Forty. Formerly @silverseamoons, and @lustyimagines. Tumblr decided to terminate my accounts without any warning or explanation. Trying to find former mutuals. 18+ only.
a/n sorry guys i don’t usually do nsfw but ive had so many thoughts about jack over the past few days omfg… i need this man so bad
thinking about jack with a cute, ditsy little girl half his age!!!
jack’s gf who lovesss using his card, buying new dresses and lingerie to model for him at home :3 ofc it always ends up in you face down on the couch while he drives into you!!
jack’s gf who secretly likes being a brat to him when he gets home from a long day at work… it’s not your fault, that’s when he fucks you best!!!! so rough and fast, you just let him use you, knowing how stressed and pent up he’s been <3
jack’s gf who’s always getting her nails done with his card, getting pretty pink little designs so he can see he got his money’s worth when she’s stroking him!!
jack’s gf who innocently spends hot, summer days tanning outside, soaked from the pool and all shiny from sunscreen… and jack can’t keep his eyes off you!!! he just has to come and play with you a bit, doesn’t he?
jack’s gf who’s soooo needy, after he’s gone all day at work you just can’t help but paw at his uniform and beg him to take it off!!!
jack’s gf who loves when jack shows you off to his friends!!! you’re his lovely little doll, you should be praised and told how cute you are :3
hiii i've been loving your stuff!!! how do you think the different shawn hatosy characters would react to/punish a bratty gf?? 💓💓
18+ mdni
hiiiii !!! thank you, sweetheart !!! ♡ i luv this prompt bc i just insert my bratty self hehe
jack abbot is such a soft dom in my head—loves a spanking, a quiet correction to make you listen, a soft, “yeah, baby? you gonna listen now? i know my good girl is in there somewhere.” he’s the type of man to make a brat completely melt, not really able to let go of her bratty tendencies, but trying so hard to please jack. he’s a denier too, an edger. loves to punish you with his fingers, not letting you cum, pulling your panties back over your sobbing pussy, not letting you cum until he feels like you’ve lost your attitude.
pope cody loves a good fight/argument. loves to shove his girl’s panties in her mouth, shoving her on the bed with her wrists zip tied behind her back, gripping your hips so hard, fucking your pussy as he smacks your ass. while you’re moaning and crying through your gag, pope’s grunting, “shut up. you wanna act like a fuckin’ brat? huh? you’ll take my cock any way i give it to you—be grateful, baby.”
sammy bryant is kind of similar to pope, loves to grab your throat, tilting your face up to his while you’re pouting about god knows what, whispering, “you’re a fucking pain in my ass, you know that? don’t give you want you want n you give me attitude like a fucking brat.” loves to have you on your knees, sobbing and gagging over his cock, making you beg for him to be softer, beg to be able to cum, but of course—you can’t! your mouth is completely stuffed.
★ summary: you and samira mohan were ‘fire and ice’ long before jack abbot came into the picture. but when ambition, obsession, and desire blur together one thing becomes painfully clear: tennis always wins
★ pairing: challengers!au! jack abbot x reader x samira mohan
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, internalized homophobia, situationship but make it a throuple, toxic relationships, manipulation, threesomes, p in v, oral, fingering, public sex, cream pie, dirty talk, tennis inaccuracies
★ word count: 13k words
★ notes: rewatched challengers & something crazy came over me. this feels out of my comfort zone for writing so i hope u all like it??? part two maybe??? ;) <3
In August, the Stanford courts smelled like sunscreen, wet concrete, and too much ambition. While the California sun beamed down on your skin, your eyes were locked onto the match happening a few feet away from you. Even as your own partner’s ball whizzed right past your head.
Everybody arrived here with rankings and reputations and old trophies clinging to them like bad perfume. Former junior champions. Olympic hopefuls. Rich girls with private coaches and devastating backhands.
Most of the team grew up inside tennis academies with recovery trainers, nutritionists, and parents' trust funds. You grew up learning how to rewrap your own blistered hands with pharmacy tape because proper grip supplies cost too much that month.
You spent high school waking up at four-thirty in the morning to practice before classes, then racing across town afterward to whatever job was currently paying you enough to keep competing. Waitressing at a sleazy diner in town. Cleaning locker rooms at a fitness center where rich women complained about Pilates while your knees throbbed beneath you. During summers, you coached little kids at the YMCA under brutal heat until your voice went raw from yelling instructions all day, only to stay afterward and practice serves alone until dark.
There were nights you fell asleep still smelling like tennis court asphalt and fryer grease. Nights you bled through your socks because your shoes were too worn down to support your feet anymore but you kept playing anyway because you didn’t know what else you were supposed to do. College scouts didn’t care if your body hurt.
Nobody cared how badly you wanted it until you started winning enough to force them to pay attention. And God, you wanted it.
You wanted it with a desperation ugly enough to scare you sometimes.
You clawed your way into national rankings one ugly match at a time until colleges started calling. Not because you were polished or even marketable. But because you won. Relentlessly. Meanly sometimes. You turned yourself into the kind of player people dreaded drawing in brackets. You were willing to destroy anyone and anything that got in between you and your dreams.
Then Stanford offered you a scholarship and suddenly you were here surrounded by girls who looked born for this life.
Girls like Samira Mohan.
She was a freshman, just like you. Her reputation preceded her, a full-ride scholarship with sponsorships already circling like sharks in the water. She could have gone pro almost immediately, but insisted on going to college. You thought this was to lessen the hype surrounding her, but instead, they treated her like the future of American tennis had descended graciously onto collegiate courts for fun.
On paper, you wanted so desperately to hate her.
But from the moment you first caught a glimpse of her, you knew that was easier said than done.
You expected someone with that much attention around her to be unbearable in an obvious way. Some polished media-trained nightmare with a smile that belonged on sponsorship campaigns and magazine covers. Instead, she barely seemed aware of herself at all. She was kind, genuinely kind in a way that was hard to be in competitive sports.
And the worst part? She was the most beautiful woman you had ever laid your eyes on.
She was a vision on the court, all elegant moves and precise shots. An absolute firecracker, who was currently screaming in Hindu under her breath at her partner. Her white tennis dress contrasting against her sweatlined skin, her curly hair in a messy braid down her back. She was golden, practically glistening against the court. The sight of her in person had the habit of taking your breath away, right before another ball was struck directly at your head.
You just barely ducked, nearly falling flat on your ass.
“What the fuck Trinity?” You barked, looking back at your partner who was already in position to serve another one directly at your head.
“Stop staring, you pathetic gay.” She yelled back, making your face blanch.
This was the other worst part, you may have, just maybe, had the tiniest of a schoolgirl crush on her. Your roommate and best friend Trinity would disagree with the tiny part, but that didn’t matter.
“Half gay,” You grumbled, in a weak attempt at a comeback.
“And fully pathetic, get in position! We only have the court for another hour.”
”Fuck you.” You cried out, hitting the ball back at her with expert precision.
“Yeah, she’s back.” She cheered playfully, the two of you continuing with your head-to-head match. It was endless practice and drills to start the year. Your head was not in the game, it was on the pretty girl a few feet away who hadn’t even glanced your way once.
By the second week of preseason, the Stanford courts had already become something ugly and sacred. Blister tape littered the benches. Empty electrolyte packets rolled across the concrete in the wind. Everyone walked around with ice-wrapped shoulders and knee braces were the new chic accessories. Nobody spoke much between drills anymore. Competition had worn through the friendliness fast. Every girl here wanted the same thing.
You especially.
Which was why Coach Al-Hashimi eventually made the mistake of putting you and Samira Mohan on opposite sides of the net.
Trinity physically recoiled when she saw the matchup sheet.
“Oh man, you're gonna stumble over your shoes if she stares at you too long?” She asked, walking alongside you as you grabbed your gear.
“Come on,” You whistled, adjusting the tape on your wrist, “When have you known me to stumble on the court?”
“That’s fair, but come on. Don’t make Stanford’s golden child cry, it’ll be bad publicity.” She laughed, plopping down on the bleachers.
You scoffed, “Please, if she cries then she shouldn’t be in this sport.”
Across the court, Samira laughed softly to herself as she’d overheard it. Which she probably had. Her racket rested against her shoulder while she tied her curls back into a cleaner ponytail, sunlight catching against the gold chain at her throat.
You took a few steps forward, spinning your racket around loosely in your hand.
Samira adjusted the brim of her visor and tucked a loose curl behind her ear with absent elegance, as she existed in an entirely different environment than the rest of you despite standing under the same brutal sun.
That was the thing people noticed first about her. Not even the beauty, though there was certainly enough of that to make half the men’s team act brain-damaged whenever she walked through the athletic center. It was the composure, it never slipped.
You had spent the last few weeks trying very hard not to care about her. Which mostly translates to thinking about her constantly.
Not in the pathetic way Trinity kept accusing you of, though she certainly enjoyed making your life miserable over it. It was more that Samira unsettled you. Players like her were not supposed to exist naturally. Nobody should have been that technically gifted while remaining genuinely kind at the same time. Every talented player you had ever met carried sharp edges somewhere underneath the surface.
But Samira smiled at everybody. Remembered names. Helped freshmen pick up tennis balls after practice without being asked. She thanked trainers. She apologized when serves clipped the net during warmups. She played with ruthless precision while somehow never seeming cruel about it.
She was the complete opposite of you, all sharp edges and bite. You’d made a girl cry during a junior's tournament in Texas after targeting her backhand for two straight sets until she unraveled publicly. You argued with judges and snapped more rackets than you could afford. It only got worse when you met Trinity, judges called the two of you the angriest doubles teams in the history of tennis.
At least they were talking about you.
Samira glanced toward you while bouncing a ball lightly against the concrete, her expression relaxed. Not a hint of tension to be seen on her shoulders. “You ready?”
You rolled your shoulder once before settling into position at the baseline. “Depends, you gonna uphold the title of Stanford’s golden child?”
She just laughed softly under her breath at that, not embarrassed or thrown off in the slightest. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”
You refused to let it show that her words made your shoulders tighten. The game began, slowly at first. A warm-up between two peers clearly on the same level of technicality. But that didn’t last long, neither of you seemed particularly interested in easing into anything gently, and within minutes the pace escalated into something far more competitive than a preseason practice match.
You started pushing first, mostly out of instinct. Harder pace off the forehand swing. Sharper angles designed to test her movement, to coax a response out of her.
