.
His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”
Deep breath. In and out.
You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow.
Send.
You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him.
You did that. You.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.
He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.
But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”
“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.
“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.
“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”
You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.
Fuck.
Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.
Just as you try to move your lips against his —
“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle.
“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.
His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt.
“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.
“That's a lot.”
“What can I say? I like paying for things.”
His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.
Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later.
“One hand, wow.”
“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”
He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.
He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.
You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.
“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.
“Yes, doctor.”
He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his.
“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.
“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.
“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.
“Yes, doctor”
“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.
Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.
I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3 i also need to know if yall blushed reading this, if yes, WHEN
Pope likes his new house. He's moved out of Smurf's house into a place by the beach. The sound of the ocean keeps him calm. What doesn't keep him calm is his neighbour. He first meets you when you're coming back from the beach. You're wearing a tiny bikini, it barely covers anything. And Pope can't look away.
You smile and wave at him, wiggling your fingers at him. Your hair is dripping water from the sea and Pope can't help but think about licking the salt water from your body.
Pope notices that you don't close your curtains at night. And you like to prance around in tiny sleep shorts and tank tops. Tank tops with no bra, that much is obvious. He can see the outline of your nipples under the almost sheer top. Sometimes you'll forego the shorts altogether. He can feel himself stir in his pants at the cute cotton panties you love, little bows or flowers covering the fabric.
You like to keep all the lights on. So Pope can watch you everywhere you go. And soon, he knows your entire routine.
You get up and go straight to the beach. He watches as you change into your bikini, his breath hitching as you pull the bottoms up your legs. He likes watching how your fingers tie your bikini top. But his favourite part of the morning is your return from the beach. He watches you as you strip off your bikini in your bedroom, dropping the pieces to the floor. You walk through your room to the bathroom, completely naked, and it takes Pope's breath away.
He loves watching you massage your moisturiser into your body before you get dressed for the day. He watches you make breakfast and then rush out the door away to wherever you spend the majority of your day. He knows you come home around seven. Most of the time you'll bring food home with you. You immediately strip out of your clothes and into pyjamas or sweats. You spend the evening watching TV or reading a book or scrolling on your phone. He tuts. You shouldn't do that.
Sometimes you'll settle on your bed, legs spread with your hand in between your thighs. His eyes can't look away from your form as you writhe on the bed bringing yourself pleasure over and over.
"Hey, Pope," you greet him when he meets you, taking in the mail or dragging in the bins.
He just nods at you in ways of greeting. But after seeing you struggle with your bins one evening, seeing the strip of your thong peaking out over your jean shorts, Pope brings your bins in and out for you.
"You don't need to do that for me, Popey," you say to him one day when you catch him. You pout as you put your hand on his arm, you drag your thumb over one of the veins that bulges under his skin.
"No trouble. You don't have anyone else to do it for ya," he says before continuing.
Pope loves watching you. But hates watching when you stumble home on a Saturday night with some loser attached to you. Kissing you, when he should be kissing you. He would watch as you fell back on the couch, your head falling off the edge as these men kissed over your breasts and stomach before settling between your legs. He watches as you reach your climax.
He wants to know how you feel when you cum for him.
He likes watching as you bring these men to your room, watching as they fuck you...or you ride them, your tits bouncing with each thrust.
And then the next morning, these men will leave and you will greet Pope with a sweet little smile.
"Hi Popey," you coo waving at him, wearing a t-shirt that showcases your tits perfectly for him and your pretty little panties that hug your ass.
Pope thinks you're purposefully teasing him. But women don't like him...
He's watching you one Saturday night with some loser you must have found at one of the bars near the Strand. You're riding him so pretty in reverse cowgirl so you can look out your bedroom window. Pope knows he shouldn't be watching you hook up with some random loser. But he can't look away. He's realised that if he cracks his window, he can hear the noises you're making. And you make the prettiest noises. Pope is addicted to it.
He sits in darkness, watching you as you cry out on this guy's cock. His heart stutters when your eyes lock onto his. You bite your lip as your hands play with your tits, putting on a show for Pope. You never look away from him until you cum.
"Oh fuck!" you cry out. "Right there, Popey baby. Right there!"
Your declaration causes the loser to freeze under you. It causes Pope to freeze as well.
Should he take it as an invitation? Baz told him he always oversteps with women...But you called his name.
He knows he shouldn't. But the lock on your back door is shit and easy to pick.
"Took you long enough, baby," you coo when he finds you sitting in your kitchen with your lights off for once.
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated. requests open
☀︎ being alone at one of the cody’s pool parties as pope's girlfriend and getting ignored by every person there. well, every guy at least. ☀︎
! mdni !
earlier, deran had said “it's 'cause pope’s scary as shit. have you seen his stare??” but you think your boyfriend is sweet! and you love the way he looks at you. how could anyone find him scary??
when pope finally does show up, he sees you dancing like it’s your last day on earth in the worlds tiniest bikini. he also sees all the douchebags staring at you while practically drooling. he grimaces, marching straight towards you.
you light up when you see him, running to jump into his arms with a sweet squeal of his name. he catches you with ease, your legs wrap around him tightly and he tastes the alcohol on your lips as you pepper kisses to his mouth. he grips your ass cheek with one large hand to further stake his claim on you in front of all the guys staring. “hi sweetheart.”
“missed you sooo much,” you sigh before pouting, “no one will talk to me.” pope can't even fake sympathy. a territorial sense of satisfaction washes over him knowing that everyone knows you’re his. the smirk spreads on his face and you swat at his shoulder.
“it’s not funny, andy! i was so lonely without you here that i was about to start offering blowjobs just for some conversation.” popes mouth thins, his humor instantly snuffed out by possessiveness.
“that’s not fucking funny,” his voice rough and his grip on your ass tightening. you giggle and run your fingers through his curls, “i’m kiddinggg, andy.” rubbing your nose against his before whispering, “the only cock i choke on is yours.” popes eyes widen at your crude words, “you’re very drunk.”
you hum happily and plant some more kisses to cheeks and nose, “soo drunk.” batting your lashes then sucking his bottom lip into your mouth before releasing it with a wet *pop*, “might even be drunk enough to let you fuck my mouth.”
you realize then that your boyfriend may actually be scary as people jump out of the way when pope spins on his heel and marches you to his bedroom without another word.
personally, i just love the idea of andrew’s girlfriend making him absolutely insatiable. he’s not very sexual by nature, and he’s always nervous to make the first move. but after 3 months of being with you— younger, bubbly, kind, you… he’s taking on a new form.
you could be standing with his brothers at a party, nodding along to a drunken story & noticing pope getting spacey and quieter than usual. so, as a comfort, you smile and grab his hand. poor thing doesn’t know it’s just supposed to be sweet in the moment, and he’s turning to you so quickly and leaning down to shove his tongue in your mouth.
naturally you’re surprised, gasping with a soft giggle, “andy!” to which he immediately pulls back with smacking lips, “‘m sorry.” it’s so genuine it breaks your heart, which then leads to you pulling him into his bedroom to suck him off.
or, you’re sitting on the beach watching him surf one morning. laid across your long tanning chair, happily waving at him in your little bikini as he comes back to join you. deran’s a little further behind, chatting with adrian about the tide, when andrew makes his way to you. he stands above you, broad shoulders nearly covering the warm sun as you look up at him.
