summary: just a bunch of random head-cannons of jack with a younger fem alt reader that get progressively smuttier
warnings: 18+, smut
a/n: im drinking wine and wanted to self indulge have fun this is for all my alt leaning / whimsy goth aligning girlies. her and you used interchangeably sorry #decolonisingenglish
- Alt reader who always wears some variation of black, whether they be baggy pants or flowy maxi skirts, and Jack being the absolute dork he is gets irrationally excited when he happens to wear a black shirt when they go out together. “Look sweetheart, we’re matching,” he teases as you roll your eyes.
- Alt reader who has tattoos littered across her body, lines that Jack loves to trace. Jack has one of his own from back in the day, a phoenix on his back, that you love to caress and rub your fingers over as you straddle his lower back and massage him. You ask him what year he got it in and all he says is, “Don’t remember kid, but it they’re older than you, that’s for sure.”
- Alt reader who has an ear stack with a bunch of different earrings, stars and moons and hoops. One day, as she’s tracing the lines as his face as she always loves to do, she sees a small closed hole on Jack’s right earlobe. She gasps, “you had your ears pierced?”
Jack hums, “Just the one. Used to have a little ring like yours back in school.”
“Slut hoop.”
“What?”
“It’s called a slut hoop, you old man.”
- Alt reader who has a massive collection of jewellery she’s thrifted and bought from little indie stores. Jack buys her the cutest little rings with black gems nearly every week, slipping them onto every finger but her ring one. “You’ll know when it’s the real one,” he mutters against your knuckles as he kisses them.
- Alt reader who wears mesh shirts with little nipple covers or the skimpiest lace bra at concerts. Jack lets out a groan when she walks out the room, immediately pulling her in by her belt loops, burying his head in her neck, “My fuckin’ vixen.” Peppers kisses up your neck till he kisses her lips gently. “You look so good, kid.” Jack also goes with her, of course - he’s gotta protect his girl from sick perverts. But, it becomes hard for him to focus on anything but keeping his dick down when your ass rubs against him as you jump and dance to the songs.
- Alt reader who doesn’t leave the house without some makeup covering her eyes. Jack loves it, even wipes it all up for you after a night out, cooing about how your his “good girl” and “shouldn’t lift a finger. He loves it especially when her mascara and eyeliner drips down her cheeks as her fucks her face. Her own long stiletto nails wrapping around whatever part of his cock she can’t fit in her mouth, mostly painted black, but sometimes coloured a specific shade of pinkish-red - the same shade as his tip. Yeah, he always comes the hardest then.
- Alt reader who paints Jack’s nails black on his day off. Her favourite thing is seeing them gripping her thighs, pressing hard, as his head is buried between her legs. Her own black nails gently scratch his head, tangled in his grey curls as she writhes under him. “Fuck, just- just like that baby. Rub your nails on my head, harder,” Jack babbles as he draws circles on your clit with his tongue, humping the bed.
- Alt reader whos always wanted nipple piercings, and decides maybe she’ll get them on her next birthday. Jack thinks they’re the sexiest shit ever and encourages her when she’s hesitant on booking the appointment, “Do whatever you want, baby, m’still gonna suck your tits”. She groans, shoving him. Says she’ll only get them if he does, only half-serious, but Jack just sighs, “Oh, honey,” and pulls out his phone, showing her a blurry picture of him with a nipple piecing from fuck knows when. “You fucking geriatric oh my god,” she mumbles, trying to hide her arousal. Then asks him why they’re gone now. He tells her it got too difficult to maintain with all the scans he had to do after his leg, “The hole closed up before you were born, sweetheart.” The hole’s repierced on the day of your birthday, when you both get your nipples pierced together.
- Alt reader who puts eyeliner on Jack, straddling him. His cock can’t help but harden under her, seeing her so close to him, sitting on him. He grips her waist and starts moving her back and forth on his lap, dryhumping. You whine, “stop it, you’re ruining my progress.” Jack ignores you, continues moving you on his lap, back and forth until you give up, smudging the black kohl around him in anger and lust, and start rubbing yourself against him, harder. He cums in less than two minutes.
each of these thoughts will be expanded on for a full blurb idgaf send me anything you’d want to see for inspo ily
need to see jack when chubby baby is getting their first vaccines and jack literally wants to die because baby is crying and in pain and he feels like it's his fault even though he rationally knows it's not #getvaccinatedyall
Jack struggles to keep his cool as he watches the chubby, perfect baby you've given him get her shots...
// fic directory // crash!au tag // wc: 2.2k // jack's naked yoga // jack wolfs down ur brownies // tw: needles and a baby in pain, medical inaccuracies, dad!jack is very protective, and his self-confidence suffers from it. He's respectful to his fellow healthcare workers, but his baby is his heart, and he's kinda dying here…Jack noooo....but get vaccinated y'all
It's not always healthy, the intensity of him, but today, it's just the thing to make your heart swell.
Jack, considering he’s Dr. Jack Abbot on paper, is more than aware that having his kid vaccinated is just one moment of needled pain traded for the safety of her health. He knows that. He. Knows. That.
…But no amount of awareness can do anything to stop him from thinking there are too many cartoon animals on the walls. It’s an effective lure, sure. He’ll give the clinic that.
For the kid, only, of course. He can see right through the mural of 2D giraffes.
“You’re gonna sleep so well after this. Gonna tire yourself out from crying, I can see it now.”
Baby sits in your lap with her chubby softness decorating her wrists and thighs as they flap and kick. Usually, the sight’s a tug on his heart. It’s a bullet now.
The needle will feel like a bullet to her. You’re gonna fucking cry, aren’t you? It wasn’t even becoming a dad that imploded your emotional regulation, it was her mother to do you in.
“You okay, Jack?”
“...Fine.”
He knows the vaccine matters. It’s gonna protect her. It’s necessary. Loving if he wants to lessen the irrational guilt. It’s not like he’ll stop believing in medicine and evidence to get out of watching his daughter get jabbed for a moment.
But he’s pretty sure she, a 3-month-old who is busy trying to eat her fist, couldn't care less about how rational getting jabbed in the first place is. She doesn’t have the ability to understand medicine, even though you plan on buying her doctor-themed board books. She only knows how to shit, eat, and butcher his insides every time she smiles her gums at him.
At best, she knows that Mommy and Daddy took off her cozy sweater for some reason.
“It’s too cold in here. They need to turn down the AC.”
“It’s no colder than the Pitt.”
You bounce Chubby lightly on your knee, and she blinks up at you with a dumb trust as your mouth pulls into a thin line.
You would’ve been surprised if Jack wasn’t impossible in his paternal panic, but it’s still funny to watch him suffer like he’s next in line for a firing squad. Or something that's as much a march to death.
“You okay, dad?”
“This is torture.”
You snort at his very casual, gruff-throated statement. You can only let your head fall onto his shoulder in the second after.
“She’s gonna be fine.”
“...I know.”
Your baby makes a happy little sound, kicking a leg, and it’s ridiculous and endearing how Jack’s face actually pinches with the grimace of his voice. Whether or not he truly does know, he’s telling on himself.
The doctor, the pediatrician, comes in with a smile. She looks like the type of MD that was right to specialize in kids' medicine. She’s probably survived projectile baby vomit, panicked parents who trust Google, or god fucking forbid, ChatGPT more than anything else. You could throw toddlers who have the strength of ten thousand men in the mix, too.
…And fathers who are unraveling before he even parks his family in the lot.
“There’s our brave girl.”
Jack could laugh as much as he could shoot himself in the head. He should probably stick with the former. The latter, he would never do in front of you or Chubby. His laughter startles her a little less, he’s sure.
…Sorry. Bad humor. A bad coping. Could be worse. He could be an asshole and use his own degree the way other parents use Google. That would completely ruin the cordial atmosphere you’ve worked hard to create.
Dr. Peds does a quick exam and pronounces the baby, in all her softness, as she stares up at her with wide eyes, as healthy and thriving.
She pulls up the tray that the nurse set up before. It’s got alcohol wipes, syringes, and band-aids with cartoon bears on them.
It’s a mockery, really. If he wants to be even more annoying than he already is about this.
“She’s on track, quite beautifully, I might add.”
“Yay! You heard that, pretty? You’re the most on track baby there ever was.”
That should soothe him more than it does. It helps a little. She’s healthy. As big as she needs to be. Damn right.
“All right, time for the vaccines. Would one of you be okay with holding her steady if she starts squirming?”
Somewhere before, it’d be ridiculous how his stomach drops to his ass. Somewhere, he didn’t have to have the most perfect kid in the world. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Still, that truth doesn’t keep his insides where they’re supposed to be, and that’s where he can’t even stop himself from shaking his head sternly and once.
“No.”
You turn your head toward Jack as the pediatrician stills.
“Well…I was just going to say we could always bring the nurse back—”
Jack forces a slower breath out of his lungs.
“No. I mean—I can. Obviously. Sorry. I just—”
He looks at Chubby.
She’s pushing the back of her foot against your stomach, knawing on the forearm you hold her with.
“I can. I’m just preparing for the kid to hate me.”
He’s not gonna look at you, because he doesn’t have to. He knows your face is softening, and although he’s sure it’s not with mockery or surprise, there’s already too much he’s experiencing in this happy-animal-painted room to handle that you’re more than aware his love can curdle into guilt.
But of course Kiddo is. She was the one to ruin you first. Why wouldn’t she know how you’re burning when she was the one to set you on fire in the first place?
“She’s not gonna hate you, Jack.” You turn to the doctor. The other, more rational doctor. “I’ll probably be worse than him, sorries in advance if I start crying when she does.”
“It’s all understandable.”
You know how to set the kid down. You settle her in position on the exam table, and the paper crackles under her precious baby weight. She tilts her head at you.
He’s fucking condemned.
“Jack, come here.”
He listens, coming over to the table, because you’re unfortunately the easiest thing, person to obey. Besides him, when you’re in the mood to obey and be nothing but something for him to love and take care of and be ruined over for the rest of his life.
Jack’s even allowed you to ruin him with a plump, little, toothless extension of yourself.
He places his hand over her arm, gently, while you murmur calming claims at her cheek.
…How does she feel so small? She’s bigger. She’s as big as she’s ever been and will only get bigger, but beneath his palm, baby feels so fucking tiny. Even after these weeks of feedings and diaper changes and midnight panics, where he has to make sure her chest is rising.
…Can she feel my hand shaking? Can Chubby feel how weak her dad is?
Dr. Peds swabs one thigh. Jack swallows when the kid startles at the cold, face scrunching.
“Alright, here we go.”
The syringe is ready too quickly, and the first injection happens in the seconds after.
The sound that comes out of his kid is immediate.
Outraged and terrified.
Jack’s nose flares, and his sights harden on her as her little body goes rigid with eyes squeezed shut.
“...It’s alright, Chubby. It’s alright—”
He might as well have been shot. He'd rather be fucking shot.
The doctor moves efficiently to the point where she’s already on to the next one, and Jack has to keep holding still while his little, crazy girl screams.
“I know, I know, I know, baby. Mommy knows.”
While you keep telling her “I know, I know, I know,” in that brokenhearted mommy voice that makes him want to make way to the stool and rope. If he weren’t so dramatic, he could just admit that your pain, harmonizing with hers, just makes everything worse.
His face is probably white. Whiter than it usually is as he commits to his math of psychosis and the need to never not be guilty.
He knows this is love. Prevention of what could hurt her that’s been in practice for decades, but those cries shoot right past rationality and into the fucked place underneath his skin, the place that keeps score of the suffering of the people he loves.
You and her. Robby occasionally. It’s a small population.
The second the Doctor’s done with the bear band-aids patched on her thighs, Jack pulls his hands. You scoop the kid up, and she’s screaming so hard that she’s not really breathing between her shrill sobs.
Her little, rolled legs kick furiously, and her face is blotched with tears and snot. You press your cheek to hers, rocking and bouncing with what Jack can name as instinct.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s over. It’s over.”
“She did great! I’ll be right back.”
Dr. Peds leaves, and when she does, Jack turns his head to find his—your, his and your baby looking at him with her wide, teary eyes.
She’s probably too overwhelmed to realize she’s focusing on her dad, it’s not a look of accusation. It can’t be. She’s too young for that.