Samira redirected pace with surgical precision, using your own power against you instead of fighting it head-on. Watching her move across the court felt strangely hypnotic because there was absolutely no wasted motion anywhere in her game. Every recovery step landed perfectly balanced. Every swing flowed seamlessly into the next movement. Even the sound of her ball striking strings felt cleaner somehow, less violent than yours despite carrying just as much danger behind it.
The first real rally of the match came, and the bystanders grew and grew. Bleachers were full watching the match unfold in all of its glory.
The secret truth about tennis was that at a certain level, it stopped being a game built purely around mechanics and became something far more intimate than people realized. You learned another player’s habits through repetition. Their breathing patterns under pressure. The exact shape of their frustration. The milliseconds of hesitation before riskier shots. Great rallies felt less like combat and more like conversation conducted entirely through movement and anticipation.
And Samira spoke your language immediately. In a way that had your palms sweaty.
You slammed a forehand down the line hard enough to nearly strip paint from the baseline, the impact cracking sharply across the courts and drawing several startled reactions from nearby teammates. It was an objectively ridiculous shot, the kind designed specifically to end points outright. Samira somehow reached it anyway, sliding into a desperate recovery before redirecting the ball crosscourt with absurd control that landed inches inside the sideline.
“Oh, fuck off,” you snapped automatically before you could stop yourself.
Instead of looking offended, Samira burst into startled laughter, bright and genuine enough that it briefly threw off your concentration entirely.
“What?” you demanded, already resetting your stance.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re intense?,” she asked, still smiling as she moved back toward center court.
“Just about everyone I’ve ever met.” You smiled viciously.
The next rally lasted even longer. Twenty shots at least, maybe more, both of you pushing each other deeper into increasingly impossible angles until your lungs started burning beneath the heat and sweat dripped steadily down the side of your face. You could feel your pulse everywhere by that point, wrists and throat and chest all hammering violently beneath exertion.
All it took was one shot, a millisecond too late of a reaction for the ball to go whizzing past you. A chorus of boos and cheers erupted from behind you, your heart nearly stuttering out of your chest.
You bent slightly at the waist catching your breath, chest heaving hard while sweat rolled slowly down your spine beneath your shirt. Across the net Samira rested her hands against her knees for a moment before glancing back up at you, loose curls escaping and sticking damply against her golden skin beneath the sunlight.
When you caught her eyes, something dangerous split between your ribs. There was admiration sparkling there, a beaming smile that contrasted your furrowed brows and scowl.
“Wow,” she said honestly between breaths. “You’re the first actual opponent I’ve had since I got here.”
From that moment, a friendship was born.
At first, it was a practical matchup approved by your coaches. Nobody else on the team could push either of you properly anymore. Samira needed someone aggressive enough to force her out of her comfort zone, somebody willing to turn every practice set into controlled warfare. You needed somebody steady enough to withstand your worst moods, to turn you into a ‘civilized player’ they said.
It was five-thirty runs through campus while fog still hung low over Palo Alto and the world smelled faintly like wet grass. It was weight room sessions spent shoulder to shoulder beneath fluorescent lights, Trinity half-asleep beside you both while Samira quietly corrected your form with gentle hands against your spine. It was the endless hours on court until your bodies moved around each other instinctively, your games sharpening together like knives dragged repeatedly across the same stone. The first time you two played together officially, one commentator called you two ‘Fire and Ice’ after the two of you bulldozed through doubles nationals together.
For the next two years, the two of you were inseparable. A match made in tennis heaven, that’s what ESPN called the two of you after Stanford won nationals your sophomore year, the article accompanied by grainy action shots of you snarling at the net beside Samira looking composed enough to belong in an entirely different photograph. Beauty and brutality.
The analysts loved turning the two of you into mythology because it made good television, because people were fascinated by the impossible chemistry of watching someone as elegant as Samira Mohan somehow fitting together seamlessly with somebody as sharp-edged and openly vicious as you.
Behind the cameras and headlines, Samira knew you better than anybody alive.
She knew when your shoulder started bothering you again because your serve motion tightened slightly afterward. She knew the specific silence that meant you were angry versus the quieter one that meant you were hurt. She knew how to talk you down after losses without making you feel pitied, knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone entirely.
Nobody had ever handled you gently before. Your whole life, people either tried to control your intensity or feared it outright. Coaches called you difficult. Opponents called you cruel. Even people who loved you sometimes treated your emotions like natural disasters to survive instead of something worthy of understanding.
Samira never asked you to become softer. She just learned how to hold the sharp edges without cutting herself open on them.
Falling in love with her was never part of the plan, but it came easier than winning a match.
You never told anyone, besides Trinity who called it that day on the court during Freshman year. You planned to die with the secret. As far as you knew, Samira didn’t even like women so it never crossed your mind as being an option, until the end of your Junior year.
The season had just ended badly. Samira lost a semifinal she should’ve won and spent the entire night furious and vibrating with restless energy. The two of you snuck your way onto the courts half-drunk from some terrible fraternity party neither of you even wanted to attend. The two of you were barely able to play an actual game, your vision too blurry your balance too off. Rackets and balls were neglected on the court, for some poor lackey to clean up tomorrow.
In a fit of giggles, and sweaty from the night air you two found yourselves in the locker rooms. She was still ranting about missed shots while peeling off sweaty party clothes in the showers afterward because neither of you were thinking clearly. The next thing the two of you knew, you were both naked in front of each other. Steam fills every inch of the tiny stalls, making the distance between you two feel even smaller.
Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and her cheeks flushed from the drinks. You remembered the exact moment she stopped talking. The way her teeth bit down on her bottom lip. The exact moment she looked at you differently.
Her gaze traveled down your body when you stepped beneath the spray with your eyes closed, letting the hot water hit aching muscles. You could feel her looking before you opened your eyes again.
”I don’t even know why I’m so angry,” she’d laughed softly, water dripping down her shoulders. “It’s stupid.”
“Because you care too much.” You said, focusing on rinsing the rest of the shampoo out of your hair.
“Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with you.” She joked, but her laugh came out flat and unfocused. You could see the faraway look in her eyes, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.
“You okay Mira?” You asked softly, taking a tentative step closer.
She stared at you for a long second after that. Then the distance was closed, and her lips were on yours. It was startling and desperate.
You fell into her immediately, your hands finding her hips in the steamy room and pulling her body against yours. Her hands were cold against your jaw, while your mouths explored each other’s messily. You pressed her against the damp tile, kissing down her jaw and her neck while her hands tangled in your hair.
Her skin was soft and wet as your hands traveled down, gripping the supple flesh of her chest. She responded to you almost immediately, her legs parting for you as your hand slipped in between. Between the water gliding down her body and the arousal pooling, it was easy for your fingers to slip through her folds. You remember her lips parting, as she begged you for more. You remember the feeling of her warm cunt spasming around you with each expert thrust of your fingers.
A lot of it was a blur looking back, but you remember with startling clarity your heart beating so hard you thought you might throw up from it. You’d never forget the sound of your name on her lips as she came, how her skin tasted, and then the horrible realization of what happened after the water ran cold.
You couldn’t look her in the eyes afterward, not when your mouth tasted like her. Shame was deep in your stomach as you watched her towel dry her hair in the mirror, your eyes pleading for her to let you out of your misery.
You stood there pleading silently for her to say something different. Instead, Samira laughed once under her breath, thin and uncertain.
“It was just a mistake.” The words hit like physical pain.
“We’re a little drunk,” she added quickly. “That’s all.”
You weren’t sure who she was trying to convince. Maybe herself, but it didn’t work on you.
All you could do was nod because losing her entirely felt more terrifying than swallowing the heartbreak whole. Your friendship survived on unspoken things already. One more secret buried between the two of you hardly seemed impossible at the time. Nothing really changed in your friendship after that, but Samira never really touched you casually again, not outside the court anyways.
Everywhere else, she hesitated. Pulled herself back at the last second. Wrapped every dangerous feeling in sarcasm or competition before either of you could examine it too closely. But on the court, instinct took over. She reached for you constantly there.
Your wrist between points. The small of your back switching sides. Your hand crushed in hers after impossible rallies. Your bodies thrown into each other in celebration.
It became easy to pretend none of it meant anything because technically it belonged to the game.
During the NCAA quarterfinals, the two of you came back from a nearly impossible deficit after Samira saved a match point with a return so vicious the crowd audibly gasped. The stadium erupted in an ear-bursting cheer.
Before you even processed winning, Samira had already collided into you full force, laughing breathlessly while her arms wrapped around your shoulders hard enough to nearly knock you backward.
“Oh my god,” she shouted against your neck, adrenaline making her voice wild and bright. “Did you see that?”
You barely heard the crowd. Not with her legs tangled around your waist. Not with her heartbeat pounding against your chest. Not when she looked at you afterward glowing with triumph so beautiful it physically hurt to witness.
Somewhere between junior and senior year, the shape of your life stopped orbiting tennis and started orbiting Samira. It felt like trading one obsession for another.
It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a decision you made. It was slower than that, subtle reallocations of attention that felt reasonable in the moment. You missed a training session because she needed a ride to a sponsor event. You stayed after practice longer than you should have because she was frustrated and you knew just how to make her laugh. You started saying no to things that would have advanced your own ranking if they meant less time in her orbit.
You didn’t even realize until rankings came out, and Coach Al Hashimi sat you down. Her perfectly styled eyebrows furrowed in frustration.
”Don’t let love dim your potential, Y/n.” She had said, Samira’s picture looming behind her on the banner hanging against the fences. It felt like a punch to the gut, but still, you kept trailing behind her.
-
”You know,” Samira started, staring down at the US Open pamphlet in her hand. Her other hand occupied by her blackberry and lip gloss, “I used to have a poster of him in my room.”
JACK ABBOT FINAL US OPEN
The words were in a bold white font, underneath a photo of the rugged man. He was handsome, there was no doubt about that. You’d never had the privilege of seeing him play, but everyone who knew anything about Tennis knew about Jack Abbot. He was a legend. A legend who suffered a horrible knee injury last year, a legend who had already defied odds by being the oldest professional player to win a US Open. He was determined to finish his career on a high note.
“Really?” You laughed, sipping your overpriced drink. “That’s so embarrassing."
She knocked her shoulder with yours at the tease, “Oh please, you had a Katy Perry poster on your wall until last year.”
“Okay, it was a really good album-“ Your banter is cut off by the crowd erupting as Jack Abbot himself steps onto the court.
Jack rolled his shoulder once before stepping up to the baseline, testing the stiffness in his knee with the smallest shift of weight. The stadium lights bleached everything silver-white around him, sweat already glinting along the sharp line of his jaw despite the match barely beginning.