“hi honey!”
but his eyes are completely locked in on the movement of your chest, and the drops of water sliding off of him and onto you. a big, meaty hand reaches down, pawing at your chest in a trance as you guffaw.
“andrew!” “can we go home now?” he tries, still squeezing at your tits and slowly bringing a hand to squeeze at his cock. amused, you quickly stretch your hand out to grab his wrist before he starts palming at himself on this very public beach.
“you don’t wanna surf a little more?” you try, though you love how needy he’s gotten. he scoffs like it’s the last thing in the world he’d want to do, as he sits on your chair with his back to you, “no.”
smiling and shaking your head in faux-exasperation, you lean back for a final few minutes of sun…. until you hear and feel him again. running his big hand up your leg and pouting. “andrew cody-“ “love this color on you, sweetheart. wish you’d wear it all the time.” totally in his own world.
you finally grant him reprieve, standing as his puppy eyes follow you. with a low “c’mon tiger let’s go,” he’s up and throwing you over his shoulder.
happily leading you to his truck. hopefully you can make it home in time, but as he clambers in the passenger seat underneath you, i don’t think he can make any promises….
i feel like pope would consistently have those cliche rom-com moments that show how whipped he is for you<3
like pope’s sitting on the big, red couch with his brothers. just watching tv, drinking beer and talking— an easy week day afternoon. you come in from the pool, drying your hair with a towel as your feet pad on the tile floor. it’s quiet, craig half asleep & deran on his phone while pope watches the tv after glancing at you to make sure you’re okay. casually, you call out, “baby, i’m gonna shower, kay?” turning on your heel with swaying hips to go to his bathroom. a silent invitation, you know how much he loves to shower with you.
pope standing up instantly and literally tripping over deran’s shoe. like pushing his palms into the floor, bent over, knee on the plush carpet and getting up all wobbly and fast. “yeah, sure, yeah.”
you’re not even in the room anymore, so he swallows and stands awkwardly, barely turning his head to glare at his brothers.
craig is crying laughing & deran starts giggling but keeps looking at his phone to not make pope feel worse.
he’s literally pouting as he takes big, heavy steps. almost yelling over his shoulder with gritted teeth, “shut the fuck up! …. assholes.” as he trails into the shower with you <333
blurb description: 𓂃 ໒꒱ jack can’t seem to get enough from kissing you.
pairing: 𓂃 ໒꒱ jack abbot x reader.
content/warnings: 𓂃 ໒꒱ fluff, established relationship.
jack abbot kisses you like he’s making sure you’re still there.
you don’t think he realises he does it as often as he does. if you pointed it out, he’d probably give you that look over the rim of his coffee, all tired eyes and raised eyebrows, and tell you you’re imagining things.
you aren’t.
it’s become a running tally in your head.
one before he leaves for a shift. one because you handed him a cup of coffee. one because you wandered into the kitchen while he was making dinner and apparently standing within arm’s reach is reason enough. one because you looked at him after laughing at something stupid. another because he forgot his keys and came back inside, only to leave thirty seconds later after stealing one more.
he never lingers. that’s the funny part.
most people would’ve made a whole thing of it, all slow smiles and hands around your waist, finding another excuse to keep you there for another minute. jack doesn’t. he leans in, kisses you once, and goes straight back to whatever he was doing. it’s so casual that, after a while, you stop questioning it. it’s just what he does.
the first few times, you wondered if he even realised he was doing it.
now you’re pretty sure he doesn’t.
sometimes he’s sitting at the table with paperwork spread everywhere, reading through patient notes while a cup of coffee goes cold beside him. he’ll look up for a second, catch you watching him from the couch, push his chair back with that awful scrape against the floor, walk over without saying a word, kiss you once, then sit back down and pick up exactly where he left off.
“…what was that for?”
he doesn’t even look up. “wanted to.”
that’s all you get.
he does it in the middle of conversations, too. you’ll ask him something, he’ll answer half of it, stop because you’ve somehow ended up close enough again, lean in for a quick kiss, then finish what he was saying as though he hadn’t interrupted himself in the first place. eventually you stop expecting an explanation because there never is one.
the worst one is after a night shift. he looks exhausted, his hair’s a mess, the tiredness on his face impossible to miss, and he’s barely spoken since walking through the door. he drops his keys on the bench, shrugs off his jacket, disappears into the bathroom, and you assume that’s where he’ll stay.
then the bathroom door opens again.
“…forget something?”
he shakes his head, walks all the way back across the apartment just to kiss you once, then turns around and heads straight back.
you can’t help laughing. “jack, seriously?”
he glances back over his shoulder, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“yeah.” and then he’s gone again, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him like nothing happened.
summary — the first rule of sleeping with your attending was to make sure it meant nothing. you’d been very good at that right up until you weren’t.
warnings — 8.1k words. 18+ Minors DNI!! (explicit sexual content, oral [m! recieving], unprotected p in v, power imbalance [attending/resident], friends with benefits dynamics, mild dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, a lot of talking during sex, can be read as slightly coercive maybe?), hurt/comfort, commitment issues, fear of emotional intimacy, lightly implied widower undertones, age gap (jack’s 50/reader’s a resident, implied to be late twenties), jack jokes about paying for sex, alcohol
notes — this one started light in the beginning and ended pretty heavy like idk where all that came from i wrote the first half when i was in a better mood and finished it when i got this request and i guess i was just feeling like i wanted to make it hurt even more
Jack Abbot came with his perks. He’d taken you under his wing when you first joined the PTMC as a second-year-resident, and somewhere over the space of a year, he’d taken you to his bed. You’d built him as a man who lived in a sad bachelor pad with the way he’d taken you to his house after a shitty shift; no preamble, just a jerk of his head toward the parking garage and a raspy ‘come on’ that you’d followed like he was still your attending after-hours.
And fuck, you couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel slightly good to see a floor-to-ceiling windowed penthouse and drink something amber and expensive after you’d spent the last few years of your life not seeing the other end of what your work could bring you. It was grim and improper, you knew, fucking your attending in the early hours of the morning before the sun fully rose, but you knew it was coming; half the ED had placed bets on it and Cassie and Javadi were yet to know they were right.
He’d taken you against the window the first time.
“You afraid of heights?” he’d asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. You’d shaken your head, or tried to. “No,” he’d murmured, your jaw in his hands. “Didn’t think so.”