But it’s practically judgment of God. Hell. Even worse. He stopped caring about what the guy thinks of him a long time ago, but he’ll always care about what baby does. And unlike a judgment raining from whoever’s up there, that’s not a punishment.
“You wanna go to Daddy, pretty? I think you—”
“I think she’d like to stay away from these hands for a while—”
“Don’t be insane.”
He is. He knows he is. Maybe one day that will help to keep his heart out of his throat every time she cries. One day. When pigs fly.
Really, you have to bite back the laugh that’s trying to rise through your sympathy for Dad Jack.
“Look at her, you think she’s giving me a look of love?” He tilts his head down. “Did Da-da betray you?”
“You’re so funny. Ha. Ha.”
You basically force Chubby into his arms, and with how quickly you do it, he doesn’t have the energy to drag the guilt out to the point where he invents some excuse as to why he can’t hold her.
“She knows nothing except that she’s mad, Jack. That’s it. And I think even if she was old enough to realize what just happened, she’d probably forgive you.” You kiss her cheek. “But you’ll never get old, right? Right.”
Slowly, his one broad palm cups the back of her head, the other spans her back, patting. He kinda…folds in how he always does. His shoulders hunch and his chin drops.
“You’re fourteen pounds of tears. Did I do that?”
It’s meant to be a joke, but it breaks the way her screams do as she presses them into his collar. It lessens into hiccuped distress with her hands curling into dimpled fists against his chest.
“Did Dada do that?”
Go ahead, sweetheart. Grab onto Dad. Hurt him at the same time. Do whatever you want.
With how he’s only focusing on the way he breathes into the back of your and his daughter’s head, Jack doesn’t know that his eyes glassing over gets you almost more than her crying did.
“I’m sorry, beautiful.”
Jack’s blaming himself, even though you’re sure he knows that the baby has no idea what happened. You don’t know how you’ll stop him from carrying an awful amount of guilt. One day, you’ll love him long enough to. You just wish how harshly you love him, as a man, doctor, and dad, would make it so much easier.
“Dad’s sorry.”
“Jack.”
You rub slow circles over his back. Chubby gives one last cry that you think is the last, which is proven true by the next moment, made up only of miserable sniffling. She pouts.
You smile.
“...I think she’s forgiven you.”
You may not be able to lift the load of guilt that he’s built his body for today, but you can meet him in the middle.
She hiccups again, but now she’s rooted her face in his chest. She’s simply seeking comfort from her dad, and he adjusts to her instantly. He murmurs under his breath and rocks her.
You watch them, and your heart swells to the point it might explode into overwhelmed mommy confetti. Stupid, but Jack’s the one who was so eager to make you a mommy in the first place. So…
“You’re getting a brand new toy after this. Me and Mommy think you deserve compensation for such terror.”
“You don’t think you’re spoiling her?”
“Says you. You’d be feeding her ice cream for lunch and dinner if she could have it. I'm gonna catch you sharing your popsicles with her once she hits the six-month mark. You'll enjoy that, huh, baby?"
…Yeah. Dad’s so right.
Baby’s head settles heavier on him. He kisses her head again, soft now. Soft. Okay, and over the guilt. Maybe that’s it. It’ll just take the two to beat it out of him.
With love, of course. She’s half of you, and if she’s anything like you, you’re sure she has all the love for her dad in the whole wide world.
“I’ll remember this on your wedding day. Not that you’re ever getting married.”
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: The calm before "I do".
A/N: I'm no longer updating the taglist because Tumblr has been glitching way too much lately. If you don't want to miss any updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)
Previous chapter: Part 125: I'm a fucking doctor and I didn't know hearts worked like that
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Mara’s apartment smelled of pizza, the expensive vanilla candle she loved and very faintly of cat food. The two of you sprawled across opposite ends of the sofa wearing pajamas, while pizza boxes sat on the coffee table between half-empty wine glasses.
On the television was some terrible early-2000s romantic comedy playing, neither of you had watched for the last twenty minutes.
Gizmo, Mara’s gray cat, had claimed your lap the moment you sat down. His black sister Button had taken up residence behind your head on the backrest of the sofa, occasionally reaching down to bat lazily at your hair.
“You know they usually hate everybody” Mara said while taking a bite of a huge slice of pepperoni pizza.
You shrugged, scratching Gizmo’s ears while he purred. “They love me because they have standards.”
Mara laughed. “Well, you’re getting married tomorrow so I’m gonna be nice and say ‘Yeah, sure’.”
“Thanks” you replied with a grin, shaking your head. You paused for a moment. “I really try to not flip people off anymore - with Lizzie mirroring everything we do - but you test my patience here.”
“She’s not around. Flip me off all you want, babe.” Mara shrugged.
Your heart ached for a little moment.
It had been Jack’s idea to take care of Lizzie tonight after you’d suggested keeping the tradition alive by spending the night apart. And it had been a good evening so far but still… you missed her. And him. But well, her a little bit more.
“Nope.” Mara watched you and shook her head. “Nope. Nope. Nope. We’re not doing this. No missing people you’ll spending the rest of your life with. So, nope, keep thinking about something else.”
She refilled your wine glass and shoved it into your hand.
“I’ll help you. Because I need to know… we never talked about Peter and this… weird… thingy you two had going on.”
You groaned dramatically. “Wow, really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“There isn’t even a story, you know?”
“Mhm. I really don’t believe you. He acted weird and you acted weird and now I need to know if you two know each other in a biblical way.”
You started laughing. “Oh my God - no, of course not!”
She took a sip of wine. “Well, then spill the tea, girl. I’m not getting any younger and we shouldn’t go to bed too late. No one wants to see a bride with dark circles under her eyes.”
You groaned again and folded one leg underneath yourself, while taking a long sip of your wine. “Fine.” You looked toward the television although you weren’t seeing it. “I had a crush on him.”
“I gathered that” Mara replied dryly.
“For years. Like… probably from sixteen until… um… twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”
She nearly dropped her pizza. “Jesus Christ - and you never told him?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s Adam’s best friend. And Adam would’ve made fun of me until the end of time. And… Peter was kind of hot and I was kind of nerdy so… I didn’t want to make a fool out of myself, you know?”
Mara nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay, fair.”
“And Peter never really… you know… did anything. It was just a giant crush that never went anywhere.” You shrugged with a small smile. “We’d flirt a little. You know how it is - he’d smile, I’d smile… and then he’d disappear for another six months.”
Mara rolled her eyes. “What an idiot.”
“Yeah.”
She looked at you thoughtfully. “Do you think he liked you back then?”
You considered it. “Maybe but honestly - I have no idea. We were young and he never made a move. I never made one either so…” Another shrug. “And then I decided to stop waiting and do something, so I moved to Pittsburgh and well… I met Hunter.”
“Ugh.” Mara made a face. “Don’t mention that asshat or I have to throw up.”
You laughed. “Sorry. I don’t really want to talk about him either. But yeah, that’s the end of the Peter story. You see - nothing really happened.”
Mara bumped your shoulder. “Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because if he’d made a move you wouldn’t be marrying Jack tomorrow. You’d be probably on your fourth child with that manchild, being a housewife and not opposed to daydrinking. Like a real Stepford wife.”
“Oh my God!” You couldn’t help laughing. “That sounds terrible!”
“So, you see - your stupid crush leading nowhere saved you from a fate that’s more terrible than death” Mara declared with a straight face.
“You’re incredibly dramatic” you replied, still chuckling.
She shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not untrue, right? You don’t want Peter. You want Jack. God knows why, but you want him.”
Your smile softened. “Yeah, that’s true.”
For a while both of you watched the movie and sipped on your wine. Then Mara shifted and glanced at you.
“I need your opinion on something.”
Your eyebrow raised immediately. “Okay?”
Mara was staring into her glass. “Should I date Robby?”
You blinked, completely thrown off guard. “Um, what now?”
“Like…” She shrugged. “... maybe it’s not a terrible idea.”
“Where the hell did that come from?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking, you know?”
You sighed. “Okay, come on, humor me - why do you suddenly think that would be a good idea?”
“I like when he’s around. He makes me laugh - sometimes. He’s also incredibly annoying and you know I like that on a man.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“And I don’t know… I feel… comfortable with him. More comfortable than with any other man I’ve been dating in the last ten years. So… you see… that’s where this comes from.” She took a deep breath. “But I also told him he needs to go to therapy first.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“And I don’t think he’s really doing that so… now I’m wondering if maybe… I should bend my own rule?”
You studied her for a long moment. “You know I’ll support you no matter what you want to do. But also… I don’t think this is about Robert.”
Mara looked actually a little offended. “Excuse me?”
You took another sip of wine. “I think it’s maybe… you know… we’re really close and tomorrow I’m getting married and maybe your brain is looking around going… well, everybody pair up.”
Mara stared. “That’s… that’s…” She closed her mouth, took another sip of wine and groaned. “Shit.”
“What?”
“You’re probably right.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “It’s probably just my… my… biological clock ticking. Like - not for babies but for a wedding. Like… my brain is picturing a groomsday.”
“What the hell is a groomsday?” you asked, confused.
“Well…” Mara shrugged. “Doomsday with a groom. So basically a groomsday.”
“So - a wedding?”
“Yeah, basically.”
You laughed. “Okay, so let’s stick with the part where you said that I’m right about the Robby thing, huh?”
“Okay.” She sighed dramatically. “And I’m probably just ovulating. My brain does crazy jumps when I’m ovulating. I swear every month my brain suddenly goes ‘You know what would fix your life? - A man.’ And then two days later I’m like ‘No, absolutely not.’”
You laughed.
“Hell, I can’t wait for menopause. Really. I want this all-” She gestured toward her uterus. “- shut down and out of business. Pronto.”
You laughed harder. Then you reached over and squeezed her hand. “But if you should decide that you want to date Robby - you have my full support. I will question your mental health but I will fully support it. God knows that fuckhead wouldn’t find a better woman than you.”
She grinned.
“But -” you went on. “If this happens I don’t want to hear a peep about your… your… you know… physical things. I don’t want to know how often or how long or if it’s good or not. I couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore.”
Mara shook her head. “Nope, not promising anything. I mean - if it’s disappointing I need someone to talk to.”
You made a face.
“And if it’s mindblowing - well then I need to brag about it. You know? You’re my best friend, so… these kinds of conversations come with the job title.”
You groaned. “Ugh, okay. But just for the record - I never told you about Jack and my sex life.”
“You never had to” Mara shot back without missing a beat. “Your fiance is a walking boner when he’s around you so I’m guessing it’s going pretty well in the downstairs department.”
You shrieked laughing. “MARA OH MY GOD DON’T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT!”
“But it’s true.”
You wrinkled your nose, really trying to keep a straight face but the smile creeping onto your face betrayed you.
“Yeah okay” you said eventually, grinning. “It’s pretty good. Like… what do you always say? If it’s not mindblowing I’m out? Well… I’m in for over two years so…” You shrugged. “Should tell you enough.”
Mara’s face was torn between fascination and horror. Eventually she shook her head, clearly amused.
“You know what, girlfriend? I’m happy for you. That’s exactly what you needed. Some guy with salt-and-pepper hair, a nice back and a good boning every other day. I’m jealous - I won’t lie - but I’m really happy for you.”
You blushed. “Thanks.” Then you glanced toward your phone on the coffee table. “I wonder what my favorite walking boner is doing right now.”
Mara rolled her eyes. “No.”
“What?”
“No!”
“I didn’t even-”
“Oh, come on, you were one second away from texting him.”
You pouted.
She raised one finger. “We agreed on this. No contact until the wedding tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but that’s just stupid.”
She laughed. “Okay, well - you’re allowed one good-night text today. One. You hear me? We don’t break with the tradition just because you’re suddenly all emotional just because I mentioned his dick.”
You laughed. “It’s not even a tradition.”
“It is now” she shot back. “Should I ever marry you can reinforce the same rule and I won’t argue with you.”
You huffed. “Yeah, sure. Because that sounds like you - no arguing.”
Mara laughed out loud. “Yeah, you’re right. But honestly? If I’m ever gonna get married - and that’s a very big if - I think I would just elope. Just run off to Vegas and call it a day.”
You scrunched your nose. “That’s not really romantic.”
“Oh, I don’t want my hypothetical wedding to be romantic. I want it to be fun and crazy and well… just spontaneous. I’d be more looking forward to the wedding night, honestly” she said with a grin.
You groaned with a smile. “I knew it.”