His entire body snapped through the shot with that old predatory force people wrote articles about in the early years of his career, the kind that made tennis commentators sound religious trying to describe it. The ball cracked into the service box so fast it almost looked unreal, skidding low and hard enough that his opponent barely got a racket on it.
Beside you, Samira made a small involuntary sound.
You wanted to tease her, make fun of her for fawning over a retiree, but you found yourself just as mesmerized. It was like watching a future version of yourself down there. He was ruthless and aggressive in each swing and pump of his arms. The vein in his neck protruded with each yell, spit flying from his mouth.
Every rally carried that same furious edge to it. Every point felt personal, when his opponent tried to pull him wide across the baseline, Jack chased the ball down with a grim sort of joy, shoes screeching across the hard court while the crowd gasped around him. His knee visibly buckled once during a slide, just for a heartbeat, and somehow he still turned the return into a winner down the line.
The stadium erupted and Samira grabbed your thigh so suddenly it made your breath catch.
Her fingers dug into the bare skin just above your knee without thought, gripping hard as the replay flashed across the giant screen overhead. Heat flooded through you instantly, not just from the contact, but from the fact she clearly hadn’t realized she’d done it. Her attention remained glued entirely to the court, body pitched forward in disbelief while her nails pressed crescents into your skin.
“Did you see that?” she demanded, half turning toward you now, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“Yes,” you laughed breathlessly, though it came out weaker than you intended because her hand was still there. “Jesus Christ.”
Every time he won a point, the two of you reacted before thinking. Leaning into each other, grabbing each other, knees knocking together in the cramped seats while adrenaline crackled so violently through your veins it almost stopped feeling separate from attraction.
You glanced down pointedly at her hand still gripping your thigh when her thumb began stroking small circles on the inside.
Her eyes widened slightly before she snatched it back almost violently, as the skin contact itself had burned her. A flush climbed immediately into her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or adrenaline, you couldn’t tell.
“Sorry,” she muttered quickly.
Before you could answer, Jack fired a forehand winner so vicious the entire stadium seemed to inhale at once.
You and Samira reacted at the same time.
“Oh, fuck off,” you gasped.
“No way,” she breathed.
Then both of you dissolved into disbelieving laughter together, shoulders knocking hard enough to nearly spill your drinks while the crowd around you stood roaring to their feet.
Down on the court, Jack finally allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction. He stood at the baseline breathing hard, chest rising beneath sweat-dark fabric while the stadium screamed around him. His curls clung damp against his forehead, racket hanging loose at his side as he stared across the net with an expression that bordered on feral.
You hadn’t felt that alive watching tennis in weeks, now it was as if something had been ignited deep in your chest. A desire to blow this afterparty and head straight to the court. But, Samira’s hand was gripping your forearm tightly, dragging you into the Jack Abbot retiree celebration party.
Everyone wanted a piece of him. And Samira looked absolutely gone.
“He’s shorter than I thought,” she murmured for probably the fourth time that night, staring openly across the terrace where Jack stood with a drink in hand speaking to two ESPN commentators.
You took another sip of your cocktail. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“You should just go talk to him,” you said finally, the words sour in your mouth.
Her head whipped toward you immediately. “You think?”
“I think if you stare any harder, security's gonna intervene.”
“Oh shut up.” But she laughed, biting briefly at her bottom lip before glancing back toward him again, “Do I look okay?”
You smile sadly at her, bringing your hand up to smooth down her stray hair that the wind blew out of place. “Beautiful.” You choked out, like the word didn’t hurt.
She just watched you for a moment, wringing her hands together.
“You gonna go now?” You laugh, chewing on the cocktail straw, aching to sneak off for a cigarette that Samira would smell and yell at you for later.
“I’m working myself up,” She was practically bouncing on her heels, “You know I can’t believe he’s not married,” she said, almost absently, eyes following Jack as someone from Adidas laughed too loudly at something he’d barely said.
You smirked without looking at her. “He is.”
She glanced at you. “What?”
“To tennis that is.”
That made her laugh under her breath, but it didn’t last long. Her expression shifted as she watched him again. “Well,” she said finally, quieter, “that’s just sad. I hope you don't end up like that.”
That made you look at her.
She was still watching the room, not you. Still following Jack with her eyes like he was the most interesting thing in it. A weird feeling in your gut simmered at this. Has she ever looked for you in a room like that? Or were you simply furniture? Her peer turned partner turned cheerleader.
And suddenly you were aware of it again, the slow erosion of yourself over the last year. Practices that became about her timing. Matches that became about her schedule. Decisions that always curved back toward Samira Mohan’s trajectory like gravity.
“Maybe tennis is my only true love,” you said, your eyes still hopelessly on her.
Samira finally looked at you, but it felt like she was looking through you, “You used to be mean on the court, you know? Like breaking rackets spitting in people's faces means. There used to be a fire there.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “I’m still mean.”
She cocked her head, “Y/n, you haven’t played a solo in weeks. The papers are saying the fire in ‘Fire and Ice’ is dwindling. Your ranking is lower than it should be.”
You frowned, letting your shoulders fall. You saw the papers, it was impossible not to. Trinity had taped them to your door, alongside a note that said ‘get your shit together.’ There was no time for you to play, not while Samira had your calendar booked up.
In the silence, Samira speaks up again. “Have you ever considered coaching? I think it’s time to focus on the next step of your career, and I think that would be the best thing for you.”
”What?-“ Before you can answer, or even formulate a thought a hearty laugh breaks through the crowd.
Across the venue, Jack laughed at something someone said, the sound low and unbothered even surrounded by people trying too hard to matter to him. Camera flashes from somewhere caught him mid-turn, that familiar rough-edged charm slipping into place without effort.
Samira’s attention snapped back to him like a reflex. You noticed the exact moment she stopped thinking about you.
“I might go get some fresh air.” You said, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
“Go on,” she said suddenly, nudging your arm lightly. “I think I worked up the courage.”
You nodded once and slipped away to the edge of the crowd.
The air outside the main cluster was cooler, quieter, carrying the distant sound of the city below like something alive and indifferent. You found a corner near the cliffside, the sounds of the river lulling your beating heart as you pulled a cigarette from your bag, and lit it with hands that only shook a little.
The first inhale grounded you in a way nothing else had all night. You exhaled toward the skyline, watching smoke disappear into neon.
“So this is where the real party is.” A timber voice spoke up from behind you, making your shoulders tense.
Looking back, maybe this was the first crack in the glass. When Samira spent all night trying to get him to look at her, and he saw you first.
“Jack Abbot,” You breathed out, thumb still flicking the cigarette filter.
“Y/n Y/l/n.” He said, with a smug smile on his lips.
His name coming from your mouth made your stomach fall, brows furrowing at the man. He seemed to have noticed the confusion, taking a few steps closer to you.
“What?” The jilted teasing in his tone made your knees weak, “You don’t think I’d keep up with the up-and-coming tennis stars from my alumni?”
“Didn’t think my name would be on that list,” You scoffed, still wallowing in your own self-pity.
“Highest ranking score. What was it, top junior results? Higher than Mohan’s early numbers,” he said, like he was reading something off memory. “And now you’re what? Holding her water bottle at courtside and running drills like a shadow?” The cigarette paused halfway to your lips.
“That’s not true-“
“Come on,” he cut in, not unkindly. “You know what I’m saying.”
Silence stretched. Behind you, laughter erupted from the party again. Music pulsed faintly through the wind. You knew what he was saying, it was the same thing everyone close to you had been drilling into your head the past few weeks. Jack didn’t look away from you, his gaze heavy and startling.
“She’s my best friend,” you said finally, quieter.
A hum from him. “But?” he prompted.
Your eyes drifted back to the party. Samira was on the dance floor now. Laughing loudly. Surrounded by attention without ever seeming to need it. She looked like she belonged in the center of everything. Like she always had. Beautiful in motion. Confident in a way that made people forget how sharp she actually was.
”She’s just really good.”
Jack followed your gaze. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She is.”
There was a beat of silence before he spoke, quieter, almost like he wasn’t speaking to you anymore:
“But you could be better.”
He scoffs, “How many games do you let her win in practice? I bet she doesn't even realize you’re pulling your hits anymore, huh?”
“Don’t act as if you know me,” You snapped, “What you watch our film? See a game? Read our stats? Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you know anything about us.”
There was that stupid infuriating smirk still on his face, like he was looking into a mirror, “Okay, okay.” he says, his hands up in surrender. “Apologies for offending the lady, but you can’t deny that you’re selling yourself short.”
You rolled your eyes, going to flick the cigarette out before a hand captured your wrist.
“You mind?” He asked gently, to which you took too long to shake your head.
Jack’s fingers loosened only slightly around your wrist, rough warmth settling against your pulse as he guided your hand back toward him instead of away.
His gaze never left yours as he leaned down, his mouth wrapping around the cigarette between your fingers.
Heat flooded through your entire body so fast it almost made you dizzy.
The scrape of stubble against the inside of your wrist. The slow inhale hollowing his cheeks slightly. The deliberate eye contact while smoke curled between both of you in the humid night air.
It was obscene, and erotic. Jack pulled back after a second, exhaling smoke toward the river before finally releasing your wrist. His thumb brushed once against the inside, before dropping it as if it had never happened.
“C’mon,” he said easily. “Let’s go meet your best friend.”
Jack walked ahead of you through the crowd with effortless confidence, occasionally nodding at people who tried to stop him but never slowing down long enough to get trapped. You followed behind him in a daze, knees weak as a newborn fawn on ice.
It was as if the party bent to his will. Not because he was handsome, though he absolutely was. Not because he was famous or that this whole party was for him anyways. It was something stranger than that. Jack carried himself like a man completely at ease with being desired. Comfortable under attention, thriving even. The kind of confidence people spent their entire lives trying to fake.
”Samira Mohan,” Jack said as he approached the bar beside you, his voice smooth and warm with amusement. “This lovely lady was outside singing your praises.”
Your stomach twisted as Samira’s brows flew up her forehead. What kind of game was he playing?
“Was she?”
”All of them,” he said easily. “Most of which I already knew were true.” Then he reached for her hand.
You’ve known him for all of ten minutes and you already knew flirting was simply another language he spoke fluently. His fingers curled around hers with surprising gentleness before he dipped his head just enough to brush a kiss against her knuckles.