He’d taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.
A part of you wondered often the sort of impression you’d given Jack, what he’d seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because you’d spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was.
He was a better lay than you’d ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours.
You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didn’t count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee — you took it to go — and you didn’t learn his middle name on purpose. You’d never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.
But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadn’t accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place you’d sworn was temporary.
And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasn’t the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that you’d stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; you’d sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. You’d started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.
And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.
This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not looking to make it one. Is that alright?
He’d said the words while putting on his briefs, and you’d agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. You’d wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. He’d been more honest than any man you’d let touch you. He’d told you the terms up front and never moved them.
So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.
Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. He’d put on his coat a heavy thing that should’ve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.
“Jack,” you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, “I’m not going home with you.”
His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights.
“You good?” He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. “You looked a little out of it today. Come — I’ll make you soup.”
You pinched your eyes shut at his words. “What’s that even supposed to mean — I was fine.”
“Don’t take it personal,” he said. “Come on, soup.”
“Seriously, I was fine.” You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. “I’ve been awake for nineteen hours, I’m not sick —” You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing you’d let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. “I’m not going home with you,” you said again, this time with a sharper edge.
He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. “Did I upset you?”
“No, it’s not a fight,” you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. “I’m not mad at you, Jack. I’m done with this. The whole — all of it.”
He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, “You’re calling it?”
“Yeah, very much,” you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driver’s side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, “Sorry. I guess.”
He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didn’t want it, and you’d never once been able to sell that lie for either of you.
“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. “Alright. Then let’s at least end it properly.”
When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.
He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”
“One time,” you said quietly, almost in a whisper. “And then I mean it. It won’t change anything.”
“I believe you,” he said. “Last time, then. Make it count.”
Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm you’d settled into with him at around month two — the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed — had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didn’t want to shut his mouth.
He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom.
He’d opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever he’d been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting.
“Slow,” he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. “Fuck.”
You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldn’t afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him — six months of evidence, a body of proof — fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds.
“You — huh — last time. Really?” he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, “Good girl.” His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. “Good — yeah.”
You’d have smiled if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think you’d won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.
“You really mean it?” he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “You’re done?”
You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasn’t a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor.
His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.
“Don’t go quiet on me,” he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. “You hear me. I know you — shit.”
You’d found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm.
You’d have been lying if you said this wouldn’t be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking.
“You’re really gonna — ” He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. “ — gonna do this and walk, you’re — ”
You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.
“Are you kidding me?”
He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. “What?” he muttered.
“Why won’t you shut up?” You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. “You’re acting like a child.”
“Acting like a child,” he huffed, head tipping back. “I’m pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. “You’ve been throwing one since we got off.”
His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead — the one still working him — stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged.
You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples.
“Better,” he muttered. “Neck was startin’ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.” The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. “What’s this really about?”
You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didn’t believe could survive being said out loud over a man who’d made it clear exactly what this was on day one.
“You know,” you said.
“Maybe. But humor me.” His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. “Thought we had something nice going and now — ” He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. “So, what’s going on up in that pretty little head of yours?”
“I want more than this,” you said plainly. “That’s what’s in my head. I want the whole thing — the relationship and dates and stuff. I think I’ve got enough time to — get into that.”
“Yeah?” he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek.
You had to press your lips together, because you obviously weren’t expecting him to offer, and yet you’d been holding your breath anyway.
“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”
His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.
“You should,” he said after a moment, swallowing. “Get into that. You’ve got the time.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. “Not gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even I’m not that selfish.” His brows furrowed, like he’d just processed his own words. “Most days.”
His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours.
This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.
“S’it somebody at work?” he asked. “Has to be. You don’t have time yet to meet anyone who isn’t.”
You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. “No — no one. I haven’t met anyone yet.”
He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up.
He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. “You’d rather have no one than me, huh?”
“Wow,” you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. “Now that’s mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.”
“Yeah?” His brow lifted, scar catching the light. “Course you can.” His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. “Always hear someone in the hospital talking about you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“M’not.” He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. “I mean it. It’s about time you got out from this old man.”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. “It’s what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.” His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. “You should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. I’ve already done my time.”
You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what he’d say and do if you’d said them, and you couldn’t take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.
You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like he’d understood whatever you didn’t say.
“Yeah, baby,” he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. “I know.”
He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. “Spoiling me rotten and then telling me you’re leaving.”
“Shut up now — ”
He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. “Get me used to this and then — what? Go hand it to someone who hasn’t earned it.” He laughed brokenly against your throat. “Selfish girl.”
You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. “Go find — someone else yourself,” you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. “You’re not lacking options — ”
“But I like having my cake,” he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. “Eating it, too.”
“Gross,” you mumbled against him.
One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, you’d assumed it’d take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. You’d stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. You’d slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question.
One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. You’d gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate; a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.
Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack.
You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.
“You’ll fit,” Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense.
You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his size’s arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasn’t thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too.
The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone.
Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal.
“Excited?” he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else.
You kept your head tipped back against the seat. “More excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.”
His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. “Some Marriot-adjacent mattress? You’re aiming low.”
“It’s horizontal and not on-call. I’m easy to please.”
“Since when?” he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldn’t call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument she’d been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. “You used to say my sheets were scratchy.”
“For a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy — ”
“Finally,” he breathed out, satisfied, like he’d been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. “I almost forgot you’d been in it.”
God. You hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and he’d never once explained, and that you’d both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasn’t yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didn’t count anymore.
“Can we stop at the next exit?” Trinity said from the back. “I need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.”
Dana hummed. “There’s a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?” She looked through the map on her phone. “Everybody go when we stop. We’re not pulling off twice.”
“Works for me,” Robby said.
Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. “We’re stopping?”
“Yup,” Dana confirmed. “Bathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.”
Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment.
Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. “Single stall in the back of those places, you know?” he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.”
You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. “Weird thing to know off the top of your head.”
His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didn’t strictly require it. “How much would it take?” His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. “You and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.”
“Can’t be bought.” You forced your eyes to the windshield. “Sorry. Not for sale.”
“No?” His voice dipped, amused. “Everybody’s got a price.”
“Not me.” You turned your head and found him already closer than he’d been a second ago. “You really think you could afford me?”
“Could take a run at it.”
“Wouldn’t get far.”
“Fifty,” he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips.
You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. “I don’t get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.”
“Oof.” He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. “Expensive date.”
“It’s never a date with you.”
He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. “Right. Hundred, then.”
“I’m gonna report you to HR. You’re my attending.”
“Good luck with filling out the history we have for that.”
You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. “You really think I’m the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?”
You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. “Would you?”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “In your dreams, Jack.”
“Frequently,” he said, not missing a second. “Vividly, too.”
You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. “Keep dreaming, then. It’s all you’re getting.”
You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.
“Christ.” He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. “Missed you.”
Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased.
Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennis’s head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky.
At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth — almost hypnotic — interstates often did when they’d gone out of the clutches of the city. You’d meant to stay awake. You’d made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt.
When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. You’d fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there.
You weren’t proud of how you didn’t want to move just yet, so you didn’t move.
You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him you’d made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle you’d been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldn’t tip into your lap, and set it down.
You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jack’s arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennis’s skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kid’s hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy.
You’d furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off.
Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didn’t allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping resident’s head and his face crumpled slightly.
He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennis’s skull.
“Ow.” Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. “What — Dr. Abbot — what —”
“Wrong shoulder, kid,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t —” Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. “Sorry. God. Sorry.”
You’d started to sit up to peel yourself off Jack’s chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.
“Not you,” he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. “You’re fine where you are.”
You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.
You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.
You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didn’t trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.
He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand.
You put your hands in your lap where they couldn’t get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.
The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending they’d be here without the boxed wine.
You’d lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone he’d done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.
He was older. Closer to Jack’s range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if he’d ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didn’t own a single thing he refused to speak about.
“Pace yourself with that,” he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. “It comes up to you pretty quickly.”
“Bit late for that,” you said, lifting the cup up an inch. “This is already number three.”
“Then I’m too late to save you and might as well make it worse,” he said, offering a hand. “Mark. Philly. I run the shop out there.”
You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things.
He tipped his head to look at your badge. “Pittsburgh Trauma. You like it?”
“Most days.”
He shrugged. “Anybody who says every day is lying or hasn’t been doing it long enough.” He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. “Let me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.”
You were going to say something back—you had something, you’d half-built it—and then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress.
“Mark,” Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. “Jack Abbot. Pittsburgh.”
“Jack.” Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. “I think I’ve read you —” He referenced one of Jack’s studies you knew all too well, something he’d handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.
“That’s me.” Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. “Philly? You inherit the department or build it?”
“Little bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,” he said lightly. “You enjoying the conference?”
“It’s a conference,” Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. “You know this one’s my best trauma resident? I’d put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldn’t have called that fast.”
“That so?” Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. “He doesn’t seem the type to hand those out.”
“He’s nice to everyone.”
“She’s underselling it.” Jack’s hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. “You’ll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.”
It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men do—fast, behind a pleasant face—and land on a play.
“Well.” He tilted the glass toward Jack. “I won’t monopolize you. I’m sure you’ve got the room to work — everybody wants a minute at these things.”
The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jack’s features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man.
“S’alright,” he said pleasantly. “Got everyone I need right here.”
Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jack’s measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.
“Fair enough,” he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. “Pleasure. Good luck with the residency.” He nodded at you, then to Jack. “Abbot.” And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasn’t already spoken for.
Jack’s hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.
“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more.
“Do what?” he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand.
“Don’t.” You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldn’t carry over to strangers. “You know what you did. You’re not stupid.”
“I said you were good at your job.” He had the gall to look reasonable. “Becuase you are.”
“That’s not what it was and you know it — thank you.” Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to walk over and put your hand on me when I’m talking to another man and act like — ” Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. “ — like you’ve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.”
Jack’s lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. “He’d have you in his bed by ten,” he said, calmer now. “Guys like that — it’s their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didn’t lose anything worth keeping.”
Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. “Yeah?” you asked, voice going quieter. “Isn’t that what you were?”
He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. “If you can’t tell the difference between me and a guy like that,” he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, “then I really don’t know what to tell you.”
“Maybe there isn’t one.”
His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. “That’s how you think of me?”
“That’s not — ” You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. “That’s not what I said.”
“It sounded a hell of a lot like it.” He shook his head. “Six months and you’re putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.”
“Jack — ”
“You wanted it, too. Okay?” When you let out a small ‘what?’ he continued, “You heard me. You’re acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.” His voice had dropped low, and he’d walked closer to you before you even realized. “You never once asked for more until the night you walked. So don’t put it all on me.”
“I asked,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. “You were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said you’re no good past what we were doing.”
“I said it because it’s true,” he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.”
“Then stand on that,” you said. “You don’t get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You don’t get to keep me in your life like this forever because you can’t stand to either let me in or go.”
“I’m trying to do right by you,” he said roughly.
You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. “Why are you doing this?” You shoulders came up to your ears. “I don’t — it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I don’t get why — I need to move on.”
He closed his eyes at that for a moment. “I know you do,” he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. “I — can we go somewhere else?” He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, “Please.”
You’d watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldn’t, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, it’d make your body hurt even more, and you’d still do it.
The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasn’t a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.
You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you weren’t sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, “Jack — ”
“Did you want it to be me?” he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action.
“What?”
“The whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.” His body was stiff against the wall. “Was that — did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.”
You took in a shaky breath. “You.” It came out more plainly than you’d expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. “I left because I wanted more — with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.”
His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.
“I don’t think I can give you that,” he said.
“Okay.” You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. “Thanks for telling me that, then.”
He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. “I didn’t — didn’t say I never wanted to. Don’t think that.” He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. “Wanting you that way wasn’t hard. I’ve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.”
He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.
“I did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.” He laughed wryly, no humor in it. “I stopped letting myself want things — I thought it’s a lot easier to get through a night if there’s nothing you’d be hurt to lose.” His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. “Feels like I’m losing you, and it hurts like hell.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t meant to.”
You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out.
“But you don’t know if you can do it,” you said, words coming out shakily.
He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he could’ve told. “I don’t know.”
You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do.
“But — but, I don’t wanna lose what I’ve got with you,” he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. “I know that the nights you’re not on are longer. And if I can’t have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago — for me, too.”
The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words you’d always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. You’d kept careful track of everything he wouldn’t give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part — the part that made your blood run even hotter — was that it counted. It counted, anyway.
“So what do we do with that?” you said. “I don’t — I don’t know where that leaves us.”
He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most he’d ever given you in one night.
“I’d want to try,” he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. “Not the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.” He let out a breath. “If you still want it. I wasn’t very great the first time, and I’m out of practice, too.”
You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. “You were okay with it a month ago — ”
“It hurt,” he said immediately. “It hurt, you walking out. I didn’t have anything better than to let you, but don’t — don’t think it didn’t.”
He moved when you didn’t respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.
“Let me try,” he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. “I want to learn this with you.”
You looked up at him. He held it — your eyes, the closeness, all of it — instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract you’d be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so.
“You can’t disappear on me,” you said instead of considering the second option, “when it gets hard. I don’t ever want to feel like I made up something I didn’t.”
He nodded stiffly. “If I do, you can drag me back out.”
His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.