“You’re the one who wanted to text Jack just because I talked about your sexlife. So don’t judge me, girl. It’s like his dick has a spell on you.”
You started laughing, downing your wine. “Okay, I think that’s my cue to go to bed. I need my sleep and… I really need to text my fiance.”
Mara slid a little closer on the sofa until your shoulders nearly touched, then handed you your phone. “One text.”
You unlocked your screen. “You’ll read it?”
“Yeah sure.” She shrugged. “I need to see if you follow the rule and honestly? I’m just nosy.”
You laughed and started typing.
You:
I miss you so much. And I can’t wait to marry you tomorrow. I hope you sleep well. Give Lizzie a big fat kiss from me. I love you. (Signed by the future Mrs. Abbot.)
The reply came immediately:
Jack:
Stop making me horny.
Jack:
I can’t wait for tomorrow either. I love you too. (And if you don’t stop calling yourself “future Mrs. Abbot” I’m going to combust. In a dirty way.)
Jack:
Also… wanna hear about my plans for the wedding night?
Mara groaned. “Men are so fucking stupid.” She snatched the phone away from you, putting it in the pocket of her pajama trousers. “That’s enough.”
Then she reached for her own phone.
Mara:
No sexting tonight, Jack. Your fiancee was allowed one text. You said everything you wanted to say. It was cute until it was not. Good night.
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You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)
we do not talk enough about this version of cocky looking shawn hatosy in photos who looks like he’d spank you until you’re a whimpering mess begging for it
CONTENTS: farmer! jack abbot x age gap! f! reader au, cowboy! jack abbot au, future child mentions, fluff, unprotected p in v, daddy kink, breeding, hand job, oral (f! receiving)
Word Count: 2.4k+
SUMMARY: instead of jack abbot joining the military swat as a medic, he opts for taking care of a farm instead! (ofc he can't put himself at risk when he has you in his life)
a/n: inspired by concepts of farmer! pope cody by @dirtygir1 (which i just plugged in jack abbot instead!)
You were cuddled into Jack's side, your legs draped across his thigh. His fingers tickled and trailed down the length of your quads, one hand on you and one hand on the steering wheel. The truck's engine hummed, creating the perfect white noise for you to focus on your book.
Fields and silos passed along the horizon, you occasionally sticking pointing at the cows grazing in the distance.
"Look, Jackie!" you squealed. "Cows!"
"Yeah, honey," he chuckled, his chest rumbling. "They're here every time we come by."
"That's not the point, Jackie," you pouted. "They're so cute!"
It all started shortly after his wife passed away, his therapist griping about how he needed a new hobby. He had tried everything, writing, painting, going to some lame ass book club. It settled on him buying an old farm from one of his uncles, reminiscent on the days he spent out here growing up.
"Yup," his uncle said as he admired the property. "Just gettin' too old to run this place. You remember how to even take care of this place?"
"For the most part," he sighed. "Yeah, I got it."
This led to now, his pretty girl sat next to him on the bench seat of his truck. You both spending every other weekend out here, away from the bustling city.
Jack had inherited the farmhands as well, paying them generously and always making sure they had everything they needed. Most weekends you'd spend most of the time baking and cooking for them, home cooked meals stuffing their bellies.
The large white farmhouse rested on top of the hill, the bench swing slightly swaying in the breeze as the truck bounced along the dirt road. You were locked in to your romance novel when Jack put the truck in park.
"Sweetheart, we're here," he mumbled, patting your thigh.
You climbed out of the truck, your cute little cowgirl boots that Jack bought you kicking up the dust as they hit the ground. Jack grabbed the luggage from the backseat, duffel bags nestled in both of his palms. He followed behind you as you practically skipped to the house.
The minute you entered the threshold you drew open the windows, the soft breeze billowing into the rooms. Jack made his way to the bedroom, unpacking the clothes and filling the drawers. You padded into the master bedroom, your arms encircling his strong middle and your head resting on his back. This was common, you just clinging to him while he worked on any task.
Once everything was in its place, he'd turn around and resting his hands on your cheeks, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.
"M'gonna go check on the farmhands, okay, baby?" he mumbled into your hair, his hands on your hips now.
"Can I come with you? I wanna check on my babies."
After you came into Jack's life, the cattle farm grew into a complete zoo. Chickens, ducks, sheep, goats, yeah, safe to say it was insane. There was even the one time you begged Jack to buy you an alpaca.
"Sweetheart, I am not buying an animal that is going to spit on me."
"Please, Jackie!"
"I promise this is the only time I'll tell you no."
You trailed behind Jack as he limped towards the stables. You gushed at the new little foal in the neighboring stall as Jack slid the gate open. Grabbing the lead and guiding the mare out to the front of the stable. He drew the bridle across the nose, patting the mare's cheek. Heaving when he hoisted the saddle across the horse's back, rubbing the haunch.
"Good girl," he rasped.
He tugged himself onto the mare, gathering the reins in his hands. He adjusted his cowboy hat while he stared at you as you gripped the bars, admiring the little foal. Constant coos falling from your lips.
"Baby," Jack called to you, still standing there talking to the animal. "Baby, hey."
Your head finally turned, seeing Jack holding his hand out to you. You put your hand in his as he helped you up, your arms lacing around his middle.
Your head rested against his back, slightly bobbing with the steady gait. Jack would sneak his hand behind him, rubbing and rubbed at your thigh.
You both made your way to the chicken coop, practically leaping off of the horse and sprinting to the coop. You greeted all the hens, griping at them as they pecked your ankles. You took the little basket hanging on the side of the coop, peaking into each cubby and collecting the eggs. Jack chuckled as he watched you bounced around the coop. You jogging towards him with your full basket like a little girl on Easter. You fastened the basket of eggs to the saddle.
"Jack!" you exclaimed. "I got breakfast for tomorrow!"
"You sure do, sweetheart."
This led to the sheep pen, the babbling creatures racing around. The sheep were your favorite, always loving how they'd respond to your little 'bah'. Jack would find you so cute when you would be around the sheep. Always scratching at their fluffy coats, a smile everlasting on your face as you greeted every one.
Then your eyes would land on the little lamb in front of you, briefly making eyes with Jack before returning to the little baby before you.
"Jack! You didn't tell me we had a new baby on the farm!"
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack smirked. "Wanted to surprise you."
You sat there, continuously gushing over the little guy. Jack, growing inpatient, drew himself off of the horse and made his way over.
"Jackie, can you lift it?" you asked kindly. "Need to see if its a girl or boy!"
Jack would follow through, lifting the lamb to where its pink belly was exposed.
"Aw, it's a boy!" you cheered while the sheep bleated in Jack's grasp. "Did you know Jack and I are your mommy and daddy?"
"Honey," Jack gritted out. "You know no one can call me daddy besides you and our child, right?"
Oh.
You stared at the lamb while Jack slugged his way back to the horse, you slowly following once you made your goodbyes.
That night, you made dinner for all of the farmhands. Them rubbing their full tummies while you placed a fresh apple pie in front of them. A smile curved across Jack's lips as he stared at you in your frilly little apron.
"Ugh, I can't eat anymore," one of the farmhands mentioned. "Always good to have you here."
"It's always my pleasure."
The farmhands would start to leave one by one, their call time always at sunrise. Jack would bring the remaining dishes to you, him tugging off his cowboy hat and his hands finding your hips. His lips tickling across your skin while you scrubbed at the dishes.
"Jackie! Tickles!" you squealed.
"Can't help it, sweetheart," he chuckled against your skin. "You just look so pretty like this, cooking for our crew, cooking in our kitchen. It's so domestic, only other thing I need is a little toddler running around here."
Jacks hands rubbed around your childless womb, picturing how swollen and ripe you would be with his kin. It led to him starting to nip at your earlobe. Slickness pooled in your underwear, leaning back into his chest at his touch. His hands trailed down to the bow that sat on the middle of your back, holding your apron in place. He unfastened the bow and shed you of the garment. Then he was turning you around and backing you into the counter. He gripped the back of your thighs and hoisted you up to where your ass was placed on top of the cabinets.
Jack placed himself between your thighs, his fingers slowly making their way up the length of your quads. Your arms were draped across his shoulders, one hand scratching at the silver hairs on the nape of his neck. You sighed the minute his tongue swept across yours, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips at the contact. You fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, quick to expose his muscular chest. Jack snaked his fingers to your clothed center, you riding his fingers slightly, feeling the rough denim against your clit.
"J-Jack-" you stuttered out. "I need more."
"You'll get more, doll. No need to beg me."
Jack got down to on his good knee, shrugging off you boots and socks. Your blown pupils met his as he placed adorning kisses to the inside of your ankles. It made the wet spot in your underwear grow even more. His arm wrapped around your middle, helping you down. He placed a sharp slap to your denim clothed ass.
"Get that ass to the bedroom," he demanded, smirking at how the curve of your ass jiggled and bounced.
The minute you entered the bedroom, his lips were back on yours. Him disregarding his flannel, and you stepping out of your tiny ass shorts. This would lead to your hand unbuttoning his jeans, sliding your hands beneath the denim and palming at this half hard cock.
"Ah-, sweetheart," Jack hissed against your mouth. "Slow down. Fuck-, I can't keep up with your young pretty ass."
You giggled against his lips, lacing your fingers along his sides, slightly guiding him to the edge of the bed. You shoved him back, to the point where he was sitting on the mattress. With his jeans already halfway down, you stripped the fabric off.
Jack always grew embarrassed and insecure during this part of the foreplay, the minute his prosthetic would be exposed to you. However, you didn't mind. Always kissing his thigh while you released the metal free. Placing kisses on his knee of his residual limb.
You'd be between Jack's legs, finally kissing him once he was free of his constant burden. Only wanting him to focus on you and only you. Your legs would draw across his lap, straddling his solid length. Your hips slowly grind down on him, both of you moaning at the meeting. His hands slipped you out of your tank top, casting the clothing aside.
He squeezed the bare flesh of your breast, fidgeting with your nipple. The touch making you gasp against his mouth. He moaned when your mouth trailed down the expanse of his neck, suckling along the freckled skin. His hands seek the hem of your underwear, drawing the fabric down the curve of your ass. You stood up briefly to step out of your panties, then having him lift his hips to bare his hard cock.
You returned to his lips before he patted your thigh, getting your attention.
"Sweetheart," he rasped. "Sit on my face. I need to taste you."
"Jack, no I stink."
"Don't care," he whispered, already guiding your hips towards his mouth. "Need to taste my pretty girl."
At first he teased you, feather light kisses sprinkled across the fat of your thighs. Then leading to slow kitten licks along your clit while his fingers undulated in and out of you. Your hips slightly grinding to where his nose was pressed against the hairs that decorated your center, him taking a deep inhale at your musk. His tongue entered your hole, reaching as deep as he could before repeating the motion.
"Oh— Jack," you whimpered while he fucked you with his tongue. "God—, fuck, that feels so good."
He slapped your ass, a harsh red welt peaking along the cheek. This hushed you up real quick, Jack wanting to focus on the little sounds that were pouring from your lips. His nails dug and clenched at the warm fat of your ass. Your hips started to buck and ride his mouth, his scruff scratching against your soft pussy.
"Cum for me, sweetheart," Jack demanded. "Need to taste your release. Fuck—, been desperate for you all day."
He continued to lap and suck around your needy bud. Your constant groans and squeals filling his ears. You shivered and convulsed around him while your orgasm rolled through you, your release slipping across his tongue.
"Mm, that's it, sweetheart."
You panted on top of him, desperately trying to catch your breath. Your chest heaving while Jack peered up at you. His gentle palm met your cheek, his thumb slightly stroking your hot flesh.
"You okay, doll?"
You nodded, your mouth agape while you looked at him. Swollen lips, lustful eyes, all of it.
Cum dribbled and bubbled from the flush head of his cock. His cock starting to ache at how hard he was for you. Once you finally felt yourself starting to meet with reality, you slid your figure to where you rested on his thighs, toying and stroking his rigid member. The slight slick coating his length and allowing for quicker movements.
"Ah—, baby," Jack's back slightly bowed against the sheets at your touch. "That's it, stroke daddy's cock. God—."
You slightly smirked at how his body bent and his hips bucked beneath your touch. Fisting his cock to the point where he couldn't take it any longer. He tugged your hips to where they rested above his cock.