A blush bloomed immediately across her cheeks and down the elegant line of her throat, visible even beneath the warm amber lighting of the tiki torches. Through all the years you’ve known her, never once have you seen her so flustered, yet here she was tripping over her words.
“Your backhand tonight was insane,” she said quickly, words tumbling over each other now that she finally had his full attention. “That second set crosscourt return in the fifth game? Nobody hits that angle anymore because everybody’s obsessed with baseline power but your timing was-“
“Old school?” Jack offered.
“Surgical,” Samira corrected instantly.
Then, they were off. She and Jack fell easily into a discussion about court surfaces and younger players and racket tension like they’d known each other for years.
You stood beside them sipping melting ice from your drink feeling more and more like a third wheel in your own life.
Your jealousy curdled slowly. Not even entirely toward Jack, mostly toward the sport itself.
Because tennis always won in the end. It always got the deepest parts of Samira before anybody else could. You’d spent years quietly accepting second place to it, even making it second place in your own life to carve out space for the love you had for her.
Then, Jack’s eyes met yours. Samira was still deep into conversation about his pacing, and his footwork, before he cut her off.
“Fire and ice,” he mused, glancing between the two of you. His finger lifted from his whisky glass, twirling around. “That’s what they used to call you, right?”
Samira laughed softly under her breath. “God, that was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Jack said. “People loved watching you two.”
His gaze settled on you again. Heavy enough to make your skin feel hot beneath your dress. “I related to the fire part personally. Hell, you know they called me a tennis cowboy for years. Never following the rules.”
You looked away first, unable to keep his gaze. Not while Samira looked like a kicked puppy the moment his gaze was no longer on her.
“Well,” Samira said brightly, trying to shake herself out of whatever strange current had settled between the three of you, “she’d make an incredible coach.”
“She sees the game differently than anybody I know,” Samira said immediately. Proud. Certain. “She notices momentum before it shifts. Patterns before they happen. Half the reason my game improved at all was that she could always tell what I was doing wrong before my coaches could.”
”So, you giving up all of this,” he moved his hands around to gesture to the party raging on without him, “to be a coach?”
It occurred to you that Jack Abbot had seen in half an hour what you’ve spent the past few years blind to. Samira had decided your future for you, on her side of the court rather than the opposite. Just the person standing behind somebody else’s success rather than making your own.
You shrugged lightly, trying for indifference. “Maybe.”
Jack’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that.
Samira laughed awkwardly beside you, immediately jumping back in before the silence could settle too deeply. “She’s being dramatic. She still plays recreationally and honestly if she wanted to start competing again she probably could, she just would be much better at-“
”Do you want to coach?” Jack interrupted her gently.
You looked at him, caught briefly off guard by the intensity of his attention again. Around you, the party blurred warm and loud, people brushing past in expensive fabrics and perfume, but suddenly it felt strangely isolated there at the bar with him watching you like your answer actually mattered.
“I don’t know,” you finally admitted. “Maybe I am better suited for coaching than competing.”
Jack stared at you for a second like you’d said something genuinely absurd.
“No.” The certainty in his voice made your stomach flip. “You’re the most competitive player I’ve ever seen.”
You blinked. “That’s definitely not true.”
“It is.” His gaze dragged over your face slowly before settling heavily on your eyes again. “Players like you don’t just wake up one day and stop wanting it. Where did that fire go?”
Something hot curled low in your stomach.
Samira shifted beside you, suddenly very interested in finishing her drink.
”You just need that…” Jack tilted his head slightly, mouth curving into a knowing half-smile. “Fire back.”
Samira downs her drink in one swallow, the air suddenly much hotter than it was before.
“Doesn’t she?” Jack elbowed Samira lightly, brushing his body against the side of hers.
She set the empty glass down harder than necessary before forcing a quick smile back onto her face. “Okay,” she laughed thinly, “now you’re just feeding her ego.”
”Aww,” Jack pouted playfully, looking down at her. “Are you jealous?”
The question landed with a sharp little crack between all three of you. Samira froze for half a second, then laughed too quickly. “Please. She’s had an ego since she was sixteen.”
“S’ a part of the game,” you muttered, trying desperately to diffuse the strange electric tension coiling tighter and tighter around the conversation.
But Jack only grinned wider, like this dynamic was the most interesting match he had ever seen.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “most players would kill for somebody who believes in them the way Y/n believes in you.”
”Well,” Samira said suddenly, buoyed again by alcohol and adrenaline and the fact that Jack Abbot was still standing here talking to her like she mattered, “if you’re not sick of us yet, we could do a nightcap somewhere quieter?”
You nearly choked on your own spit. Samira looked equally surprised at herself for approximately half a second before stubbornness took over. Her chin lifted slightly. “What? We’re fun.”
Jack barked out a laugh. “Jesus,” he said, rubbing one hand over his jaw dramatically. “You girls even old enough to drink?”
Samira rolled her eyes instantly. “We’re twenty-three.”
“Mm.” His gaze slid toward you lazily. “What do two young tennis players want with this broken old man?”
“To seduce you, obviously.” Samira teased, letting her perfectly manicured nails hover above his forearm. It didn’t feel like a joke the way his eyes glittered. He pulled his hotel keycard out of his pocket within seconds, guiding both of you away from the lights and noise.
Her fingers curled around his bicep while she talked animatedly about some disastrous junior tournament in Florida, head tipping toward him every time he laughed. Jack listened with easy patience, occasionally teasing her just enough to keep her flushed and smiling.
Meanwhile, you walked half a step behind them feeling strangely untethered.
The jealousy inside you has become complicated now. Twisted together with attraction and longing and something lonelier. Because Samira looked so happy beside him. Glowing from his attention. And Jack, infuriatingly, seemed equally comfortable with her hanging off his arm while still somehow tracking your every movement at the same time. His gaze had a way of making you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure if you had been before.
The US Open spared no cent when it came to his accommodations. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire glittering city. Low modern furniture. Expensive dark wood. A terrace stretching out beyond the glass with the skyline spilling endlessly behind it. Somewhere inside the suite jazz played softly through hidden speakers.
Jack loosened the collar of his shirt as he stepped inside, immediately more relaxed here than he’d been all night.
“One drink,” He mused, grabbing a bottle of champagne that had been sitting on ice, “Then it’s off to bed for you two.”
The bottle was popped with a loud cheer, bubbles were poured into overpriced glasses.
“Cheers, to the legend Jack Abbot himself.” Samira cheers, clanking all of your glasses together.
Conversation stretched deep into the night after that, sprawling loose and intimate in the strange way conversations only become after midnight. Shoes abandoned by the couch. The city glittered outside the windows. Samira was twirling her now frizzy curls between her fingers while you were arguing with Jack about whether modern players lacked aggression.
”They’re too fucking soft nowadays.”
“You think everybody’s soft,” she accused.
“Everybody is soft.” You argued back, your bare feet pressing against her thighs from where you two were lounging on the couch.
“You cried during your Australian Open press conference in 2006.” She pointed, making you groan. Your empty glass being filled up again by Jack who sat perched on the velvet armchair, right across from you two.
“It was an angry cry though, those judges didn’t know their heads from their mouths.” You gulped down another drink, the bubbles going straight to your head.
“If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen, that’s what I said after my opponent in 2008 said I was, ‘A disgrace to the sport of tennis itself’ for forcing his hand for five rallies.” Jack chimed in, his hands lazily on his knees while he leaned back.
“What an old saying.” Samira snorted, her hand falling on your bare ankle absentmindedly.
“Can I ask a question?” He asked suddenly, “It might be personal but..”
You both just hummed, nodding for him to ask.
“Are you two together?”
Samira’s hand is gone from your ankle like it was never there at all, pulled back so fast it’s almost violent in its restraint. The absence of it is louder than the touch was. She shifts in her seat, reaches for her drink too quickly, and you can see it in the small, betraying details of her body that she’s recalibrating in real time, trying to put herself back into something legible.
“No,” she says immediately, too quickly.
You feel the gap she leaves beside you widen, even though she hasn’t physically moved away. It’s just suddenly obvious that whatever space she occupied a second ago was more intimate than she’s willing to admit in front of him.
You smile anyway, because that’s what you do. It’s what you’ve been doing for so long it comes out easy, practiced. “Just best friends,” you add lightly, tilting your glass slightly in your hand as if the question barely touched you. “The best of friends.”
There’s a faint curl at the edge of his mouth, not quite amusement but not far from it either. “Right,” he says slowly, like he’s accepting the answer without believing it.
Samira adjusts her hair behind her ear, her nervous tick. “Why?” she asks, but her tone is careful now, guarded in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.
Jack’s attention shifts to her briefly, then back to you, like he’s refusing to let either of you escape the frame of his observation. “Just curious,” he says, “It changes how people move around each other on the court. That’s all.”
He doesn’t let the silence last for long, “Tennis is probably the most erotic sport there is,” he says. “You spend hours watching someone’s body under pressure. You learn their timing. Their breathing. The exact moment they break rhythm.”
He tilts his glass slightly, watching the liquid shift. “There’s no distance in it. Not really. Not when you’re paying attention. It’s intimate.”
The tension in the room is so thick it makes it hard to breathe, so you swing your legs to the side of the couch, sitting upright.
“We’re out of champagne.” You smiled, shifting the topic almost as soon as it came.
It took a while, but the conversation drifted after that into softer territory, though the tension never loosened. If anything, it deepened with the hour, settling low and heavy into the suite like another entity in the room.
Jack had migrated from the armchair to between you two on the couch at some point, abandoning the performative distance between all of you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight as he stretched one leg out carefully, wincing faintly at the stiffness in his knee before hiding it behind another sip of whiskey.
The city glowed silver through the windows behind him. The suite lighting turned everything honey-soft. Samira’s bare knees brushing his every few seconds unconsciously, and every time it happened Jack’s eyes flicked downward briefly before returning to your faces.
”So, you’re telling me after all these years nothing has happened between you two?” He asked, Samira practically shoved against his side while his arm was slung across the couch, directly behind your head.
“This again?” Samira groans, shoving him gently.
You shift on the couch, drawing your legs in slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close all of you have ended up without anyone actively deciding it. “It was one time,” you say, more casually than you feel, like you’re tossing it into the air just to make it lighter than it is. “Sophomore year. We were drunk. It didn’t… it wasn’t anything.”
You have Jack’s full attention again, his eyes sparkling at getting confirmation of something he could have easily guessed.
Samira’s head snaps toward you immediately. “Can you not,” she mutters, half-laughing, half-warning, but there’s no real heat in it. Only panic trying to disguise itself as annoyance.