“Just let me try,” he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. “Please. I’m asking. I don’t do that a lot.”
pope can't help but feel excited when you hurry into the living room. he's sitting on the couch with his brothers, talking about nothing really important, when you emerge from the hallway, a small smile on your lips and wide, excited eyes. you say hi to the guys and hold out your hand, grabbing at pope until he stands and puts his palm snuggly in yours. craig gives a knowing smile as you pull him away and down the hallway to his bedroom. you enter the room first and pope drops your hand for a moment to close the door and lock it behind him. when he turns around, you're already sitting on the bed, patting the covers like you were looking for something. he's already half-hard in his jeans, heart hammering in his chest as his mind races. he loves when you're needy. loves sporting the red scratches and love bites on his skin. from the urgency of your escape, he assumes that tonight will be extremely enjoyable. your brow is slightly furrowed as you move the sheets to the side. pope climbs onto the bed beside you, fingers deftly unbuckling his belt and popping the buttons of his jeans.
you're still not looking at him, so he grabs your chin and pulls your face up, crashing your lips to his. he's needy, whining into your mouth as his tongue breaches the seam. you give a little squeak of surprise as his hand comes up to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh between his fingers. your hands come up to his chest and you push him away gently, separating the kiss. pope sits back a bit, confused and he lets out a little pained whine.
"wh...what're you doing?" he mumbles, desperation clear in his words.
"what are you doing?" you shoot back, eyes wide with surprise.
"i'm..." he gestures vaguely into the air. "you dragged me to the bedroom i thought..." you let out a little laugh and pope felt a pang in his chest.
"yea," you say, fingers finally finding what you were looking for in the covers of the bed. the tv remote. "a new episode of love island came out? we need to watch it?" pope let out a groan of annoyance as his head falls back. fucking love island. the show you had practically forced him to watch every night before bed, cuddling up next to him and arguing with the screen while he just sat there quietly. he didn't really mind it, he loved seeing your dramatic reactions to something as simple as reality tv. it was domestic. it was cute. but it was not what he wanted to do with you in the bed. his fingers trail up your thigh.
"can't we wait a bit?" he mumbles, putting on his best puppy eyes that he knew got you melting in his touch. but not tonight.
"i'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." your eyes narrow and your tone is clipped. you pull back the covers and motion for pope to join you. "get in." pope grumbles, but ultimately succumbs to your request. he takes off his jeans so he can get comfortable and slips into the bed next to you. you nuzzle up against his chest and put on the show. you press a kiss to his cheek. "after." you whisper "i promise." pope gives an unenthusiastic hum and wraps his arm around your shoulders, preparing himself for the next hour of watching other people make out and ignoring the way his body yearned for your attention.
✶ pairing | jack abbot x f!reader
✶ word count | 470-ish
✶ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mutual masturbation, sex toys, getting off on someone else getting off, unspecified age-gap, exhibitionism, voyeurism, neighbor!jack, i'm too old for you!jack vs okay fucking bet!reader
✶ notes | bro i live in a shitty apartment with thin walls and i'm sandwiched in between two squalling children 🥲 i WISH i had this instead. i'm still working on my wips (esp the rabbot x reader) but needed to take a break and inspiration struck bc my neighbors are loud.
masterlist | ao3 | inbox | requests, taglist, submissions: open
jack abbot knows you're doing it on purpose.
there's no fucking way you're THIS unaware of how thin the walls separating your apartments are. now he’s no stranger to cheap insulation and scummy landlords, having lived in his fair share of dodgy places, but it's never been this… intolerable.
in fact, being your neighbor is more akin to a personal hell — his divine punishment for being a creep. and he gets it, alright. you're half his age give or take a few years for chrissake. he's too old, too weathered by life. widowed by tragedy and married to his job.
is he really supposed to ignore the jiggle of your ass when you bound up the stairwell in your workout gear, lycra clinging to the plush fat? smother how much he wants to squeeze and grope and bite; watch the flesh dimple and spill out from between the squeeze of his fingers?
why?
so what if he looks and likes (even when he knows he shouldn’t) — he’s only human; a man beneath all the grit and grime.
he’s not doing anything illegal, and no one else needs to know about how he adjusts himself afterwards lest he take out an eye while waiting for the elevator. he’s discreet like that. anyway, you never seem to mind if the subtle sway of your hips is any indication.
(half the time he feels like you’re taunting him on purpose.)
and isn't it rude to brush off that sparkle in your eyes when you shoot him a friendly smile in the mailroom? to not strip his cock raw when he fucks his fist while getting off to the sounds of you stuffing your pussy in the next room over — he bets you're cute; swollen and soft and soaked — with a toy again and again?
you're putting on a show and it'd be a shame if he didn't show his appreciation…right? right.
(though he promises he'll fuck you better if you just give him the chance.)
besides is he really meant to restrain himself from fantasizing about pinning your tongue beneath his fingers with every moan that slips out of your mouth because, "don't you know you need to be quiet, baby, these walls are so, so thin and your pretty sounds are for my ears only"? pretend like he doesn't hear an increase in the tempo of your thrusts, the squelching schlick-schlick-schlick as you make a mess of your sheets, when he joins you in touching himself?
or when he cums so hard to your breathy mewl of, "j-jack, oh fuck, right there, i'm gonna—" he nearly bites through his lip, whining in the back of his throat because his fat load streaks across his belly, sticky puddles making a mess of his chest, when he'd rather pump it so deep inside of your pussy you leak his jizz for days after?
honestly, what the fuck is he supposed to do?
especially when he runs into you the next day outside your respective apartment doors and you coo his name (are you flirting? it sounds like you're flirting). "think you could give me a demonstration next time?" you say with a flutter of your lashes and a sharp grin. "i'm more of a hands-on learner."
fuck, he's gonna have a heart attack before his lease is up.
andrew pope cody who's self conscious about his dick because it's uncircumcised. who gets nervous about anyone seeing it for the first time. always feels this need to explain first, to grab their wrist before they shove their hand down his pants. i was born on a farm. there wasn't time. i don't know, my mom didn't think it was important. and like, he's more than used to it by this point. he's a 40-something year old man who's lived with his uncircumcised penis for just as long; he doesn't know what the alternative would even feel like. he just knows it's unusual, statistically, to be an american man with a dick that looks like his.
sometimes women in oceanside are weird about it. sometimes more or less so taken aback, surprised with an experience they've never had and didn't necessarily want to begin with. and while it usually just makes them pause, rather than reconsider completely, it does make him a little tired after a while of the same old song and dance. of getting to know someone and falling into bed and the usual disclaimer, the 'my dick is a little different, i hope that's okay’ content warning. having to prepare for whatever happens with their face, the unguarded expression that quickly slips behind closed doors, shutters the way polite women know how to with their eyes and their mouth. pretending, being nice. that's almost worse, he thinks, than if they were just plain mean about it.
it finally reaches a breaking point and so he just decides to add the information to his dating profile.
andrew, 43, uncircumcised.
and yeah, it kind of makes him feel like he's a prized hog being weighed at the county fair. but he also doesn't know what else to do, tired of trying to ease into it, to hold the words like delicate eggshells in his hands, hoping they don't shatter and make a mess all over the floor.