"Ride it for me, cowgirl," he gritted out. "Ride this bull till you can't anymore."
It took you no time at all to sit on top of him, the inches grazing into your plush walls. Your hands placed on his chest for stability, crying at how good he filled you up. You were completely made for him. Little squelches filled the room while you dove your hips on top of him, your boobs bouncing above him.
He adjusted to where his frame was propped up on the pillows, enough reach for him to tug your nipple into his mouth, swirling and flicking his tongue around it while you bobbed on his dick. It made you whimper and squirm even more.
"Oh—, Jackie!" you cried. "I want you to fill me up, want you to give me that baby we always dreamed of."
"Oh, yeah, sweetheart?"
"Y-Yeah," you mewled. "Yeah, fuck yes, daddy."
You continued to grind and wobble on top of him, his thumb meeting your clit and absolutely driving you over the edge. Your raspy little whimpers filling the room while you continued to squeeze and hug around his cock. Sweet sloppy sounds coming the from his consistent thrusts that met your movements.
"That's it, good girl," he cooed. "Cum on daddy's cock, you can do that for me, yeah?"
With that, he felt your walls constrict around him, hugging him so tight that it felt like a vice grip. Jack slowly continued to rut into your hips, eventually meeting his own orgasm. Thick hot ropes of his cum filling your empty womb.
Jack is crazy about leaving love marks on you. Fingerprints, hickeys, handprints. He loves just knowing your his. Always in places that can't be seen to others though, like your thighs, your bum and your breasts. That is until you remember you have your smear test with the gynecologist that Jack happens to be pretty good friends with. Your inner thighs are covered in hickeys and bite marks and your gyno just can't help but smirk a little. They're too professional to say anything to you but Jack was definitely going to go beet red the next time they went out for a drink.
Trigger Warning: Age gap (no mention just know it was there), implied sexual content, slight makeout scene but not really, Jack being completely unfazed, barely checked
Word Count: 1.3k
Summary: After needing a certain attending to get you asleep, you’re caught by your roommates.
——————————————————————
It’s late.
You shouldn’t call him, you shouldn’t even text him.
It’s his day off and the last thing you want is for him to miss out on the couple hours of sleep he may get. But you couldn’t sleep. Not without him.
You had been dating Jack Abbot for 6 months now, however the relationship had to be kept secret considering he was one of the attendings at your work place. No matter how hard you tried you had been accustomed to sleeping so much better whenever he was by your side.
This was slightly difficult for you considering you were currently living with Trinity and Dennis, who were to say the least some of the nosiest people you would ever meet. Therefore you could hardly ever go to Jacks without being interrogated by the pair, and Jack could never come to yours because they have no problem waltzing into your room.
Tonight though, no matter how hard you tried to let sleep take you it wasn’t the same. You end up just grabbing your phone of the nightstand, and with hesitant fingers you clicked on his contact.
Jack <3.
It rang. Once. Twice.
“Hunny?” Came a gravelly voice from the other end of the line. You could tell he had just woken up as you could hear him rustling around in his bed and by the gravely and low tone in his voice.
You bit your lip sitting up and contemplating whether you would just pretend that it was a butt dial and let him get his sleep. But that voice, you could imagine he was sitting there topless with slightly tousled hair. Those salt and pepper curls.
You made up your mind there that you had to see him, so you spoke into the phone. Softly but fast at the same time, a sense of guilt rushing over you. “Hi i’m so sorry to wake you but i can’t sleep, i need you to come over. Trinity and Dennis are home but it’s okay we will just-“
He stopped you from going down an even bigger tangent with just a couple words “Honey it’s okay, i’m coming now”. Then he hangs up, ruffled noises coming from the other line. You figure he’s getting out of bed, or rather fishing around for his prosthetic.
Soon enough your phone lit up with a notification from Jack. He was at the door.
Trying your hardest to go unnoticed by your other roommates who were sleeping, you carefully made your way from your room to the front door. Pulling it back without making a sound you see Jack standing there just as you had imagined. No top, silver curls slightly disheveled, and freckles adorning over his large biceps.
You immediately pull him in, unable to resist and in point of a second your lips met. You hands going to the back of his neck to play with the salt and pepper curls that form at the nape of his neck. His hands start at your waist and slowly migrate to your ass. However he’s pushing you back ever so slightly, but when you look up at him with those big doe eyes he regrets pulling away and is ready to take you then and there.
You rest your head on his chest mumbling “sorry, i know we can’t.” Jack pulls you in closer, kissing the top of your head, pulling you to the bedroom almost silently.
Once you get back into the bedroom you push Jack down onto the bed, straddling him. You lean in to brush your lips against his while he mumble “thought you said you couldn’t sleep” through a chuckle.
You swat him and hop off his lap to get into the bedroom almost silently. He sits there with sad eyes, missing the contact he had once had.
With a sigh he pulled off his prosthetic and leant it up against the nightstand. Pulling the covers over himself he pulls your closer to him. You back flush against his plush stomach.
In a mater of seconds you asleep.
——————————————————
The next morning
The unwanted light of the morning sun flushes through the curtains and you turn your back, wanting to sleep that bit longer. A solid arm comes round your waist at the feeling of movement to pull you closer. Jack’s not awake, it’s a reflex. You had noticed he does it after your second week together, you had figured it was an anxiety thing but were too shy to ask.
With the sun still filtering into the room it’s hard to go back to sleep, however what makes it the most challenging are the two roommates pounding on your door.
Trinity and Dennis.
Oh shit.
However it’s too late for you because the pair are now pushing open your door to see a half naked Jack Abbot and you. Slightly sitting up trying your hardest not to wake Jack as you know how much he needs these hours.
Jack is laying on his front, face smushed onto the pillow. For a second you prayed that they wouldn’t know and they would turn straight back around to walk out. If only you could be that lucky.
With Dennis’s shocked expression and Trinity practically blurting out “Jack Abbot?!?” you knew the time had come.
You felt Jack stirring beside you and you just dropped your head, bringing your knees up to you chest hugging them tightly. Jacks gravelly voice came out through the room clearly not aware that your roommates where now occupying the space. He groaned and moved his arms to try find you, eyes still closed “Honey”.
The laughs that erupt from Trinity and Dennis make the man open his eyes and begin to sit up. When he sees the two standing at the door way he shakes his head “would you two get out, i’m trying to sleep”.
Your head shot up at the tone of his voice, as if he didn’t care that two of the med students at his workplace had just found him, and attending, in bed with another med student. The pair too seem shocked and are unclear of what to do next. Both deciding to back out of the room, shutting the door behind them.
You as usual are still freaking out. You know this won’t get further than the department but this can be career ending for you. However, Jacks complete calmness on the topic make you relax as he wraps his arm loosely around your torso with a husky “lie down honey”.
They’ve been together for a lil, reader is experienced but vanilla. up to u how u on plot (i say they’ve done it a few times but reader never finishes) UNTIL now. idk how to write it… and u r so much better with words.
But like spicy af. I say dif positions until one works… I just need some freak nasty stuff.
special girl ༉‧₊˚.
pairing: andrew cody x f!reader
summary: andrew makes you cum.
content: +18 MDNI, established casual relationship, oral f!receiving clit stimulation, fingering, size difference, nipple sucking, secretly possessive!andrew, marking, dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, unprotected piv, multiple positions, intimacy, praise, down bad kinda awkward!andrew, begging, creampie, mention of alcohol consumption
note: god i need him so bad!!!!! this started off as me challenging myself to write a fic 1.5k words or less but it's yap city over here </3
wc: 3.1k
"never?"
it doesn't make sense to him. you're too pretty, too desirable.
andrew knows you've been with others both before and after him. the two of you have never been exclusive, but it's always been...different with you. has always meant more. has always felt as close to love as he's been allowed. an intimacy bordering on worship.
so when you make your confession, he almost doesn't believe it.
but there's so much sincerity in your eyes as you shake your head and say, "nope, never."
he moves just slightly from where he sits on the edge of his bed. you're laying on top of the sheets, head on his pillow, looking like you belong in it far more than andrew ever has. "so you just...what? ...fake it?"
a sound leaves you. not quite a laugh but something close. "not...exactly?" you pick at the tab on the can of your seltzer. "well, i guess sometimes, yeah. it depends on the person."
"and what about..." andrew shrugs, blinking. "what about with me?"
you purse your lips and your eyes narrow the smallest bit. "don't do that," you say.
"what? it's a reasonable question, isn't it?"
for a second, you say nothing. you just stare in that way you sometimes do, attention stuttering over his features. the shape of his mouth, the curl of his lashes, the freckle just above his left brow that you've claimed as your favorite.
"no," you admit softly. "i've never faked anything with you, andy."
"but you've still never finished, right?"
you shake your head in dismissal and set your drink on his nightstand. "it's not about just that, though. not with you."
his brows furrow, and he tries to understand but can't quite wrap his head around it. he wants to ask for clarification, but there's a part of him that fears the answer.
but you see it, even without a word spoken. you see him, the way you always do. the way you always have. "i just like being close to you," you explain. "you always make me feel...i dunno. special."
"you are special," he says. it's not meant as a compliment. rather just truth. but it makes you smile, and pope finds himself wanting to say it again.
he lifts his hand from where it sits at his side, not much more than a twitch, nearly reaching for you out of instinct. but then he puts it back down again, unsure of himself, unsure of...this.
the space between you feels precarious. a new layer of naked truth stripped bare. another curtain pulled back.
you notice, but you don't push.
andrew tries again, heart racing fast as he sets his palm on the inside of your knee. “we could…would you want to…to try?”
a smirk pulls at the corners of your pretty lips, glossy and strawberry flavored (andrew knew, because he paid for that lipgloss at the beauty store you dragged him to a month ago). “you wanna try and make me cum?”
he shrugs and strokes his thumb across the top of your thigh. “if you want. i mean, no pressure anything like that but…it just feels wrong. like, unfair or something.”
“you actually want to?” this time it is a laugh that escapes you. a pretty, heartwarming sound he’s adored for as long as he can remember. “like…here? now?”
craig and deran’s party thrums with life just outside pope’s bedroom door. you’d come here for a little bit of peace, some respite. only to make a confession that unsettled him more than the noise. “why not?”
“what if i, like…you know. can’t.”
a crease forms between andrew’s brows. “well you have before, right? like, by yourself?”
your smile grows. “uhm…yeah. yeah, i have. i mean i can, but what if i can’t today. like, here.”
“then we try again later,” he answers simply. and then quickly amends, “i mean if—if you want.”
for a moment, you sit in the quiet together. you’re considering, pope knows. weighing the offer. his thumb still rubs tiny circles into your thigh casually. it’s an intimate touch but not sexual in nature, not suggestive.
not until you nod and say, “okay, yeah. we can try.”
and then he moves his hand upwards, slowly snaking his fingers between your legs. he presses against your hip, pushing you onto your back, and feels the metallic button of your jeans.
pope nearly pops it open on instinct but forces himself to slow down. tells himself he needs to take his time with this.
so he slips his hand beneath your top instead, cracking a small smile when you squirm as his fingertips ghost over that ticklish spot just a few inches below your rib. he finds the swell of your breasts and massages gently over the fabric of your bra.
you lean forward just enough to pull your top up and over your head, discarding it on the floor at his feet.
andrew reaches around your side and unclasps your bra, albeit a little clumsily, before adding it to the growing pile of your clothes.
when you lay back down, he follows you. presses his soft lips against the corner of your mouth first, a quiet asking for permission.
you turn your head to kiss him fully, lips parting to let him inside. andrew has never really felt good at much, but kissing you, specifically—he feels confident in. he's had a fair bit of practice, and knows just how you like it. messy and a little frantic, a clashing of tongues and lips and teeth.
you moan into his mouth and it feels like a victory. andrew bites harshly at your bottom lip, but he's quick to soothe the ache with his tongue.
he crawls further onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and moves his lips just a little lower. laying wet, open mouthed kisses down the curve of your pretty neck, over both of your collarbones, and sucks a blooming bruise at the side of your breast. easily covered, but still a tangible claiming. a mark of his possession.
he laves his tongue over each of your nipples, licking and sucking until your spine bends off the mattress. and then he moves even lower, littering kisses down your abdomen, breathing the scent of your soft skin deep into his lungs.
only now does he allow himself to unbutton your jeans, pulling the zipper down with his teeth. you're wearing a pretty, blue pair of panties beneath, and he presses a chaste kiss to your pubic bone over the fabric.