”No, can we, please?” Jack pleads, looking like the cat that caught the canary.
“We don’t talk about it,” You shrugged, ignoring her pointed glares. “Didn’t mean anything.”
Jack dragged his thumb slowly along the rim of his whiskey glass. “So what’s the angle here?”
Samira blinked. “Angle?”
“Mhm.” He gestured lazily between the two of you. “Two gorgeous Stanford tennis players get a newly retired athlete alone in his hotel suite after midnight. They clearly have some unresolved sexual tension.”
”I think we just, admire you.” She whispered, his face gradually inching closer and closer to hers.
Your eyes are glued on them, watching their bodies gravitate towards each other.
His hand lifted absently, fingers brushing along the back of the pillows behind Samira’s shoulders. Not touching her exactly. Hovering close enough to make her breath hitch anyway.
“You two act like you’re in the middle of a match neither of you wants to win.” He said, “You two just bounce off of each other, when it would be so much easier to just let someone win.”
Samira laughed softly under her breath, though it sounded nervous now. “You think everything’s tennis.”
“Everything is tennis.”
He leans forward slowly giving Samira all the time in the world to pull away.
“So what is it, Samira?” He asks, his breath hot against her lips, “Who wins?”
She wastes no time in pulling him closer, their lips slotting together messily. Time moves slowly, watching as his large hand cradles her face in his hands. The sound of their tongues pressing against each others makes your legs squeeze together, the temperature in the room rising.
He suddenly pulls away from her, both of them immediately meeting your gaze. He says nothing, simply turns his head and presses his lips to yours with the same urgency.
You can taste her lip gloss on his lips, and it makes your head spin. The rough stubble of his cheeks brushing against your palms makes you groan into the kiss. As soon as your mouth parts he takes that as an opportunity to glide his tongue into your mouth, caressing against yours. It’s hot and desperate, and it’s over way too fast.
When he pulls back your lips are swollen, and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest. The first thing you see when you open your eyes are Samira’s on yours. Her own lips red, her hands perched on Jack’s legs to pull her closer to you.
Jack leans back slowly, looking down at the two of you like he was watching a ball bounce across the court.
“Come on,” He whispered, nudging his head to the empty space across his lap. The only space separating the two of you. “I know you both want it.”
Her pupils are blown, lust written all over her face as she looks at you. It’s unspoken as the two of you are pulled together. You don’t know who leans in first, you just know your lips are on hers.
You’ve kissed Samira Mohan before, but it didn’t matter because each time it felt like getting your first breath of fresh air in weeks.
Her hands grab your face, while yours steady themselves on Jack’s legs. He’s just watching, both of his hands cradling your heads as you kissed each other like you were starved. It was years of tension, of longing all rolled into this one kiss and he was getting to spectate it.
When you pulled away, her spit was still attached to your lip. Jack groaned softly at this, the tent in his pants evident as he shifted.
“Should we take this to the bed ladies?”
It’s a messy tangle of limbs, and clothes being shed as the three of you stumble over to the bed. Samira falls into it first, her dress still dangling off her ankles. Jack’s lips are still on your neck, his hands unzipping your own dress to let it fall in the pile of clothing. When he pulls away to unbutton his shirt you take the chance to grab Samira’s legs helping her pull the dress off of her slowly.
She looks ethereal like this, laying back with her eyes wide. Her nipples erect, and poking out high just waiting for you to put your mouth on them again. You crawl over her, settling your legs on either side of her hips.
“This okay?” You ask, your voice hoarse. Thick with anticipation.
She nods so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t give her whiplash.
You lean down, dragging your lips down from her neck to her chest. Pulling each of her nipples into your mouth, tongue flicking the small buds before you pulled off of them with a wet pop. You traced a line down her stomach with your tongue, stopping right above her underwear.
You press a kiss over the warmth of the fabric. “Can I taste you?” You practically begged.
She lifted her hips up, urging you to pull the fabric down. There’s no time wasted in you doing this. As soon as she’s bare in front of you, you almost feel like you’re dreaming.
”Fucking gorgeous.” You whispered, running your fingers through the dark hair perched on her mound. With one swipe of your tongue against her glistening cunt, you were gone, pressing your face even further into her.
“Holy fuck,” She cried out, her hips bucking against you.
Neither of you even noticed that Jack had crawled back on the bed, watching the two of you patiently while you were lost in your own world. Samira tilts her head back, a smirk on her lips.
“Aren’t you gonna join us?”
He whistles, “Well baby, I was just enjoying the show.” He leans up off the bed, walking behind where you were still on top of her.
You lean your head up to speak, but you’re pushed back down by Jack’s hand wrapping itself in your hair.
“I didn’t say you could stop,” He ordered, pressing his boxer-clad cock against the curve of your ass, “You keep making our girl feel good, and I’ll make you feel good.”
Your underwear are discarded, with Jack’s fingers finding your clit with expert precision. His callused fingers slip inside of you with little resistance, as he works you open for him. It didn’t take long for your arousal to drip down his hands, between the taste of Samira on your tongue and her breathy moans you were aching for it.
“Think you’re ready for me?” He asks, and you’re nodding into Samira’s cunt, your moans only causing vibrations to run through her. With her legs shaking around your head, Jack’s cock slips against your entrance.
The stretch of him takes your breath away, your hands gripping Samira’s legs tighter as he slowly inched himself inside of you. He was huge, that was no surprise you’ve seen the pictures of him in his tight shorts, but now you could feel him in your stomach.
“Fuckkkk.” He grunted out behind you, his hips meeting yours with a soft pop. “So tight f’me.”
“Right there,” Samira cried, when your fingers slipped inside of her, your tongue still sloppily licking her cunt, “Fuck, Jack make her feel good.”
“Yeah?” He asked, amused at watching the two girls so focused on each other’s pleasure. He bucked his hips up into you once, then once more until he slowly found his rhythm.
The moans bouncing off of the walls were enough to make a porn star blush, between Jack’s grunts and Samira’s wailing moans you wouldn’t have been surprised if you got a noise complaint.
She came into your mouth with a cry of your name, pushing your head away gently. She crawled over to you, pulling your lips onto hers to taste her own release.
All while Jack was holding your hips with an iron grip, fucking into you so deep you could hardly feel your toes.
“Oh, my god.” You cried into Samira’s mouth, “I’m gonna come.”
Her eyes flickered up to Jack’s, while she still lazily kissed your open mouth, “Mhm, come on Jack’s cock baby.”
“God, yes.”
Samira drank up your moans, swallowing them down as Jack slowed down his thrusts, watching your cunt cream around him. He slipped out of you with caution, making you cry out at the emptiness.
Your arms were shaking when you pushed Samira back down on her side, watching Jack stalk behind her like prey. His cock is slick with your release and hanging heavy between his legs.
“Your turn, baby.” Jack hummed, crawling behind her and lining himself up with her entrance. You lie next to her, letting her body rest on top of yours.
”Holy-“ She cut herself off by biting down on your shoulder, muffling her screams. You watched Jack’s cock stutter as he pushed further and further inside of her. ”S’big.”
“Both of you taking m’cock so fucking good,” Jack moaned, his hand heavy on her hip as he began to fuck into her from behind, “M’ so lucky.”
Samira’s jaw was lax, Jack kissing into her mouth messily as you watched him fuck your juices into her.
“He feels good doesn’t he?” You moan, reaching forward to start biting and sucking whatever flesh of hers you could grab while Jack fucked her brains out the same way he just did you. Your hands are pulling at her tits, circling her clit in a frantic motion.
She lets out a gargled moan as response, kissing you back lazily.
“Yeahhh, he does.” You cooed, “That big cock splitting you apart, baby?”
”It’s so good, gonna make me cum, gonna make me cum, oh yes.” She sobbed, falling apart sandwiched between the two of you.
“M’ right behind you.” Jack warned, his thrusts only getting faster as his balls tightened. You pressed your mouth against Samira’s and that’s all it took for him to still, cumming deep inside of her with a desperate shout.
The silence that followed was soft, not harsh or uncomfortable. It was heavy breathing and the post-orgasm daze of realizing what had just happened.
Samira broke the silence with an uncontrollable giggle, her head lolling against your bare chest.
“You didn’t cum twice.” She pouts, suddenly staring at your body like her hunger had yet to be satisfied.
“I’m not sure what to do.” She breathed out, suddenly nervous despite the events that had unfolded over the past hour.
“I‘ll walk you through it,” Jack whispered, his head nuzzling into the crook of her neck. Guiding Samira’s hand between your still open legs. You were still sensitive when her fingertips found your clit, flinching at the sensation. She kept making sure you were okay between each stroke.
“Now you can slip your fingers inside…” Jack guided, to which Samira nodded.
“Just one or…”
“She can take two, can’t she?”
“Yes,” You cried, feeling her second finger slide inside next to her other. Her fingers weren’t as big as Jack’s, but the softness in which she moved had you wanting to cry out in pleasure.
With instruction, she learned how to thrust her fingers just right. Her thumb hits your clit with each roll of her hand. The sound was absurd as she pulled you closer and closer to your last orgasm of the night.
“You hear that, just how wet you make her?” He whispered to her, making her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head. His softening cock was still deep inside of her, plugging her with his cum that threatened to leak out the sides. Meanwhile her fingers were making a mess of your cunt, the lewd wet sounds making both of them mewl into each other as they watched you writhe and come apart on her fingers.
“See that?” he asked, watching your hips grind into her hand. “She’s gonna cum.”
“Mira,” You cried out, trying to pull her as close as possible, your lips brushing as you came around her with a shout.
Her eyes stayed locked on you while you came, drinking in each twitch of your body.
When she slipped her fingers out of you, she stared at the slick digits like Eve staring at the apple in the garden.
“Taste her.” He whispered, but it sounded more like an order.
She slid her fingers into her mouth, sucking around the digits moaning at the taste of your release against your fingers.
“Fuck.” You breathed out, watching her cheeks hollow.
“Fuck is right.” Jack said, in awe at the two of you.
All of your bones were heavy with exhaustion, bodies still floating in bliss. You remember cleaning up, and Samira pulling you into her chest. The next thing you remember was waking up to the bright light peering through the curtains.
The bright intrusion made you groan, trying to roll over only to be blocked by a hard block of muscle. That’s when the memories of last night rushed through you. It wasn’t a dream, it was real and the ache between your legs and the two warm bodies lying next to you were proof of that.