he's surprised, when he wakes up the next morning to a message from an account he's never seen before. a profile of a young woman, younger than he's usually interested in and out of his set distance range. still in california, but up north, near santa barbara. you only have one photo of yourself, standing at the base of the eiffel tower, hair half-blown into your eyes and smiling, a bright toothy grin that seems to take up half your face. the other three photos are of a border collie with a lolling pink tongue and curious disposition, its head cocked to the side. the description is rather short too. all it says is your name and one line: i like dogs.
you: hi andrew, 43, uncircumcised. is that your full name? :)
andrew blinks down at the message, then he looks at the photo again, at the big smile, the dog. he types a response.
andrew: no
it doesn’t take very long for him to get one in return, phone buzzing in his hand.
you: no?
he types out another response.
andrew: it’s my first name, my age, and my dick.
his phone buzzes in his hand almost immediately. he looks down at his screen.
you: lucky me :)
you: can i see it?
his brow furrows.
andrew: see what?
you: your dick, silly
andrew regards the messages for a moment. then types back,
andrew: why?
you: just curious to see if it’s as pretty as the rest of you :)
slow warmth spreads up his chest, his neck, settling in his cheeks. he rubs at his face, sitting up a little straighter against the wall.
andrew: i’m not hard
his phone vibrates a few times as you message him.
you: oh that’s okay
you: can i still see it?
you: i really want to
you: pretty please, andrew
andrew stares down at the influx of messages, like maybe they will clarify into something else. something that’s not a rather insistent request from a stranger to see his soft penis. did women even like that sort of thing?
the messages stare back up at him, unchanged. unmoving. unmistakable.
andrew doesn't send nudes. to tell the truth, he doesn't think he's sent a photo of himself to anyone, ever. any part of him. what's up on his profile is all he's shared. a picture of him at the beach. one of him surfing. an old photo deran took years ago of him and craig wrestling in the living room at smurf's. a hand on his skateboard.
he looks at the photo in your profile again, the one of you, not the dog. your arms are stretched out wide, the lights of the eiffel tower twinkling behind you, like get a load of this. you look happy, content. young.
he slips a hand below his waistband, cups his balls and tries to imagine you standing in front of him instead, at the edge of his bed, maybe. that same pretty face but a softer smile, arms at your sides. a sweet voice he makes up to say a version of the same words, ‘pretty please, andrew. can i see it?’
yeah, okay.
he closes his eyes, inhaling, a small tug of pleasure in his belly, warming him from the inside. it makes his dick plump up just a tad against his thigh.
in his fantasy, you’re climbing onto the bed now, one knee pressed into the mattress and then the other. you're wearing the same dress as in the photo and he can see the curve of your breasts as you start to crawl. crawling up the bed, between his legs. this look on your face like you want nothing more than to see what he’s hiding beneath his waistband.
andrew lets go of his phone and slips his other hand into his shorts, wraps his fingers around the base of his cock. not jerking it, not yet, just holding it, just letting the warmth from his palm bleed through. it feels good, feels familiar. the same as it has since he was thirteen.
you’re close enough now that your head is between his knees. you’re lowering yourself down, tummy to mattress and crossing your ankles behind you like in one of those teeny-bop shows julia always had on tv when they were kids. no magazine though, just a coy smile as you prop your chin in your hand, draw a light finger over the inside of his left knee.
‘show me?’ you ask, voice still just as sweet as the first time and it makes his stomach swoop, his dick twitch a little in his hand.
maybe he's secretly a pervert and he just never knew it. a sick desire lain dormant until a woman half his age messaged him on a dating app and asked, apropos of nothing, to see his uncircumcised penis.
andrew tugs the waistband of his shorts down, lets it bunch up under his balls, the elastic pushing them up, showing them off to you, showing you everything really. the hand, the back of his bruised knuckles, the soft but warm length slowly filling out in his palm. eager beneath your gaze as you smile at him, roll your bottom lip between your teeth.
‘yeah,’ you murmur, cute, wet tongue peeking out, and drag your eyes along his dick, like you’re filing a memory for later.
andrew’s hips tilt up and he squeezes his dick and balls at the same time, his mouth dropping open a little. he’s filling out now, properly, thickening up as more blood rushes south, giving him shape, definition. enough so that he thinks he can risk it, the photo.
he picks up his phone again, sparing one last glance at your profile before he opens the camera app and tries to snap a photo at a flattering angle. it takes a couple tries. the first few are too blurry. the next has a shadow of his phone cast over half of it. the last one isn’t too bad, well-lit, soft morning sun streaming in through the windows and making sure you can see the whole thing. his dick, his hand, the bare skin of his stomach where his shirt's been rucked up.
he sends it off before he can second guess himself or the decision. and then he sits there, dick slowly softening against his thigh as the nerves eat away at him. one minute, two.
fuck, what if you hate it? what if it’s the ugliest cock you’ve ever seen? shit, he shouldn’t have sent it. shouldn’t have bothered at all. he should delete it. maybe if he deletes it fast enough you won’t have time to see it. he’ll have spared you the horrible experience completely. he’ll delete it and then he’ll delete his entire account right after.
he picks up his phone right as it buzzes in his hand. it buzzes and then it buzzes again, and again, and again and again.
swallowing his trepidation, andrew swipes open the dating app.
you: oh fuck
you: oh fuck you’re so pretty
you: like i knew you’d be pretty but seeing it is totally different
you: i knew you’d be a big boy. big like the rest of you, yeah?
you: god it’s probably heavy when you walk
andrew stares down at his phone, a burning warmth beginning to spread from the tips of his toes all the way up to the tips of his ears. his entire body feels electrified, like his skin is one second away from sparking from the heat.
another message comes through.
you: fuck, andrew. i’m really wet
he closes his eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. you’re wet. you’re wet just from seeing a photo of his half-hard cock. saliva pools in his mouth. he grinds his teeth together.
he picks up his phone.
andrew: for real?
you: yeah, for real
you: you wanna see?
he presses the heel of his hand into his cock, rolls his hips up into it.
andrew: yes
then remembering his manners, he says,
andrew: please
a minute goes by, during which andrew grips his phone in his right hand and rocks into his left. stares at the photo of you, at the messages calling his dick pretty. then his phone buzzes again and it’s not a photo you’ve sent at all. it’s a video file.
he presses play with his thumb so fast and so hard, it makes a tapping noise.
the video starts to play. a little shaky at first, like the camera (phone?) is unsteady in your hand and then it focuses, a low-lit grainy view pointing down between bare thighs, soft and spread open just enough to fit your hand. he can hear your breathing, a little fast, as you slide two fingers up and down your wet slit. he can’t see your pussy too well like this, but he can hear it, when you move the camera close enough, can hear the slick sounds it makes when you rub yourself, over your clit, he thinks, as you let slip a quiet, soft moan. the video abruptly ends.
andrew plays it again. then again. he clicks the volume button all the way up to try and catch that moan at the end, presses the speaker against his ear and pretends you’re moaning with your mouth pressed against his neck while he’s filling you up. fitting the head of his cock against your entrance and guiding you slowly down with a hand on your soft waist. the fantasy is so good. you sound so good.
he types out a message, left hand fisted around his cock, squeezing tight.
andrew: you have the sweetest voice
then,
andrew: i want to hear you say my name
when you don’t immediately respond, he thinks maybe he’s pushed too far. then another video file comes through.
the camera is balanced on your tummy this time, a straight forward view of your knees raised, hand snug between your thighs. you must be lying down now. andrew watches, ears and eyes focused to catch every single detail. you moan again as your hand moves and it takes a second for him to realize you must be fucking yourself with your fingers.
shit. andrew slowly drags his hand up and down his cock in time with your breathing.