"god, andrew," you say, kicking your sneakers off at the end of the bed. "i love when you touch me."
he pulls away just a little, enough to turn his eyes up at you. you look so beautiful from this angle, he thinks. eyes glassy and pupils dilated, breathing unevenly. "m'gonna need you to talk to me. tell me what feels good and what doesn't," he explains. and then for good measure adds, "and don't lie to me. i'll know if you lie."
you give him the prettiest smile and then nod. "yeah…yeah, okay."
he doesn't waste any more time, hooking his fingers around the waistband of your jeans and underwear and tugging them down your legs.
pope is already hard as stone, but the moment you're bared to him everything changes. you're so beautiful, and all he wants is to make you feel good.
he presses a gentle kiss to your clit first, pushing your thighs apart to spread you open. then he drags his tongue through the seam of your cunt, tasting all the sticky wetness he's created, unable to quiet the groan that rumbles through his chest.
you let out a dreamy sigh and your head falls back as your hands come to tug at the roots of his hair.
pope takes his time; there's no hurried movement to be found. he lets his tongue grow familiar with every hill and valley of the shape of you, the stubble of his day-old facial hair catching on the inside of your thighs.
when he sucks your clit into his mouth—no teeth, just all tongue and lips and softness—you gasp for air and he can't help the pride that wells in him.
his fingers flex around your thigh, a silent urge.
and like the special girl you are, you quickly say, "good. feels…s-so good. that's perfect."
he takes it a notch higher, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerve endings.
this time it's not a gasp you give him but a sultry, real moan. so pope stays there, circling your clit with his tongue, spelling his name and yours and hoping it does something in the cosmos to seal the two of you permanently together.
the crease between your brows is telling. he squeezes again, a little harder this time, and pulls away only long enough to order, "talk to me."
"can you—" he seals his lips around your clit again, drool and slick coating his chin. "oh god. can you…your fingers, too. can you—?"
pope untangles his limb from around yours, finding your opening with practiced precision. he carefully slides his index finger inside you, humming in response when the intensity of your moaning grows.
he adds his middle finger in beside the first. you're already so wet that he encounters no resistance, pretty pussy taking him greedily. andrew curls them inside you, feeling and pressing against different spots, different angles, until—
"fuck—jesus christ, don't—oh my god don't move just stay right there, please."
he wants to praise you, to comment on how good you're being for him, how perfect.
but pope does exactly as you ask instead—he stays right where he's at, fingers moving inside you, tongue circling your pulsing clit. he can feel the silky walls of your cunt constricting around him, squeezing tight and pulling him in deeper.
you're trying. chasing it. but he knows it needs to happen organically. knows that if you try too hard, you'll get in your head about it and never fall over the edge like he wants.
the words vibrate against your clit when he speaks. "stop thinking."
you let out a dramatic groan. "but i don't know if i can," you whine. "i'm so—hm—i'm so close, but…"
pope pulls away completely now, because though spoken in frustration, your words are still direction. and he heeds it like a dog called to heel. "let's try something else, then."
he leans back on his knees and pulls his shirt up and over the back of his head. he flushes beneath your acute attention, eyes unashamed as they drink up his bare chest.
andrew unbuckles his belt and starts to shove them down his hips. "do you have a favorite…way? something that feels the best."
"oh, uhm…from—from the back, i guess?"
"you guess?"
"well, that's what feels good for me but it usually means…"
you hesitate, embarrassment shining bright in your eyes.
pope urges, "means what?"
"people don't typically…last very long when we—"
andrew playfully clicks his tongue, grips you around your thighs, and wrenches you down the mattress. he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee and says, "don't worry, i'll last. now turn over."
he says it with confidence because this is a task for him. and a man like andrew cody? he's thorough.
but that confidence wavers when you arch your back, hands extended beneath the pillow in front of you. the slope of your body is mouth watering. graceful and feminine and yet still so sultry and sinful.
and when he pulls his cock out, lines himself up at your entrance, and pushes in real slow?
he starts to get it.
it's almost too much. too good. you're so tight and wet around him and with his hands on the decadent curve of your ass and the sight of you laid out before him?
yeah.
he understands.
it doesn't take him long to find a good rhythm, thrusting his hips forward and burning himself deep. he settles on his knees , finding an angle that elicits a moan he likes. "how's that, hm? there?"
you nod with your face pressed against the pillow. the next instruction is a single word and spoken in a quiet exhale. "harder."
pope obliges. adds a little more force behind his hips, grunting low to fight off the blinding pleasure that threatens to coil up his spine. you feel so good. "touch yourself," he orders.
with a little effort, you wiggle your hand beneath you to find your clit and pope groans when he feels you clench around him the moment you do.
he watches with panting breath and sweat beading on the back of his freckled neck as the muscles in your shoulders move, working yourself up, being the perfect girl for him. the sight of you a feast of grandeur that he devours.
"oh, fuck—that's good. that's so good, andy, i—" a soft sound escapes from between your lips, the sweetest, most carnal moan.
pope knows you're close. he knows because he can feel it, the warm, silken walls of your cunt pulsing around his cock. your fingers keep circling your clit, pushing you just a little further towards the precipice of release.
but then—
"i need—oh my god—i need to kiss you. i won't be able to finish unless i kiss you, please—"
it nearly breaks him, in truth. the sight of your pretty pussy swallowing down his cock like it was made to take him while begging for something as innocent as a kiss.
no one has ever wanted him like that before. not like you do.
and it makes him feel…changed, almost. like he's been on one path his whole life and here you stand in the center of it, changing his course.
pope groans, the sound guttural, his hips stilling. he leans forward, chest to your back, and presses his mouth right between your shoulder blades. the small affection is slow and measured and intimate. he counts each of your panting breaths as the oxygen enters and leaves your lungs.
"hey," pope whispers, easing himself out of you. "c'mere." he gently tugs you upwards, offering the strength of his hands as support when you lean back on shaking legs. "turn around for me."
pope leans back on his knees and turns you so your position mirrors his, face to face. he just stays there for a moment, looking at you, into your pretty eyes, finding himself grateful for this night and this stupid party and that stupid song they played that you hate.
the energy that passes between you is…profound. honest and intimate and aware.
"you're so beautiful," he says, and he doesn't even mean to. it just slips out. "come here. come sit on my lap."
with a slow nod you say, "yeah. okay." you shift forward, anchoring yourself with your hands on his broad shoulders.
he supports you with one big hand on the small of your back, and uses the other to hold his cock steady while you sink onto him.
your moans are in perfect unison; a heavy, desperate sigh. when you roll your hips, andrew shakes his head and says, "no. let me."
he thrusts upwards, hard. stretching you open on his length, forehead pressed to yours.
"oh my—fuck, andrew that's—"
"touch yourself," he orders again. "and don't stop until you cum."
white spots cloud his vision the moment you do, feeling you tense up, tightening around him. he presses his forehead to yours and his nose brushes your cheek. each of your breaths become shallower, more ragged, ghosting across his lips and tasting of peppermint and the remnants of your raspberry seltzer. "kiss me," you say again.
he does. kisses you hard, tongue finding yours and claiming your mouth. he thrusts his hips up into you, swallowing your moans and and groaning low.
the thought crosses his mind, for just a second—that he might disappoint. because andrew cody realizes very suddenly that he might be in love with you, might have been in love with you for some time. and having you this close is enough to have his heart beating fast and his cock throbbing inside of you. he's not going to last.
he's not.
and then—
"don't stop," you whimper against his lips. "don't stop, don't stop, i'm gonna—oh god. god, fuck i'm gonna cum—"
"there you go. give it to me," andrew urges.
your nails dig hard into his shoulders. "cum with me. please, andrew—please, please—"
that white-hot coil around his spine snaps. you beg so prettily he can't hold it back, spilling his release deep inside you, sticky webs of cum right up against your cervix. he kisses you again, squeezing you tight against his chest. "you're so perfect," he whispers. "my perfect girl. did so good."
his cock quickly grows sensitive. but he doesn't stop moving below you until your muscles go slack and you collapse in his arms, face pressed into the crook of his neck.
you hum, the sound vibrating against his skin, lips wet with his saliva and yours. and then, so gentle and so quiet, you say, "thank you."
pope strokes his fingers over your spine, tracing each one of your vertebrae. he sets you down against the mattress, over the top of his wrinkled but still perfectly made comforter. he lays beside you, observing for a few moments. eventually, he admits, "i don't want you to see anyone else."
a smirk forms. "yeah? that right?"
"yeah." andrew's hand finds yours, fingers closing around your knuckles. "i figured…y'know. since we're making confessions tonight."
you laugh, the sound light and airy. but then silence settles and it feels…heavy. real. "okay," you say.
a crease forms between his brows. "okay?"
"i won't see anyone else."
carefully, almost experimentally, andrew leans forward. his mouth finds yours, lips moving like it's his first time kissing a woman.
he feels you smile and a moment later you ask, "does this make me your girl?"
and he thinks yeah. of course it does. you've been his girl far longer than he'd realized.
summary: you saved jack abbot's life once, and now he insists on returning the favor. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, trinity santos
contents: army medic!reader, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, canon divergence, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of ptsd and grief, mentions of blood and gore, and allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
You find Jack Abbot the same way you left him — covered in bright red blood — though it doesn’t seem to be his this time.
You’re a few hours on your first shift as interim attending when the man rushes in from the ambulance bay. The camo tactical gear sitting heavily over his muscular form is strikingly familiar to you, along with the sweat matting his curls to his forehead. The wild strands are a lot more grey than you remember, and the smile lines that weren’t there before have since etched themselves into the corners of his eyes. The years have been endlessly kind to him, by the looks of it.
“Intubated neck wound. Sats not great. We were diverted here— Is there a trauma room open?” the man rambles all at once, before he’s even glanced up from the plastic mask he squeezes in a gloved hand. He jogs alongside the rolling gurney with a faint limp from his prosthetic. His stride stutters slightly when his eyes finally lift to find you, rushing to the stretcher with Robby at your side.
There’s a faint twitch of uncertainty in his light eyes, like he’s trying to gauge whether or not he’s seen a ghost. You miss the look of flickering amusement entirely as you snap on a pair of blue latex gloves, gaze zeroed in on the blood gushing around the intubation tube in the unconscious man’s throat.
“What’s the story?” Robby asks, following in the man’s hurried stride.
“My buddy, Officer Hiro,” Jack answers immediately, through a series of panted breaths. “High-velocity GSW, warehouse robbery gone sideways. He’s getting harder to bag.”
The windowless trauma room swallows you whole as you wheel the gurney inside. The four walls swell suddenly with the scent of coppery blood and bitter chlorhexidine. Nurses rush to wake the surrounding monitors with a set of electronic chirps, while Jack escorts the officers he came with out of the room. “We’ll take care of him, I promise,” you hear the man say as you slide your stethoscope into your ears.
You press the chestpiece to the man’s bloodied sternum, bare from where his uniform had already been cut down to his waist and sticky with fresh blood. His heartbeat is weak and rapid in your ears, barely maintaining enough pressure to reach his brain.
“Pulse is thready,” you murmur and slide the diaphragm half an inch higher. “Diminished breath sounds on the right…”
Jack appears across from you, mouth curling into a familiar crooked grin. “We have got to stop meeting like this, Doc,” he jokes in a gritty deadpan.
“That’s crazy— I was thinking the exact same thing,” you quip and slip the stethoscope back around your neck. “Dr. Santos, let’s make sure these lungs are up.”
“You two know each other?” Robby wonders aloud. He glances between you and Jack with a pair of suspiciously narrowed eyes as he plucks a pair of scissors from the metal tray beside him.
“Yeah, you could say that…” Jack huffs with his eyes on the blade, which slices mechanically through the end of the endotracheal tube protruding from Hiro’s throat.“Pulling out,” the man announces before sliding the thing out through his mouth. “Bag.”
A silver-haired nurse, whom you’ve yet to come acquainted with, squeezes at the valve mask at Jack’s instruction. Air bubbles at the wound.
“He’s not moving any air,” you call to the crowded room. “Get me a neonatal mask.”
“Neonatal?” Santos echoes with furrowed brows.