New York was still dark beyond the massive hotel windows, the city painted in soft blue-gray light while rain tapped quietly against the glass high above Manhattan. The suite smelled faintly like champagne and expensive linen and something warmer underneath it all musk, sweat, and sleep.
For a long moment, you didn’t move too busy watching her.
Samira slept on her side facing you, curls spilled messily across silk pillowcases, mouth slightly parted beneath the dim morning light. Without all her sharpness awake inside her, she looked younger somehow. Softer. Like the version of her all those years ago you first fell in love with.
You reached out carefully, brushing a loose curl back from her face with your fingertips. Her eyes fluttered open almost immediately.
For one disorienting second she just stared at you sleepily, lashes heavy and lips still swollen from sleep and kissing and all the champagne from the night before
“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough.
“Hi.”
Behind her, Jack groaned softly into the pillows before tightening his arm instinctively around Samira’s waist. His eyes blinked open slower than hers had, still foggy with sleep while he looked between both of you lazily.
”Oh, so it wasn’t a wet dream.” He mumbled, breaking a bit of the awkward tension.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Samira asks, grabbing your wrist from underneath the blanket, holding it gently in her hand.
“I’m good,” You smiled, and maybe for the first time in a while you really meant it.
“Good,” She beamed, “Then I have a question.”
“Oh, god.” You started to sigh, then squealed when she wrapped her still bare legs around yours pulling herself on top of you to straddle your hips. The blanket sat low on her waist, her curves on display while her tits bounced in your face,
“Will you coach for me?” She asks, her hair falling around her head like a halo.
How could you say no? When she looked like that, and the taste of her was still faint on your mouth. Her bare skin pressed against yours felt like heaven, and in that moment you would have done anything for her.
“Yes, god yeah.” You laughed at her immediate squeal, leaning up to press your lips to hers gently.
Jack just laid there, his arms behind his back staring over at you two. “Ready to play some tennis, girls?”
Your relationship was never defined, everyone knew you and Samira came as a pair. It had been unspoken since your undergrad days, but now Jack Abbot was also there.
Jack accepted Stanford’s offer not long after that night. Officially, it was temporary. Guest coaching. Mentorship. Media appearances as an alumni. The university parading around the fact that they had Jack Abbot wandering their courts now, older and limping slightly but still magnetic enough to draw attention.
Unofficially, he was there for Samira. Everyone knew it. The rumor mill started almost immediately.
It became one of those things nobody directly addressed but everyone understood instinctively. Samira Mohan arrived with you attached at her side like gravity itself demanded it, and somewhere along the way Jack had slipped seamlessly into the orbit too.
It was late-night practices under empty stadium lights. Jack fed impossible balls across the court while Samira laughed breathlessly after missing them by inches. You correcting her aggression while he corrected her footwork. The three of you collapsing onto benches afterward sweaty and exhausted, sharing water bottles and protein bars and tension so thick it practically sat beside you. It was stolen kisses and the nights the three of you never talked about during the day.
It wasn’t what any of you had planned, but it was something sacred between the three of you. At least you thought it was.
At first, it was small things. She’d look to him first after matches now, searching his face for approval before yours. During practices, she listened more sharply when he spoke, more immediate in her adjustments, more eager to impress him in ways she never tried with you anymore because your approval had become assumed.
He challenged her constantly, pushed her harder than anyone else ever had. He understood the uglier side of her ambition. Where you soothed her spirals, Jack sharpened them into fuel. Where you protected her confidence, he provoked it deliberately just to watch her fight her way back.
Jack would pull her aside afterward for “extra work,” and suddenly two hours had passed without either of them answering texts. You’d find them still on court long after dark, standing too close near the baseline while discussing strategy, Samira flushed with her hair a little out of place. Sometimes she’d forget you were supposed to be there at all.
Suddenly you weren’t the only one who understood her game, and it made you green with envy. How were you on the outside of something that you all had started together?
“Late for your own practice.” You said, your voice short and clipped. Nothing but the harsh sound of your racket slamming the ball into the wall echoes from the training room you booked weeks ago. You had spent the last hour and a half, stewing in your own anger.
Her hair is a mess, eyeliner still smudged underneath her eyes. She looks the least put together you’ve ever seen her at practice, but she’s still vibrating with energy.
“I’m sorry,” Her voice was dry, water bottle swinging in her hand, “It was a long night. Jack and I were watching some of his old games.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” You whistled, another ball cracking against the wall with so much force it made her flinch at the sound.
“Okay,” She breathes out, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you upset with me?”
“Why would I be upset Samira?” You laugh cruelly, “Is it the part where you decided my future for me, or the part where you know how I feel about you but you continue to exploit it?”
“I’m not exploiting you,” She gawked, “Where is this coming from?”
The bitterness that rose in your throat tasted humiliating. “You asked me to coach you,” you said. “You asked me to put my career on hold because you said nobody understood your game the way I do. You said you needed me.”
“I do need you-“
“But not the way I needed you to.” The words exploded out of your chest, making your hands shake. “Not the way you need, him.”
Her eyes widened, nearly stumbling over her own feet as if the words you said made the ground shake beneath her feet.
“You know what the worst part is?” you laughed bitterly. “I would’ve done it anyway. That’s what’s so pathetic.”
“Y/n-”
“No, seriously.” You turned toward her sharply. “You asked me right after that night in New York. That was fucked.”
Neither of you ever talked about it directly anymore. Not Jack’s hands on both of you. Not the unbearable intimacy of waking up tangled together afterward and pretending it hadn’t changed everything. It just lived underneath every conversation, every fleeting glance. You let it happen, again.
“You asked me after we slept together because you knew I was too in love with you to say no,” you said quietly. “And I said yes so fast I didn’t even stop to think what it would cost me. Because I love you, Samira.”
She looked like you had slapped her, “You think I planned that?” she asked, voice cracking now. “You think I manipulated you into all of this?”
”I think you always knew you’d never choose tennis over me, but I think you loved that I’d choose you over tennis. Fuck, I would have chosen you over everything.” Your voice cracked, tears welling in your lash line.
Samira wiped angrily at her eyes before looking back at you. “That’s not true, Y/n. I need you on my team, so I’m confused. I’m confused and scared, but what I do know is that I need you. I need us, together.”
“There’s no us Samira,” You scoff, feeling your knuckles ache from just how hard you were gripping your racket. “There never has been, not really.”
“Y/n..”
“No,” You threw your hands up, stopping her from walking closer, “I need some space, okay?”
She sniffles, but spins on her feet anyway leaving you alone.
The moment the door closes behind her, you let out a blood-curdling yell. The racket slams on the ground with such force that you can feel the ache in your shoulder before you see the plastic splinter across the concrete. You lose track of how long you’re slamming it into the ground, but when you hear the door open the racket is nothing but the handle.
Like a bad omen, Jack Abbot is walking into the room.
“Oh fucking great,” You scoff, trying to blink away the angry tears from your eyes, “Just the fucking person I wanted to see.”
“You done?” he asked quietly.
“Fuck you.”
He shut the door behind him anyway, walking into the now plastic mess scattered on the court.
Your shoulder was throbbing now, the familiar burn shooting down your arm from overtraining and rage and three straight days of sleeping badly. You wiped angrily at your face before bending to grab your bag, already wanting him gone.
”Your shoulder’s swelling again,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, walking closer. “That’s kinda the problem.”
You should’ve told him to leave, should’ve beaten him over the head with your spare racket. Instead, you sat heavily on the bench while he crouched in front of you, pulling athletic tape and scissors from your bag with ease.
The room felt unbearably quiet now. Just the soft tear of tape and your heavy, labored breath.
Jack’s fingers brushed carefully against your skin while he rolled your shoulder experimentally, making you flinch.
“Tight,” he murmured.
“No shit.”
His hands steadied your arm anyway, surprisingly gentle despite everything else about him. The touch should’ve annoyed you more than it did. Instead, it made something inside your chest ache.
“When’s the last time you did something for yourself?” He asks, setting down the scissors and tape with a clank.
You let out a shaky breath, shrugging, “My whole fucking college life has just been her.”
“Maybe,” He whispered, his hand grabbing your thigh gently. “You need to start being selfish again.”
You looked down at his hand on your bare thigh, your stomach twisting in knots. It was this again, the weird tension between the three of you. The wanting each of them in different ways that made it all so complicated.
“She loves you.” The words escaped before you could stop them.
Jack’s expression barely changed. But his hand tightened slightly against your leg.
“She loves you,” you repeated more quietly. “And you love her.”
He nods, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I do.”
Something bitter twisted through your chest. “She’ll always love tennis more,” You pinch the bridge of your nose harshly, trying to warn him against the heartbreak that’s settling deep within your ribs.
“So will I, which is why I think it’ll work.” His confession leaves you stunned, your fingernails still digging harshly into your palms.
A harsh cry escapes your throat, amusement laced with sadness at the absurdity that is your life.
“She loves you, you know? But you’re competition. You always have been. It’s probably why she loved you in the first place,” He hums, like it’s a fact that was glaringly obvious. “She’s not like you, she’s not insults and penalties on the court. She’s keeping you close, she wants you in her corner because if you're not? You’re her biggest competition and she fucking knows it.”
”You’ve been stroking my ego since we met,” You mumbled, “Doesn’t make any sense. I’m always second to her. In every fucking aspect.”
His thumb rubs a soft circle against your leg, goosebumps rising on your skin.
“What’s your angle?” You asked finally, looking up at the man. “New York, your hand on my leg, what the fuck is all of this?”
“My angle?” He laughs, and it’s different from how you’ve heard him laugh before. It was deeper, more real. ”I just wanna watch some good fucking tennis.”
You ripped your leg out of his grasp, grabbing your bag so harshly you couldn’t even think about the pain that was still radiating down your shoulder.
“I’ll show you good fucking tennis.”
“I know you will!” His voice echoed through the hallway.
-
In hindsight, you shouldn’t have called your friends and drank half a bottle of vodka to dull the pain that was pressing against your ribcage. It just felt like the only logical thing to do. You were a month away from graduation, your future suddenly blurry around the edges after years of precision. Tennis had always been the one thing in your life that made sense. Work hard enough and you get results. Fight hard enough and eventually somebody would recognize it. You earned your spot here, and you let love ruin all of that.
Samira had never played by those rules inside your heart and now Jack had walked into both of your lives like a lit match tossed into dry grass.
By the end of the night, Trinity had taken your phone away twice to stop you from texting them things you’d regret. You vaguely remembered crying in the bathroom while one of the girls from track held your hair back even though you hadn’t actually thrown up.