‘andrew,’ the voice on the video suddenly murmurs, almost a whine, and he nearly dents his phone with how hard he squeezes it. ‘andrew, please.’
andrew, please.
oh fucking hell, andrew thinks, spitting in his palm and jerking himself a little faster. sweetest voice, all breathy and needy saying his name. he doesn’t even know you. a stranger messaging him from almost 200 miles away, soft and pretty and, for some reason, begging for his cock.
he flips open the camera app again, taking his own short video. fucking his fully hard dick into his hand, foreskin pulled back to show how wet and pink he’s become. he sends it over.
andrew: you’re driving me crazy
you message back almost immediately.
you: oh my god
you: oh my god fuck
you: need to feelyou inside me
you: youd stretch me out so god
you: pleasjcr nbe ver had a dick so big
the messages are full of typos, like you’re too distracted to pay attention, too busy fucking your pussy with your fingers, maybe close to release. andrew grunts, dick kicking up in his hand. he’s imagining you squirming in his lap, nails digging into his shoulders as you cry out, ‘so big, so big andrew, fuck oh my god.’
andrew: you gonna cum?
andrew: i want to hear you cum
andrew grabs the bottle of lotion off his nightstand while he waits for your response. he depresses some into his hand, warming it, then spreads it all over his dick. his bites his lip at the sensation. slick, wet. he can almost pretend it’s your pussy.
his phone buzzes. fuck. a new video file. andrew squeezes the base of his dick to keep himself from shooting off too early. just the anticipation of what’s waiting for him in that video has his head going fuzzy. he swallows and presses play.
you’ve set the camera up across the room. must have, on some type of surface. a dresser, maybe. it’s facing the bed. he can see you from the waist down and thinks you’re fully naked. because you’re kneeling upright and all he can see is gorgeous, soft skin.
god, he wants to touch you, he wants to know what sounds you’ll make when he runs his hands over your stomach, your thighs. he wants to shove his head between them and lap at your pretty cunt until you’re pushing him back with both hands, overstimulated and sensitive.
a quick, and deeply selfish thought runs through him: disappointment that he can’t see your tits like this, and then the thought is immediately diverted when he sees what’s in your hand.
a dildo. a rather life-like one from what he can tell from his vantage point across the room. thick, mushroom tip and a pair of silicone balls at the bottom. not as thick as him, of course, but still impressive. andrew hates it immediately. he’s gonna throw it out the first second gets. when he meets you for real, in person. he’s gonna throw out all your toys and fill you up with his cock instead. let you use his dick whenever you want. every day, every hour if that's what you need.
you’re balancing the stupid thing on a pillow, flat base held still as you slowly sink down.
oh fuck, he thinks, fisting his cock, watching your pussy swallow it whole.
you whine as you begin to shift your hips back and forth, grinding on it like it’s real, like it’s him, your stomach muscles tensing as you move.
andrew makes sure to time his hand perfectly in tempo as you grind. this is what you would look like if he was there with you. shaky, trembling legs and desperate noises, except his hands would be all over you. he’d make sure to cover every inch of skin.
‘andrew,’ you moan, and your voice is just as a sweet as the last video. ‘fuck, you feel so good.’
yeah, fuck. he’s gonna lay you out on your bed and use your soft thighs as earmuffs. he’s gonna stretch out your cunt so slow on his dick that you're begging him to move, hips tilted up as you whine. he’s gonna watch your tits bounce and your eyes roll back and your mouth drop open and he's gonna give you absolutely everything you ask for. he’s gonna make sure no one ever compares.
‘ohh,’ you cry, slipping your free hand between your legs to rub at your clit. ‘i need it, i need it, i need it.’
‘yeah,’ andrew says, aloud, even though you can’t hear him. ‘yeah, fuck, you do.’
andrew groans, fucking his fist, pleasure coursing through him as he watches you spasm and shake around the dildo, whining and grinding your way through your orgasm. he shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine coming inside you as you do, filling you up and feeling it all slide back out, getting his lap all messy when he lifts you up in his arms.
he paints his own chest with his cum, thick, steady ropes of it as stars burst behind his eyelids. he lies there, half lying, half sitting up against the wall, panting for a full minute until his heart rate slows.
jesus christ, he can't remember the last time he came that hard. he takes a photo of the mess and sends it back to you.
you: wowie
you: any chance you're open to long distance?
andrew is already pulling on real pants and grabbing his keys.
summary:pope can’t stand hearing your fake moans from the other room, it’s time he makes you have real ones
being j’s new girlfriend wasn’t exactly ideal.
he’d bring you to his house, have a swim in the pool,maybe have some mediocre sex that lasted not longer than five minutes and then he was off doing god knows what,you didn’t know. it wasn’t any of your business.
that’s why you started to fuck his uncle behind his back.
j couldn’t handle you, couldn’t even make you cum for goodness’ sake. pope knew that, he heard your fake moans through the walls that barely lasted a minute or two. he had to let you know how good it could actually feel.
so now he has gotten you bended over his dresser—slapping the fat skin of your ass at every thrust of his raw cock into your fluttering, gummy walls.
“popey…’s too big” you whine grabbing the edge of the dresser with your hands, your knuckles turning white “i know baby girl… my nephew doesn’t stretch you out enough does he?” he coos at your ear, he bites at the lobe making your back arch.