“Yeah, we’re gonna put it over the wound to keep his airflow up while Dr. Abbot cuts a full-length tube and Dr. Robby shifts his trachea back into place,” you explain with a firm nod, smiling softly as you turn back to the attendings across from you. “Sound like a plan?”
Robby glances up at you from where he’s hunched over Hiro’s body, with two gloved fingers searching for his vocal cords. A faint smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Do you always explain procedures like you’re assigning homework?” he laughs.
“If you’re asking if she’s always been this bossy, yes, she has,” Jack quips with a crooked grin that widens at the edges when you roll your eyes, turning away to accept the neonatal mask a nurse passes from behind you. “And yes, it saved my life— Santos, cut me down a 6-0 ET tube, will you?”
“Oh, do tell…” Robby hums.
“There’s nothing to tell,” you huff and set the mask of the neonatal tube over the bubbling wound, helping the air move in and out of the unconscious man’s lungs. “It’s just the kinda stuff that happens when you’re an army medic— you win some, you lose some.”
“Oh, she’s just being modest,” Jack croons drily as he irrigates the wound with saline, washing away clotted blood until the displaced trachea emerges beneath the crimson. His gloved fingers move alongside yours as he rambles. “She had orders to leave me after I got hit by that IED… The rest of ‘em were pulling back— didn’t have much of a choice but to, really, but… She didn’t… She dragged me about… What was it? Two-hundred meters?”
Jack’s eyes lift and find yours have gone strangely distant. Your gaze zeroes in on the neck wound below; your mind wanders against your will.
The freezing A.C. of the emergency department grows sweltering in an instant, burning like the familiar desert heat that feels like dry fire in your lungs. Black smoke threatens to fog your vision all at once. The antiseptic smell turns suddenly to burning fuel. And the blood on your hands becomes darker, fresher, running over your fingers like an open faucet.
Your hands start to tremble the same way they did when you tied the tourniquet around Jack’s wounded limb, made of nothing more than exposed nerves and tendons from the knee down. You feel your legs weaken the same way they did when you dragged Jack’s weight across unforgiving ground beneath earth-shaking explosions and whizzing bullets.
Jack apologized through his guttural screams — because, even now, he swears the pain from the tourniquet hurt more than losing his leg — as you sat him up behind an unmanned tank.
“Shut. Up,” you commanded, covering his mouth with your bloodied hand. “Or I swear to god, I will kill you if we make it out of here— Do you understand?”
You made it out. And it became a funny story everyone told back at the VA — that time you threatened the life of the man you were saving — though you still struggle to laugh about it even still.
“…Right, Doc?” Jack presses, head ducking in an attempt to catch your eye.
Your hands remain firm over the small mask pressed to the wound in Hiro’s neck, but your face has emptied into an expressionless sort of look. It takes a long moment for your brain to will your eyes to blink, and only then does the sun-bleached desert in your mind return to the hospital where you plant your feet — buzzing fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, blinding white walls. You list everything you can see until your brain recalculates its surroundings.
Your wide eyes flit across the unblinking stares looking back at you, each of them waiting for a response. Your heart lurches in your chest. Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to recall the last thing you’d heard.
“Uh, n-not quite two-hundred,” you stammer with a trembling smile. “We had a team find us before then, I’m pretty sure.”
“See what I mean?” Jack hums with a surer smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His softened gaze remains fixed on you, studying you despite all your attempts to hide. “Modest.”
The automatic doors of the ambulance bay sigh open and shut every few seconds behind you. Each mechanical breath exhales waves of freezing air into the thick July evening, which smells overwhelmingly of hot asphalt, cigarette smoke, and gunpowder from far-off fireworks.
You stand next to Jack beneath the overhang, with summer wind whipping through the thin fabric of your tied isolation gowns as you wait for the incoming trauma together — roughly five minutes out, Dana had said.
“So…” you start slowly, wringing the loose pair of gloves in your anxious hands as your eyes fall to the man beside you. He’s still wearing the baggy camo pants he’d arrived in, though he’s since traded his heavy plate carrier for the fitted black t-shirt underneath it, which clings ardently to his muscular torso. “…SWAT, huh?”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he jokes with a lazy shrug. “And, turns out, I suck at golf, so… I chose the next best thing.”
You shake your head and turn away, exhaling a quiet laugh in response — perhaps your first real one since the unforgiving shift started. The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a grin, proud of himself for having heard the pretty sound. He hadn’t thought to miss it until now.
“…How long has it been, you think?” he wonders suddenly, with a pair of squinted eyes.
You draw a deep breath through your nose. Your eyes scale the milky pink and orange skyline beyond the ambulance bay, where a molten gold sunset streaks across the sky. “A while…” you settle on after a few long moments.
“Anything new with you I should know about?” he asks, rocking gently to ease the weight on his prosthetic.
You scoff like it’s funny — maybe because you can’t remember the last time anyone other than your therapist was asking after you. “Nope…” you sigh. “Unfortunately, I am still the exact same person you knew back then…”
“Doesn’t seem so unfortunate to me,” he insists, brows furrowed, like he’s half-offended by your own self-degradation.
“Well, you’d think after— I don’t know— a decade of pretty intensive therapy that I might be a little different,” you quip with an awkward laugh. The humor dissolves a second later when you realize how pathetic you sound. “But, uh… I’m still working through it, I guess...”
“Aren’t we all…” Jack trails off with a slow nod.
“I don’t know,” you lilt, eyes drifting unconsciously towards his hand, where a black wedding ring sits around his fourth finger. The sight of it makes your chest ache more than you’d like to admit — as if a not-so-distant part of you had expected him to be as single and miserably lonely as you, even after all this time.
Of course, someone loves him, you think to yourself, how could they not?
“You seem to be doing pretty alright for yourself, I’d say.”
Jack follows your gaze and, almost instinctively, clasps his hands behind his back as if to hide them. His anxious grip tightens on the blue latex he holds between them. “Yeah, uh—” He clears his throat, eyes fixed on the street beyond the overhang. “My wife, she… She passed. A few years ago.”
The humid summer air becomes harder to breathe in an instant. Your mouth parts with shock, though it takes a long moment before any words of apology fall out. “Oh— Shit, Jack, I— I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know,” he assures with a gentle smile, rubbing absentmindedly at the ring with his thumb from where it hides behind his back. “It’s my fault for still wearing the damn thing. I just— feel weird taking it off, I guess…”
You nod slowly to yourself and glance away. You’ve gotten well acquainted with grief and its tricky rituals over the years.
“What about you?” Jack wonders aloud, smiling a little wider when you turn back to face him with a pair of raised brows. “You seeing anyone?”
Your first instinct is to laugh. “No. God, no.”
“Oh, c’mon…” he croons. “It can’t be that bad.”
You flash him a cynical look and a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, well… I don’t think most people are looking for a girl like me, to be fair.”
“Yeah?” Jack hums, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” you scoff. “A girl who… works all the time. Who barely sleeps. Who can’t sleep if someone’s breathing wrong in the next room. Who… goes to therapy twice a week— three times if things are real bad— I mean…” A laugh sputters from your lips. “I’m a total nutcase.”
“Hey,” Jack argues, weathered face screwed in a playful offense. “Some guys are into nutcases, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, really?” you hum drily.
“Me chief among them,” he nods.
“What?” you laugh. “Is that supposed to flatter me or something—?”
Boom! An explosion crackles across the evening sky. Your body reacts before your mind, going into panic mode in a flicker. Your shoulders jerk violently, your heart leaps into your throat, your eyes snap instinctively for cover. A red-hot spark rushes down your legs as though your body was telling you to run.
Your brain catches up a second later.
It’s a firework… It’s just a firework, you think to soothe yourself, and to ease your suddenly pounding pulse. But as the fear fizzles slowly away, the self-hatred comes next — the undeniable fact that your body will always belong to a war that ended years ago.
You force your shoulders to relax once more and pray that Jack hasn’t noticed any of it. But you can see his expression softening in the corner of your eye — first with concern, which flickers thereafter into a softer sort of pity.
At the very least, however, he gives you the dignity of pretending he hadn’t seen it at all as sirens rage in the distance — growing nearer and nearer until the red-yellow lights of the ambulance whip around the corner. The two of you snap your gloves on in tandem.
Jack steps off the curb first when it squeals to a park just in front of you. “You picked a hell of a day to come in, Doc…” he huffs and rushes towards the back doors.
“I’d rather be here than working,” you scoff and follow behind him. “It’s less depressing that way, I think.”
“Is it?” Jack quips with narrowed eyes.
You laugh through your nose. “Yeah, jury’s still out on the one, I guess…”
Fourth of July rages across the city. You pretend not to notice.
You stand in the muffled quiet of the breakroom, tucked away from the chaos of the emergency department, and watch the coffee machine in front of you sputter as it coughs up steam that smells like burnt grounds and vanilla creamer. You let the bitter stench singe your nostrils as the firework show begins in the heart of the city.
Boom!
A firework sounds off in the distance, closer than all the ones from earlier in the evening. You wrap both hands around the paper cup of coffee, letting the scalding warmth seep into your palms. The heat nearly burns you, but it’s half-grounding nonetheless.
Boom!
You swear it’s shaking the ground beneath your feet, and trembling the thick, concrete walls on either side of you. Though, with the way your day is going now, it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what lives only inside your head.
Boom!
Your fingers tighten around the cup to the point of trembling. You close your eyes and attempt to count your breaths — in for seven, hold for four, out for eight. Your brain tries to trick you — tries to convince you that the freezing cold of the emergency department smells like desert heat and metallic blood and burning gunpowder. It works.
“Counter…” you mutter aloud to yourself, despite how strange it seems, flattening your hand along the white laminate below, even as your shoulders jerk from another explosion in the city. You place your hand on the smooth curve of the cold sink next, and then on the rough cloth draped just behind it. “Faucet… Dishrag…”
Your attempts to anchor yourself to reality only halfway work. You opt to abandon your coffee on the counter altogether as your pulse continues to climb. You’re grateful to find the E.R. still waiting for you on the other side of the door, instead of a memory you can’t seem to leave.
“Oh, hey— I was just looking for you.”
Your head whips over your shoulder to find Jack strolling down the half-empty corridor with a tablet in his hands, now dressed in his dark black scrubs instead of the tactical gear he arrived in.
His shift has probably started now, or is about to, at least — which means you should be leaving with the rest of the day shift. But you fear what waits for you outside these walls and those automatic doors; the crushing certainty of solitude that always seemed to be waiting for you back home, to be more specific.
You exhale a trembling breath, falling into step with Jack when he walks by. “Where is everyone?” you wonder aloud.
“Day shift went up to the roof, I think,” he answers with most of his attention on the tablet as he scrolls absentmindedly through it. “Watching the fireworks and drinking beer, I’m sure… Lucky bastards.”
“Santos did invite me to karaoke today,” you tell him.
“A karaoke invite on your first day, huh? Impressive,” Jack croons, laughing softly through his nose when you lean to knock your shoulder against his broader one. He gets a faint whiff of the perfume still lingering on your clothes, beneath layers of antiseptic and hospital soap. He misses your warmth the second you’re gone. “You gonna go?”
Your shoulders sag with a sigh. “I don’t know… I’m kinda liking this adrenaline rush, to be honest. Might try and ride it ’til the wheels fall off.”
“Well, that always ends well, in my experience,” Jack quips with a lopsided smile as he slows to a stop in front of you, tucking the tablet under his bicep. He towers a few inches over you, close enough to make you lift your chin to properly meet his eyes. “But I do have something you could help me with, if you have a few minutes to spare…”
“Of course.”
“I, uh…” he trails off, turning to glance awkwardly at his left shoulder. “I took a hit… You know, in the field earlier… I’m pretty sure the vest caught most of it but—”
“You were—” You catch yourself before your voice can carry down the hallway. You take a step closer, lowering your voice into a harsh whisper as you scold him. “You were shot?”
“Shot at,” he corrects, with his brows raised to his hairline. “And it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. I tried to clean it up myself, but it’s pretty… inconveniently located…”
He rolls his shoulder in an attempt to ease the discomfort building there from his scrubs rubbing against the wound. His scruffy jaw tightens with a faint grimace, enough for you to notice the pain in his weathered features that he’d been pretending wasn’t there before now.
Concern flares white-hot in your chest. “Let me see it.”
The tone leaves little room for argument. It’s the same one you’d used on him all that time ago, when you ordered him to shut up and quit apologizing for bleeding out before the people trying to kill you could find you.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nods.