When you woke up your mouth tasted like vodka and regret. You groaned quietly and rolled over, fumbling blindly for your phone on the nightstand.
Three missed calls from Samira <3
You stared at her name for a long moment before finally pressing call back.
It rang twice before voicemail picked up. The sound of her recorded greeting nearly shattered whatever fragile resolve you’d managed to piece together overnight.
Hey,” You breathed out, the sound of your own voice making you cringe, “I’m sorry about last night. I just, Samira, I really love you. Jack coming into our lives has just made everything so fucking complicated. I’ll support you every step of the way, you know that. If you love him, go for it. I’ll step aside. I’ll be okay, you know? But you’re right, we n-need each other. We’re a team. Just, listen, I'm sorry again. I’ll bring you your favorite coffee before practice, okay?”
As soon as you hang up the phone, a loud banging against your door makes you jump.
“Y/n!” You hear Trinity’s voice on the other side, banging even harder than before.
“Jesus, who’s on fire?” You yelped, rushing to swing the door open. She doesn’t even greet you, simply pushes her way into your room shoving her phone in your face.
“Did you fucking see?” She’s furious, her face is red and her chest is rising meaning she probably ran all the way here.
“What-“
You finally read the words on the news article, your breath catching in your throat.
“RETIRED TENNIS LEGEND JACK ABBOT TO COACH RISING STAR SAMIRA MOHAN THROUGH HER PROFESSIONAL DEBUT”
Below is a picture of a press conference, no doubt happening this morning. He’s standing next to her holding a contract, both of their smiles wide. You read it again, and again, snatching the phone from her hand in disbelief. You read it so many times that the words blur together and stop making sense in your brain.
“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice doesn’t waver; instead, it's a loud bark.
“It came out just a few minutes ago,” She whispered, “It seems like this has been in the works for a while.”
One argument, one disagreement and she throws away years of hard work, years of love between the two of you.
You look at Trinity with a hardened look of absolute, feeling the fire rise up in your chest, “I’m gonna beat Samira Mohan, even if it fucking kills me.”
pairings: ex!michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x reader, jack abbot x talent agent!reader
summary: you’ve made a name for yourself as an agent for a big actress. when she gets into an accident, you’re forced to face your ex boyfriend and his flirtatious best friend.
word count: 3.6k
warning: heavyyy making out, dry humping 😝, praise kink, jealous!toxic!robby, medical inaccuracies, flirting, use of ‘little girl’ once, random oc i created for plot purposes, reader is very . euphoria s3 maddy perez coded .
note: eeek i love writing jealous fics HEHE i had sooooo much fun writing this ! honestly id be very open to writing a pt 2 but let me know what you guys think ! i’m like one fic away from just writing smut atp …………
a young woman’s scream echos the PTMC,
“Somebody call my agent!” she cries in pain as she enters through the ambulance bay,
“Rochelle King, 24 years old, vehicle hit her going 30 miles. Sounds like she was launched about nine feet. BP is one forty over ninety, heart rate one ten” the paramedics say as Doctor McKay and Doctor Robby approach the gurney,
“Hi Rochelle, we’re gonna get you some pain meds as soon as we can. Can you tell me if you’re experiencing any dizziness or nausea?” McKay starts as they enter trauma two. from a distance Victoria and Joy watch in disbelief,
“Is that Rochelle King?” Victoria says walking over to trauma two to get a quick peek. Joy follows quickly behind,
“Whoever it is, they’re a patient. One of you find out who her agent is or whatever she needs,” Dana calls out to the two med students. Joy walks to the desk begrudgingly. “Who the hell even is she?” Dana asks Joy as she takes her phone out to find the correct phone number,
“Seriously? She just won an Oscar for that Audrey Hepburn biopic? She’s in Pittsburgh filming for the new X-Files reboot,” Joy looks at her unimpressed as Dana blinks, still confused. Joy passes her phone over and Dana’s eyes widen in surprise as she stares at the headshot of you. she hasn’t seen you in years and you were almost unrecognizable. there’s a new look in your eyes, a less naïve and more ambitious look that only those who knew you previously would notice. Dana hands the phone back to Joy,
“Call her, let her know we have her actress here.” Dana leaves and sees Robby leaving trauma two. She speeds over to him, just as he’s taking his plastic gloves off,
“How’s our Hollywood star?” Dana starts.
“Her?” Robby turns around looking back at Rochelle as they pull her gurney out.
“What, you didn’t see that movie she was in? She won an Oscar for it.”
“Nope, I’m too busy saving lives here to watch anything.” Robby looks up at the patient board to see who’s next,
“Yeah, well the agent she was screaming about? Her agent is your ex-girlfriend,” Robby looks at Dana with panic before shaking his head, concealing his initial fright with a straight face. “You’ve got about four hours left, Robinavitch, I’m sure you can handle her until Abbot is in.”
Robby’s palms run up his face in agitation. of course, right as his shift was on its last few hours, he’s forced to face you. it felt like an impending doom that the universe sent him for all his mistakes he made while with you.
“I refuse to sit here any fucking longer and wait for you! I can’t believe I gave up my life for this… I be should in school, making a name for myself but instead I’m in fucking Pittsburgh playing housewife to you!” you yell with hot tears rushing down your face, voice cracking as you struggle to finish your sentence. Robby stands in the middle of your shared living room, hands on his hips, quietly taking all of it. he looks as if he’s disassociated from the conversation, waiting for it to be over so he can move on with his night,
“You done?” Robby says with a mildly condescending tone.
“Yeah, actually, I’m fucking done.” you walk to your shared bedroom, throwing clothes into a bag, rushing to get out. Robby doesn’t put up a fight, he simply sits on the couch, throwing his legs up on the coffee table. he’s been through this before with you. he doesn’t think you’ll get far and thinks it’s only a matter of time before you come running back. you needed him to survive, or so he thought. you took everything you could and bought a plane ticket heading west, never looking back. since then, you’ve been untraceable (though it’s not like he went looking for you anyways).
the sound of heels clicking against the linoleum floors snaps him out of the memory. you enter the ER dressed in a clean, well tailored designer outfit, carrying a matching bag with all sorts of papers poking out. your heavy eye makeup matches your blown out hair and minimalistic jewellery. you had your phone to your ear, quickly shutting it off as you approach the workstations,
“Dana!” you say with your arms open, embracing her. Dana squeezes you tightly in response. you look wildly different from the last time Robby saw you. if you passed him in the street, he wouldn’t be able to recognize you but there was something about your new look though that Robby wasn’t entirely buying. he felt as if he could see right through your alleged act, how could you mature so quickly from being someone who used to be so dependant on him?
“Hey kid!” Dana says as she pulls away, her hands still gripping your forearms. “Look at you! All grown up!” you smile big at her, relishing in her kindness,
“Thank you! Listen, I’m here for my client, Rochelle King?” in the corner of your eye, Robby approaches,
“She’s resting.”
“Robby, long time no see,” you say, adjusting your posture so you’re standing a bit taller now. Dana slowly backs away as she watches you try to keep your composure. Victoria and Joy’s heads poke up in interest, observing from not too far away. “You know, I asked them to take her to Westbridge, but apparently PTMC was much closer.” you say, trying to take the opportunity to get a quick jab at him,
“We put her on some pain medication and are waiting on her CT results back in case she has any symptoms of a brain bleed. She’s got a concussion, an ankle fracture and some pretty bad road rash, but she’s lucky to be alive.” you nod at his diagnosis,
“So where is she?” Robby stretches his arm out, guiding you down the ER,
“Robby’s ex is Rochelle King's agent?” Victoria asks Dana,
“And if she is, he fumbled. Hard.” Joy continues.
“Don’t you two have patients to check on? Chop chop, let’s go!” Dana claps her hands, breaking up the scene.
the curtains inside the ER room are closed and security stands in front of the room. before Robby opens the door he turns to you,
“Did I get a chance to say that you look amazing?” Robby says quietly, making sure only you could hear.
“Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming?” your eyes squinting slightly in suspicion.
“But between us, I’m not buying it,” you scoff at his caveat.
“You can convince Dana and the rest of this ER that you’re a big Hollywood agent, but deep down you’re still a little girl, scared to live without someone taking care of her twenty-four seven.”
“Unbelievable. You’re still so self-centered as always, Robinavitch. You really can’t believe that I actually made a life for myself after you.” you shake your head in shock and disappointment before entering the room. Robby follows close behind.
“Hi!” you say softly to Rochelle, something about the tone of your voice makes Robby’s heart ache, it’s reminiscent of the way you used to speak to him when he’d come home from a rough shift,
“Miss King, we’d like to keep you overnight for observation while you wait on your results back. We don’t suspect any brain bleeding at this time but we’d like to just monitor you in case anything comes up.” your client stays quiet, nodding at the new information,
“That’s all, thank you Doctor Robby.” you dismiss him, keeping your eyes on Rochelle. you give her a soft smile as you grab her hand. you don’t care to look at him, or give him any attention besides what’s necessary. you’re technically still working, and you weren’t going to let your ex get in the way of that. Robby watches as you pull out papers from your bag before exiting the room.
maybe Robby will be okay with you here. an hour has passed since he dropped you off in the ER room and there’s three more to go before he can clock out and hopefully never see you again. through the ambulance bay, Jack arrives early than usual, camo backpack slung over his shoulder,
“What’re you doing here? You don’t come in till six usually.” Robby says as he double checks his watch for the time,
“Yeah, I’ve got a SWAT friend coming in for a wound check up, figured I might as well just come in and do it myself.”
as if the universe's timing couldn’t be worse, you come out of your clients room and walk over to Dana,
“Hey Dana, are there any issues with ordering food to the hospital? My client refuses to eat anything right now unless it’s a protein smoothie.” from a distance, Jack sees you chatting with Dana,
“Is that who I think it is?” Jack chuckles in amusement, “Didn’t think this place couldn’t get worse for you, brother.” Robby sighs as Jack gives him a sympathetic pat on the back.
“She’s an agent for some big actress who got into an accident today. I’ll give you the rundown in a bit.” Jack stares, scanning you from head to toe. with your clothes fitting in all the right places, accentuating your waistline and hips, he can’t help but stare.
“She looks good.” Jack says, testing the waters.