“this pussy‘s so fucking tight he doesn’t know what to do with it” pope gropes one of your tits spilling out from your top with a grunt. the sound of your whimpers and of your skin slapping against each other fill the room.
you’re lucky nobody’s home or everyone would have known what you two were up to.
you can feel your pussy clench around his cock, legs trembling closer to the release you so longed to achieve “you close sweetheart? gonna cum all over my cock,beautiful?” pope’s hand travels down your clit while his other one holds tightly onto your hip to slam it against his.
when you come around his cock, your legs fail you, making you almost fall over. he catches you in a heartbeat, placing you against his sweaty chest, holding you close “you’re okay sweet girl”
you nuzzle your nose in the crook of his neck, catching your breath “thank you for this” you mumble.
pope huffs like he has just been offended by your words “no need to thank me…such a good girl” he plants a kiss above your head “am not done with you”
j wonders why you have marks all over your collarbones and thighs for days after that!!! he swears he doesn’t remember giving you any :(
currently thinking about needy!andrew who gets super clingy & cozy while his gf swims without him :(
— content warning: prose about pope cody (i just finished ak & i miss him), fem!reader, nsfw mentioned because i love tension & build-up, em-dashes (i promise i just love them, it’s not AI), not proofread
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝
wading through the pool in your teensy bikini, andrew usually always sits on the lounger and watches you. some strange part of him fears that if he looks away for even a second, you’ll drown or even just stub your toe against the pool wall and start crying. but you’re a grown woman, (even told him so when you stomped your foot & he just let out a breathy exhale through his nose and a small smile!)
so today, as his brothers came over for lunch, you told andrew to go sit with them and enjoy. “it’ll be great, honey! i’ll be okay, promise.” “…..fine. but no deep end, okay bug? i want that head above water the entire time. ‘s supposed to drizzle, don’t want you getting sick, either.” pouty as ever, andrew agrees, hands coming to your waist as you kiss his cheeks and tell him “oh you’re gonna have so much fun, andy! yayyy!”
granted, you were being waay more optimistic the needed— pope always preferred being with you over anyone. but it was sweet to see him cornered up, smiling despite himself, as deran tells them a story about some guy at the bar.
you float on your tummy, gazing at your boyfriend with doe eyes. from the outside looking in, it probably looks like he condemned you to the pool; a breed of lesser man that chooses his friends over his girl, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. andrew’s perched on the stool, body facing the sliding glass doors (he must’ve specifically moved the stool to face you.)
auburn curls shining in the soft sunlight of the afternoon, only made more rich in color by the clouds setting across the sun occasionally. his gray t- shirt clings to his broad chest, a slight sweat mark around the collar. since working out again, pope’s shirts have gotten a lot tighter; which is why the little tear on his sleeves, where his biceps bulges out, constantly has your mouth watering. distressed jeans on long legs, his jordan’s flat against the floor.
andrew’s palm is placed on his bent knee, his other leg extended out as if in a perpetual state of emergency. his thick fingers rub circles into his knee, and you swallow deeply at the familiarity of those circles.
you’re perched against the pool, chin tucked into your resting hands as you float on your belly. it puts a strain on your neck, one that will surely be worked out later when you coo about it to andrew, but you don’t care. how could anyone, ever, look away from him?
in the same moment that the clouds cover the sun again, andrew’s looking at you. craig & deran talk animatedly, j silently laughing as he sips his beer, but pope stares at you. hands now clasped in front of his large bulge, blinking at you like a deer. just… consuming— breathing, but with his eyes on you to make it easier.
smiling, you wave at your man, a coquettish folding of your fingers to your palm. you rest your cheek on the top of your hand as you settle, letting him know that you miss him.
now, you were trying to convey that you missed his affection but in a “see baby? i’m okay on my own and you can still have fun! i’m not far, promise,” kinda way. but andrew, desperate for release from his now completely depleted social battery, takes this as on opportunity.
you’re sure there was a loud scuff in the house, as he steps off of the stool and walks right outside. you can see craig’s back falter as his head follows andrew, and you can see deran shake his head and incite craig to keep speaking despite andrew’s departure.
suddenly the sliding door closes with the sound of craig’s loud laugh, and andrew’s standing in front of you with pouty lips. “andy! i thought you were having fun-” “can we cuddle now?”
his arms are by his side as his chest heaves, he looks totally exhausted. for a second, your eyes train in on the slight rise of his t-shirt on his tummy. but swiftly you come to the realization, based on his pursed lips and tapping fingers, that he wasn’t doing this to see his brothers.
sure, it’s good to be around others. but agreeing to sit with his loud brothers while you sat 10 feet away in the small bikini you had him pick for you this morning? torturous, hellish. he only sat through a half hour of the conversation to make you happy.
you want him to feel normal, something he always insists he isn’t. but he will admit, sitting back and drinking a beer while his brothers recount their violent play-battles growing up did make him feel special.
it’s just nothing as good as feeling your eyes on him. why is why the second he saw you looking at him, he gave up on the prospect of normalcy and threw himself back at your feet as the adoring, obsessive lover.
smiling, you stand in the pool, nodding at him as you go to the stairs. he’s already ready, holding your sun -warmed towel out for you and wrapping you in it softly with a tight hug.
he’s been so good, he’s always so good.
you rake your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck & andrew shivers for a second. with his face to your neck, he inhales deeply; salt water & the sunscreen he rubbed on you & the distinct smell of post-ovulation you. (because of course he keeps track.)
“gotta shower first popey,” your arms lock him into your chest as his curls tickle your chin. “no.” he responds lightly, gravelly voice sounding slightly petulant. giggling, you lean back and gaze up at him “c’mon, quickie shower and i’m all yours, kay?”
reluctantly nodding, he follows you in the house, so closely that your back almost touches his chest. a guard dog, your hulking andrew nearly drools at the jiggle of your thighs as you walk.
sliding open his bathroom door (he only ever wants you to shower in his bathroom) you begin to lay out your usual shower routine. a fresh towel waiting on the sink, you turn your back to a blinking andrew. “can you untie this, andy?” his hands tremble as he pulls the strings of your bikini loose, peeling it off of you and cupping your tits in his big paws.
he kneeds at your chest, breath coming harder through his nose, as you bend down to peel your bottoms off. he just wants you close.
which is precisely why, as he watches you shower from the little chair you pulled up for him, he stands and nearly whispers, “can i hold your hand?”
it’s so endearing, your early 40s lover so infatuated with you that he wants to hold your hand while you shower. you turn to him, away from the warm water, and pout with doe eyes. what a softie.
opening the glass door, you put your hand through, wiggling your fingers as you continue to soap yourself up one-handed. and yeah, it is harder to do this, but nothing beats the sight of andrew staring through the bathroom window and catching his breath as he holds your smaller hand.
after your shower, he sits on his bed, back pin straight as you come into the room in your cozy nightgown. sitting criss-cross in between his knees, he braids your hair and smoothes his hands over your shoulders. andrew buries his nose in your freshly washed hair and sighs.
then, not knowing his own strength, he yanks you on the bed with him. pulling you up by your underarms, he maunevers you to rest nose to nose with him as you squeal giddily. your thigh splays across his own, ankle hooking across his ass to press his body closer to you. andrew sighs, an almost whiny breath as he slowly cozies into an afternoon nap. his girl in his arms, his brothers laughing down the hall, smurf gone for 2 weeks… what could be better?
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