Jack leads you to the nearest empty exam room and slips inside while you gather the supplies you suspect you’ll need from the cart outside the door. You hold them to your chest when you return to the room, where you find Jack undressing, tugging his scrub top off by the collar.
The pale tendons in his back flex unevenly when he pulls the fabric off completely. The milky white canvas of his back is exposed to you then, along with the raging scrape glowing a bright scarlet along his left shoulder.
The door clicks shut behind you and garners the man’s attention. Jack turns to face you. You find he’s grown strangely broader with age. His stomach is full but toned, and his chest is filled out with a similar strength. Both are dusted with faint freckles and light colored hair that trails down from his sternum and disappears beneath his scrub pants.
He seems to mistake the subtle shock on your face for concern.
“I’ve had worse,” he assures you.
“I know, Abbot,” you deadpan, reaching for the glove dispenser on the wall with your free hand. “I was there.”
Jack settles on the edge of the exam table while you arrange the supplies on the metal tray before you — gauze, saline, antibiotic ointment, steri-strips. Your hands remember the motions before your mind has to. It comes to you as easily as muscle memory. You work with an effortlessness that only comes with years of experience; and Jack weathers the pain with an effortlessness that only comes with years of aching.
“You wanna know something funny?” he announces suddenly. The muscles in his back tense slightly when he twists to glance at you over his bare shoulder.
“You getting shot at and not telling anyone for half a shift?” you answer in a monotone.
He exhales a quiet laugh and turns back around.
“I had… the biggest crush on you,” Jack confesses in an achingly gentle voice, and pretends not to notice when your hands still suddenly behind him. He inhales slowly through his nose, as if he’d been sitting on those words for some time, and crosses his arms over his bare chest as if to shield himself from them in some way. “I was, uh… I was gonna ask you out, actually. You know, when we got back home, but… You disappeared before I could.”
His quiet laugh sounds much louder in the silence that settles heavily between you.
“I, uh— I’m pretty sure I still have the letter I wrote you, actually, when I figured out your address— in a box somewhere in the attic probably, but… It felt a little too stalkerish to send it, and… Then I met my wife, and I figured you moved on, too, and…” he trails off, struggling to find the right words. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re here now.”
“It was probably for the best,” you tell him, and clear your throat when your voice shakes. You pretend not to notice your fingers trembling when you smooth down the edge of the bandage you press over his wound. “I wasn’t exactly… the best company back then.”
“You were always good company,” Jack scoffs. “Even when I thought I was gonna die, I was glad I was with you. I mean, I hated that you were gonna have to witness it obviously, but… I was still glad it was you— Even when you were threatening to kill me.”
You’re pierced almost physically by his words. You blink rapidly to clear the haze of them when your vision starts to blur, another memory threatening to drag you under. Memories you’d spent years and a shit ton of money working through in therapy, that are now eating away at you from the inside out.
His shoulder beneath your fingertips is covered suddenly in shredded camouflage. The bandage on his freckled skin stains red until it gushes once more with warm blood. His laughter turns to screams. The air turns to smoke. The fluorescent lights turn to a white-hot sun.
Jack frowns to himself when he feels your hands freezing once more behind him. He glances over his shoulder and finds that your eyes have gone empty again, fixed somewhere far away — the same way they had earlier that day. His chest pinches with an instant worry.
“You okay?”
His words sound like they’re muffled by water or light-years of space. You can’t hear them over the heartbeat whoosh, whoosh, whooshing in your ears, pounding harder against your pulse with every second that passes that you can’t catch your breath.
Another firework explodes outside like distant thunder. Your body jolts in response, and reality slams back into you a second later.
“I, uh…” You swallow hard, eyes flitting wildly around the room, like you’re struggling to place yourself inside it. “I-I’m all done here, I think.”
“Hey…” Jack coos and turns around to face you completely. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
You step back from him and rip off your gloves with two dull pops. You chuck them hurriedly into the bin, feeling overwhelmingly like the walls are closing in on either side of you.
“I, uh... I just need… I’ll, um…” You shake your head when the words don’t come out right. The next ones leave in a whimper when you try and fail to catch your breath. “I’m sorry.”
You rush out of the room, gone before Jack can gather his shirt.
“No…” That’s the only thing you can seem to make out as you hide yourself in the breakroom. The word scrapes against your throat, still too narrow to properly let air flow through. You wedge your pointer fingers painfully in your ears when the far-off fireworks become unrelenting gunshots in your skull. Your vision tunnels, the room blurs, every breath seems to catch somewhere in your chest. “No, no, no—”
The words dissolve into a half-strangled whimper in the back of your throat. You crouch slowly down in the center of the room and curl inward on yourself, forehead nearly touching your knees. Every muscle draws tight enough to ache. Your body makes itself smaller on instinct, as if it still believed that smaller targets survived the longest.
You vaguely hear the sound of your name coming from behind you — far away at first, like a voice carried underwater — and then much closer, when a pair of warm, calloused hands curl gently around your forearms. Despite the inherent softness of the touch, you flinch violently in the sudden hold.
“Hey… It’s just me,” Jack coos.
His voice cuts through the buzzing panic with a remarkable steadiness. Your head snaps in his direction. You find him looming just beside you, bent over at the waist. His face is slow to flood into focus. For a gutwrenching flicker of a second, he’s the same dark-haired, bloodied, and crying man that nearly died in your arms.
Reality settles in a moment later.
The silver threaded in his curls catches the buzzing fluroscents overhead. His light eyes, still so soft despite the carnage they’ve witnessed, dart over your features with a silent concern.
“It’s just me,” he continues. “You’re okay. Just keep looking at me.”
You try to until— Boom! Another firework crackles in the distance. Your eyes squeeze shut despite yourself. Your entire body recoils. “I can’t—” you whimper through a ragged breath that catches in your throat. Your chest sears white-hot accordingly.
“Okay. That’s okay,” he nods. “Just breathe with me. Don’t fight it, okay? Just breathe.”
Jack inhales slowly, drawing in one exaggerated breath until his chest rises beneath his scrubs. You try to mimic it, but it stutters painfully halfway through. Your lungs seize despite yourself. Your face twists into a pained sort of look.
“That’s okay. There you go,” he praises. The corner of his mouth lifts into the faintest hint of a smile. His thumbs rub softly along the buzzing skin of your arm. “I know it doesn’t feel good. Just keep trying for me.”
It takes several long moments for your breaths to finally even out. Jack holds you through every single one of them. Only when your hands slip from your ears and your shoulders stop trembling does Jack carefully guide you to your feet, with a pair of warm hands clasped gently around the outside of your elbows.
He keeps you stable on unsteady limbs as he guides you the short distance to the plastic chairs gathered around the breakroom table. You collapse into one. He pulls up another to be nearer to you — close enough for your knees to slot between each other’s and for his fingers to thread with yours when he reaches for you again. His palm is warm and gently calloused; a little like velvet as it glides against yours.
You rest your other arm on the table beside you, hiding your face behind the palm of your free hand. When you regain your breath, the first thing you think to do is laugh — a wet, brittle, exhausted sort of sound.
“What the hell am I doing here?” you ask within a weak chuckle, shaking your head at yourself. “The VA recommended me because I was supposed to be good at this, but… I’ve been here for one shift… And all I’ve done is make everything worse—”
“C’mon,” Jack hums. “You know that’s not true.”
“Look at me!” you laugh, gesturing helplessly towards yourself when you lift your head to meet his eyes. Tears glisten in your gaze, clumping your bottom lashes together. “I’m supposed to be taking care of people, Jack! I’m not helping anyone like this!”
The man studies you for a long moment. His eyes narrow with a careful curiosity. “Does this happen a lot?” he wonders gently. “These… spells?”
You shake your head, eyes fluttering shut. “No. Not in— years. I thought they were gone. I mean, I certainly pay my therapist enough; they should be gone by now, but…” You end your ramble with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know… I think… Seeing you, you know, for the first time since… Since we came back home, it just… Opened something…”
Jack’s thumb swipes across your knuckles. You expect him to be half-offended at your confession. He smiles instead.
“Well, you know how we fix that?” he asks, with something short of amusement on the edge of his voice. “We go get a beer tomorrow night. Or whenever you’re up for it. And we talk about all this shit. All of our— trauma or whatever. We just… We have it out.”
Something like sunshine threatens to swell in your chest. It burns out quickly, though.
“But what about everything else?” you wonder in a small voice, wet eyes drifting towards the closed break room door. “I can’t go back out there. Not like this. What if… What if I freeze again? Three seconds is enough to… to kill someone if they’re in critical condition.”
“We’ll make sure you have dual coverage— if you freeze again, you’ll have another attending to step in for you,” Jack answers with a firm nod and unwavering gaze, confident enough to soothe you. “But, for now, we take you upstairs to neuro. Maybe do an EEG since you’re having new symptoms, just to rule out anything structural. And then tomorrow, you book an appointment with your doctor, and I’ll drive you— I don’t care when it is. Just call me, alright? I’ll give you my number.”
You crumple under the weight of his tenderness, of his thumb running soothingly across the ridges of your knuckles. You shake your head, brows knitting softly together. “Why—?” you go to ask, but the words get caught halfway through.
Why are you doing this? you want to say. Why are you doing this for me?
“Well, you pretty much carried me through hell, in case you forgot,” Jack answers with a tired laugh. “And I spent a long, long time wishing I could’ve helped you the same way you helped me.”
Silence settles comfortably between you once more. Your wet eyes fall to your joined hands, where his larger one engulfs your own. His are warmer, slightly rough around the knuckles, and calloused at the palms. It’s hard to imagine, you realize, that the hands that once clawed desperately at the sun-hot desert when you tended to his leg are now reaching so gently out for you.
A series of voices race down the hall all at once, yelling over the buzzing wheels of a gurney. “—What do you mean he lit it in his mouth?”
“He thought it’d shoot out the opposite way—”
“Sir, please, stop trying to pull the bottle rocket out yourself—”
“There it is…” Jack huffs. “The annual reminder that fireworks are nature’s way of thinning out humanity.”
You exhale a quiet laugh through your nose, too weak for anything else, and follow Jack when he stands to full height. The distance between you is barely a step. You feel yourself closing it before your mind can catch up, sliding your arms experimentally around his shoulders and pressing your chest against his.
For the faintest fraction of a second, Jack goes still. His breath leaves him in a quiet rush at the feeling of having you so close. His arms raise slowly, wrapping around your waist with a tenderness that threatens to undo you all over again. One broad hand settles warmly between your shoulder blades, while the other spreads carefully along the small of your back.
You haven’t been this close to him since the day he almost died. In fact, the last time you held him, your hands had been slick with his blood — so much of it, that the dirt turned to sticky paste on your palms. But now, he no longer smells of the metallic blood and burning gunpowder and death that haunts your dreams. Instead, he smells of fresh laundry, expensive cedar cologne, and hospital soap. Like home. Like life.
You breathe in through your nose, inhaling him deep into your lungs.
“Thank you…” you hear yourself say, chin bobbing on his shoulder, words brushing over the fabric of his scrubs.
“Don’t thank me,” Jack scoffs humorously, though his hands drift up and down your spine with an unyielding tenderness. “I’m still paying off a debt.”
“What debt?”
“You’re the one who refused to leave me behind, remember?” he asks. “Well, now it’s my turn to make sure nobody leaves you.”
Outside, another firework climbs high into the starry summer sky and bursts into a thousand brilliant stars with another far-away explosion. Only this time, you hear it without hearing the war.
Summer softens slowly into autumn.
The relentless early-July heat gives way to crisp mornings and cool evenings. Dusk arrives a little earlier every day, spilling through the closed bedroom curtains in silvers of honey-colored rays. Outside, a late afternoon breeze stirs the trees until the copper-colored branches brush the window — tires buzz across the worn pavement while the streets fill with the comforting chorus of the early evening.
Life always has a way of finding its rhythm, you find.
You continued working at the PTMC even after Robby returned from his sabbatical, settling into permanent dual coverage on the night shift with Jack. Your symptoms subsided after that first shift — no more blank spots since you switched medications; no more nightmares since you started spending the majority of your nights in Jack’s bed. Your mind feels like home again.
You lay there, tangled in the rumpled gray comforter, the majority of which you had unconsciously stolen during the night, and listen to the man’s even breaths as he sleeps soundly just beside you.
Jack lies on his stomach with his strong arms folded beneath the thin pillow under his head, facing away from you. You watch the gentle rise and fall of his back from where the dark sheet has slipped around his waist, exposing the freckled canvas of his back — and the healed scrape along his shoulder, now a thin scratch of marred, pink skin.
Your hand wanders slowly beneath the blankets — finding his clothed hip first, then crawling up the familiar landscape of his spine, before settling in the strands of silver curled at the nape of his neck.
The man wakes with a sharp inhale and turns his wild head slowly to face you, still not quite awake.
“Jack…” you whisper to him, fingers still twisting in his curls. “Jack.”
“Mm?” he grunts without opening his eyes, brows pinching in protest.
“We gotta start getting ready.”
Your hand parts from his neck to reach for the phone charging on the other side of you. You don’t make it far before a large, warm hand catches your wrist.
“No,” Jack grumbles halfway into his pillow, voice still gruff with sleep. He tugs your hand back to the back of his neck. “Keep going…”
You exhale a quiet laugh but oblige him anyway. His shoulders deflate with a contented sigh when your fingers return to his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Why is it you make me do this every morning, but when I ask you to scratch my back before bed, you’re asleep in two minutes?”
“I have a medical condition,” he slurs into his pillow, with his eyes still shut.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Mm… Pretty sure that’s a HIPAA violation, honey.”
A laugh escapes you before you can help it. “You’re so annoying.”
“Here— We’ll do it at the same time,” Jack mumbles.
He grunts quietly as he twists on his left shoulder until his facing you properly. His right hand slithers around your waist, urging you closer until your knees bump beneath the blankets. His hand is warm and gently calloused when it slips beneath the hem of your oversized shirt. His dull nails scratch lazily up and down the length of your spine. Still without opening his eyes.
“See?” he hums. “Teamwork.”
You exhale a satisfied sigh, then joke drily despite yourself. “Your breath smells, by the way.”
He peeks a tired eye open at that. “Oh, yeah? And what do you think yours smells like, huh? Sunshine and rainbows?”
He leans in to kiss you anyway — a mere brushing of your lips for no longer than a second. But then the second lingers, and so does his mouth against yours. The kiss turns sleepy and slow, mouths gliding and tongues brushing.
Jack lifts himself onto the elbow of his free hand and urges you onto your back until half of his heavy weight is resting on top of you. The stiffness tucked in his boxers rubs against your thigh. A smile curls slowly on your mouth.
“We only have an— an hour to get ready—” You just barely manage to protest between his kisses. “You know that right?”
His mouth slides down to your neck to smear wet-hot kisses along your pulse. His hips flatten further against yours, pressing his hardening length more ardently against you. “I only need five minutes, honey. I promise.”
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff drily. “I’m well aware.”
Jack pulls off of you with the quiet smack of his mouth parting from your jaw. His sleep-swollen features twist in a feigned offense. Slumber clings stubbornly to every inch of him — curls flat on one side and wild on the other; stubble a shade darker on his jaw; pillow creases stamped along his cheek.
“Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he squints.
“Clock’s ticking, Dr. Abbot,” you tease with a lazy smile, fingers dancing through his silver curls. “I’m gonna be in that shower in five minutes— With or without you.”
A flicker of amusement flashes across his face, right before he ducks back down to swallow you whole in a searing kiss. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
summary ! After cleaning up your boyfriend’s wounds, and emotional baggage from him working for SWAT and at the hospital, you see the emotional toll it has on him and you are tired of it. But the conversation doesn’t go how you planned.
warnings ! MDNI mentions of small wounds, blood, injuries, raids, medical issues, arguing, yelling, anda little bit of toxicity.
pairing: Jack abbot x fem!reader
alanas-masterlist prev.pt
It has now been eight months since he came home bloody and traumatized. But it didn’t stop there, over the course of the eight months, it has only got worse. Every time you mention it-all you get is a shrug. Never an actual answer. That is why tonight, draws the line.
Jack had picked up a SWAT shift after working a double at the hospital. It was no surprise to you that he was barely home anymore. It was the new normal, the kind of thing where he’d text you “Be home late. Don’t wait up for me.” That didn’t mean it doesn’t make you angry, because it most certainly does. Including tonight.
You were lying in bed, you had already showered, got into pajamas and ate dinner alone in silence. You weren’t even watching tv, just waiting for the minutes to pass as you stared blankly at the bedroom door, anticipating him walking through the door hurt. That’s exactly what happened.
You were so close to dosing off into sleep when you heard the locks of the front door. You heard his footsteps getting close to the bedroom. When he entered, you didn’t even greet him. You just sat up crossing your arms over your chest. He didn’t say anything either, he saw the look on your face of disappointment, but he didn’t care.
He walked straight to the closet grabbing his clothes to change in the bathroom. Not only did that make your heart sink to your stomach, but it also made you unfathomably angry, and you never got angry. He came out of the bathroom, changed into the familiar grey sweatpants and no shirt. He was still wordless as he sat down at the edge of the bed with his med bag. You assumed he got hurt again.
“So you’re not gonna say anything?” You said harshly as you stared at his back.
“I don’t have anything to say to you.” He spit out, you could see the way he was wrapping gauze around his forearm.
“Are you kidding me?” You yelled standing up out of the bed as you make your way in front of him.
His expression was confused. Like he couldn’t believe that you actually stood there raising your voice at him. I mean-he’s seen you upset sure. But never like this, never at him.
“No. What do you want me to say?” He said muttering your name under his breath like it was a curse. His eyes remained on his bandage, that was currently wrapped around his forearm with a small patch of red blotting through the white.
“I want you to come home not hurt, bruised, bleeding, or marked up-“ You huffed out throwing your arms up as they dropped to your side.
“I didn’t intend for this to happen, I told you once and I’ll tell you again-I’m not purposely getting myself hurt. I’m there to help in case someone gets injured or needs serious medical attention.” He exclaimed. He wasn’t raising his voice, his tone was strong like he almost believed what was coming out of his mouth.
“If that’s the case, why do you conceal and carry hm? Why is it that every time you come home to me, you’re injured.” You yelled taking a step closer.
You didn’t believe him for a second. You’ve been told this, time and time again. At first you were naive enough to believe that he was doing it for a greater good. Now you’ve come to understand he needs help and it’s about the adrenaline rush, and not understanding his feelings. It’s about how in control he feels and not the care that he’s damaging what’s left of his body, every day.
“Can we not do this-it’s been a fucked up day-“
“You say that every time you come home!” You yelled-no practically scream that it made him finally look at you.
“It’s always a fucked up day Jack, when will you realize that! When will you realize that one of these days you might not come home! I thought-i thought I could handle the constant night shift at the hospital and the constant getting called in to cover for people but this? This isn’t what I signed up for.” You went from angry, to being devastated and so unfathomably disappointed.
“So what? You can only handle when I love you-or when we have sex?” He spit out. His hands were resting on his thighs as he sat at the edge of the bed looking up at you.
The moment he said that-it was like a switch went off. You could feel it in the room. He could see it in the way your hands tightened at your sides.
“Is that what you fucking think this is?” You yelled. You took one step closer until you were officially in his personal space, you were an arms length away.
“I worry about you-every second I fucking breathe. From the moment i wake up, to my dreams! You are reckless, and you have no care in the world to what you are doing to your body. It makes me sick to my stomach, knowing that when you come home-i don’t know what to expect. Will you be bloody? Will you be beaten? Will you even come home to me at all!?!” He was soaking your words in. Not talking, let alone even breathing.
“What you do to me-is torment. I can’t stand it. You won’t listen to me or even equivocate my option on the matter because I’m not as smart as you. Im not a goddamn doctor. For that matter alone you don’t trust anything that comes out of my mouth when it’s about this. For you to think that sex and love is the pure reason I’m around you is sick-“
“Well maybe if you stopped treating me like a fucking child and more like a man, we wouldn’t be having this conversation! You don’t get to make my choices for me!” He yelled cutting you off.
He’d done it. Jack Anthony Abbot, yelled at you. It didn’t feel how you thought it would. You thought you might cry, punch him even. But no, this-this made you feel pure melancholy.
“If you’re mistaking me caring for you as me trying to make choices for you, then that’s stupid of me to think you have any idea at all who I am for you.” You said taking a step back in defeat.
This wasn’t about who was right or wrong. The whole point here is that you care. You couldn’t fathom why he doesn’t understand, you wish you could just jump into his mind and understand where this is going wrong. But you can’t.
“If you think that I’m making choices for you, then this is a choice for you to make.” Your tone was softer, almost like you poured water in the fire yourself before you could fully explode.
He looked puzzled, his hands were now in fists on his thighs as he moved one to scrub his hand over his jaw shaking his head in frustration.
“Me or SWAT.” You said clear as day, no room for argument-so you thought.
“What? No-I’m not-i’m not picking. We’re not children.” He argued saying your name.
“It’s simple. If you don’t drop SWAT and stick to the ED, then I’m gone. And this-“ You said motioning between the two of you. “This is gone.”
He couldn’t believe his ears, for a second he thought he was dreaming or maybe even died and came back to life. But no. Because when he closed his eyes in hopes to wake up to the real world, you were still standing there in front of him.
“No.” He said strongly.
“Yes. If you don’t make a choice, then I will walk out that door assuming that I am not your choice.” You said harshly, you weren’t changing your mind.
No matter how much you loved him, not matter how much he meant to you. It would all mean nothing if you sat here and watched him break himself time and time again.
“You cannot ask me of this-“ He argued standing up. He towered over you. If this were any other day, you would’ve wrapped your arms around him and held him tight. But what you felt was pure terror.
“Sounds like you made your choice.” You muttered.
Your feet moved before your mind, carrying you to the closet as you started to grab your hoodie and a pair of socks. Jack was somewhere muttering behind you-begging you not to leave. But your mind numbed him out as you shoved past him. You trekked all the way to the front door grabbing your car keys off the holder. Right as your hand reached for the door, his hand came up grabbing your arm.
“Please.” He pleaded whispering your name like you were a saint. “I can’t choose. Please-“ He muttered.
You ripped your arm from his hold. You looked at him in agony. Like he had personally ripped open your chest and pulled your heart out himself.
“You made it clear that no matter how many times i choose you, you won’t choose me.” You whispered.
That was it. You left no room to argue. No room for him to debate your emotions. You looked at him one last time-truly looked at him. You took in the pleading in his eyes and the way his body gravitated towards you. Yet-it wasn’t enough to make you stay. You opened the door stepping out before he could protest.
The air outside around you stilled. The neighborhood was quiet, almost like the universe knew what was happening. You turned closing the door behind you.
this makes me sad because ik woman struggle with relationships like this everyday :( yes there will be more parts hopefully soon!! Enjoy 😊
you don’t pull any extravagant strings for andrew’s birthday. you keep it simple and predictable, the way he prefers. an easy breakfast, followed by watching animal planet on the sofa.
besides, his brothers already have some bullshit planned for the evening. a party thrown in his name—whatever that means. you let him shadow you around the house and the yard, squeezing his hand whenever the music gets cranked up or drinking cheers erupt.
it’s not until the end of the night, when solo cups and bikini tops litter the ground, do you drag him to the bedroom
you tell him to close his eyes and he does so, the corner of his mouth quirking up. he hears shuffling around the room, anticipating whatever it is you’re gifting him. he already knows he’s gonna love it.
what he wasn’t prepared for, was the skateboard you were presenting to him. a brand he would sneak glances at when he was younger. it didn’t have much of a design, just a humble black border around the maple wood. it was something he mentioned months ago, sheepishly at that. and yet you remembered.
he set the board over his lap, running his hand along the varnished surface. you gave andrew some time to admire the board, walking out to grab something from the kitchen.
when you returned, he had set the skateboard aside, now patiently waiting with his hands folded in his lap. sitting next to him, you pulled out a store bought cupcake, a couple of candles in its frosting.
“two?”
“for you and julia.”
you don’t miss the way his posture stiffens. you don’t try and force his gaze when he ducks his head down, collecting himself. it’s a lot. to be considered so intimately. with a great deal of effort he manages to croak out a thank you, clearing his throat before repeating himself.
you draw him closer, shoulder to shoulder as you hand over the cupcake.
“make a wish, andy.”
“don’t need to.”
he blows out the candles before leaning in for a kiss