“Yeah? She’s all yours if you can handle that.” Robby jokes. it’s the first genuine laugh Robby has had all day but Jack keeps a straight face, taking his statement seriously. you feel the burning gaze of the two men as Dana passes you a sticky note with the hospital's info. your eyes meet Jack’s first, cracking a big smile on your face. he looks a bit older than the last time you saw him, and damn has time done him well. his salt and pepper hair, deep wrinkles around his eyes, if you were put in a room with him, you aren’t sure how you’d act.
“Hi Jack!” you say throwing your arms around his shoulders, pressing your body against his. Jack wraps his arms around your waist, leaving his hands there as you pull back.
“Hi sweetheart, long time no see. You look beautiful.” sweetheart? beautiful? Robby thinks.
“It’s what happens when you leave Pittsburgh, what can I say?” you say using your fingers to flaunt your face, letting out a giggle.
“Heard you’re here with some big actress? You live in Hollywood now?” Robby’s head tilts as he looks at Jack in confusion.
“Yeah actually, it’s been great. I’m a talent agent to a few actors and I’m in town for a bit while we film a reboot for a series.” you beam, proud of how you’ve established yourself.
“Yeah? Well you gotta tell me about it over drinks sometime while you’re here.” Robby couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. did Jack not remember all the times Robby had complained to him about another fight you two had? or that time Robby had to sleep on Jack’s couch?
“If you’ll excuse us, we have jobs to do.” Robby says as he interrupts the moment. Dana raises her eyebrows from a distance, catching Robby’s attention. you finally look at Robby,
“Good, so do I.” you say quickly looking back at Jack, giving him a wink. Jack shakes his head as he watches you walk away. he knows you’re trouble, and he’s willing to bet everything on you. as Jack heads to his locker, Dana quickly pulls Robby aside,
“What the hell was that? That poor girl has already been through enough of your bullshit.” Robby puts on an innocent face as Dana interrogates him,
“This is an ER, not a speed dating event and we have work to do,”
“Real professional of you, Robby. I almost believe you.” Robby walks away as Dana finishes her sentence. three more hours, just three more he repeats to himself.
𝜗ৎ
the room is quiet in comparison to the ongoing chaos outside in the ER. you type away at new emails before a soft knock at the door that awakens your client,
“Come in.” she mumbles, shuffling around in the bed. Jack and Robby enter the room together as you push your laptop aside.
“How’re you doing Miss King?” Robby starts as he examines her vitals. his eyes quickly glancing at you before bringing his full attention back to the patient. she groans in response, “Hurts.” she mumbles. while Robby slowly begins unraveling her bandages, Jack puts his hand on your shoulder softly,
“You doin’ okay?” you nod in response. the gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Robby or Rochelle,
“Wounds look like they’re healing okay, no signs of infection so far. Your CT scans came back good as well so no risk of internal bleeding,” Robby turns to Jack who is standing beside you, “Let’s up her pain meds and keep an eye on the wound tonight. Should be okay to discharge by the morning.” as Robby makes his way out of the room, Jack quickly turns back to you again,
“You let me know if you need anything, got it?” you nod in silence again as he follows the other attending. as the door shuts, your client turns to you,
“What was that?” she says, eyebrows raised and with a smirk similar to a cheshire cat,
“It’s nothing, he’s a friend– an acquaintance even. I’ve known him for a long time,” you say as you pull your laptop back out. she doesn’t break her disbelieving stare, waiting for you to confess, “You’re high on pain meds, go back to sleep.”
“I might be high, but I know when a guy is really into you like that,” you shake your head as she turns over, “Plus he’s hot! My god, should I go for older guys? Honestly, and I mean it respectfully, if you don’t jump on him, I will!” you laugh at her drug induced ramble, trying your best to keep things professional.
just as you’re about to respond to another email, your phone begins buzzing. you’re quick to step out of the room and rush towards the ambulance bay exit. like a puppy, Jack’s eyes trail after you as you dash out answering the call,
“You know I was kinda joking when I said she was all yours?” Robby says sliding beside him,
“Were you? What happened to never wanting to see her again?” Jack challenges,
“All I’m saying is that I don’t believe she’s changed and I don’t think you should either.” Robby says with his hands up in surrender,
“Well I’m willing to be the one to find out.”
Robby shouldn’t feel threatened by Jack’s determination. he deemed that he was over you long before your relationship ended and yet he hated every time Jack made a pass at you (and even more that you were eating it up).
outside, the red light of the ‘Emergency’ sign above illuminates you,
“I promise you, if you don’t change that stunt team and you don’t do another pass at cast and crew safety, you’ll need to find another actress and we both know you’re in too deep to do that at this stage,” Jack walks outside to see you pacing back and forth. the click of your heels fill the silence while you listen to whoever you have on the phone, “Great, I’ll have that contract sent to you shortly, thank you.” you shut your phone off letting out a deep breath. Jack waits until you’ve had a second to decompress before approaching,
“Everything okay? Saw you running out the ER, just thought I’d check on you.” you spin around to see Jack with his hands behind his back slowly walking towards you. he stops at a safe distance standing beside, looking out at the nearby road with you.
“Yeah, producers just wanna know when they can start filming her scenes again, it’s nothing really.” your tense shoulders drop as it becomes quiet again, cars passing by filling the silent void,
“Y’know, I missed seeing you around.”
“Really? I thought I was a mess back then. I feel like my terrible decisions showed that.”
“Like being with Robby?” you huff in amusement as Jack’s question.
“Yeah, kinda. But it led me to meeting you…” there’s a brief pause, “And Dana,” you add. seeing Jack after years of being away has made you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time. when you left for LA, you refused to wear your heart on your sleeve again and being around him has brought something out in you.
the way he’s checked on specifically you multiple times since arriving, the interest he has in the life and career you’ve built, and let’s not forget how much more handsome he’s become. you don’t feel like he’s making you smaller being around him, he embraces your change. he treats you like an adult and like someone who is capable,
“The last time I was in Pittsburgh, I didn’t really know what I wanted. I just blindly followed a man who was essentially leading me nowhere.” you turn to face Jack. he mirrors your movement standing closer to you now,
“Have you figured out what you want now?”
“Yeah, I have.”
𝜗ৎ
thirty minutes left, Robby kept repeating to himself. thirty more minutes and he could finally go home, escape the sight of you, escape Jack’s attempts at flirting and repress any resurfacing feelings or memories he had of your time together.
though, he couldn’t help but remember the way you used to laugh when you rode on the back on his Bonneville, or the little scream you let out when he would pick you up and spin you around after coming home. he tries to keep busy to avoid any old feelings resurfacing but he can’t help it when the last four hours have been spent watching you openly flirt with his best friend,
“Princess, have you seen Jack?” Robby asks,
“You could try triage? I think he mentioned something about a wound check for a friend?” Robby flashes a thankful smile and heads over. he just needs to brief Jack on one more patient then he’s out of there.
in the nearby supply closet, Jack pushes you against the wall kissing you desperately as if he’s waited years for this exact moment. you moan as Jack takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth. his knee pushes your legs apart and settles in between, allowing you to gently grind yourself against him. he slowly begins kissing down your neck,
“Fuck.” you moan lowly as he marks the sweet spot on your neck. Jack quietly shushes you and puts his hand on your mouth,
“You’ll be my good girl and stay quiet, right?” you nod vigorously, his hand staying on your mouth, following your nodding movements. “Yeah, you’re my good girl.” he kissed and marked your neck, desperately wanting to show everyone he’s yours.
Robby’s head pops in triage, doing a quick pass and even going towards the lobby to see if Jack is around. still nowhere to be found, Robby runs up the stairs towards the rooftop next.
Jack slowly undoes the buttons of your top as he kisses up your neck again, making his way back to your lips. he hovers over them for a second whispering,
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, wanted you.” he kisses you again, struggling with the buttons of your top. your fingers run through his grey curls, stopping at the roots to gently pull and tilt his head away from yours. A quiet groan slips from him at the loss of contact with your lips,
“Tell me how long,” you whisper with a seductive smile. Jack smiles back as he looks down at you, hands still in his hair,
“Since the second I met you, I didn’t care that you were Robby’s, I always knew you’d end up here with me,” he confesses. “And I’m not letting you go, I’m not making the same fucking mistake.” you pull him back in again for an even deeper kiss than before.
“Robby!” Doctor McKay calls out from a room. Robby dreadfully turns around. fifteen minutes he reminds himself as he walks over,
“I can’t find Abbot and I need an attending’s opinion on this.” as Cassie goes to unravel a bandaged wound, Robby turns to grab some disposable gloves before seeing the box is empty,
“Hold that thought, let me grab a new box of gloves.” Robby says turning around to head towards the supply closet. Robby turns his head left and right, looking around as he heads towards the closet, still unable to find the night shift attending. he couldn’t have gone far, not when he should be doing his usual nightcrawler huddle with the night shift now.
the supply closet door swings open. forcing Jack to stumble away from you. your eyes meet first with Robby’s whose eyes quickly dart to Jack’s. his lips are sticky with your lip gloss, and his short grey hair is somehow sticking in every direction possible. something about the thrill of being caught by Robby makes you lick your lips and beam a vicious smile at him. he looks back at you mortified, unable to determine if he should start yelling in anger or just close the door and pretend nothing happened. maybe this is your cue to leave and check back up on your emails and missed calls and texts. Jack and Robby turn to watch you pull a small rectangular paper out of your pocket, pressing it to Jack’s chest,
“I’ll be in town for a little longer.” you say, walking out of the closet back to the assigned room of your client. Princess watches you from a distance as you smooth your hair out and redo the buttons on your shirt. she quickly turns to Perlah to relay what she just witnessed.
Robby stands in the closet doorway still, hands on his hips as Jack looks at the small business card. one side is simply your first and last name on a sleek blank background. on the other side is your phone number and a small description at bottom:
Summary: You finally talked Jack into ditching the hospital for a beach getaway since every other trip you've taken together has been during colder seasons, buried under layers. Stripping down to swimwear, you're reminded of how just damn good your man looks under the Italian sun.
Warning: SMUT (MDNI 18+) established relationship, language, pet names, flashbacks to so much vacation sex (p in v sex, oral - both m&f), heavy petting/teasing, insecurity (jack's leg and prosthetic), alcohol consumption, pushy italian man not understanding you aren't interested, protective jack, lots of physical touch (dat man is obsessed with you), dirty talk, praise, semi-public smut, (jack fingers you in the ocean - hallelujah), possessiveness, casual dominance, its basically a story about vacation sex, but with plot and love okay? (y'all are both severely horny for one another), jack’s perfect (as per usual)
A/N: How are there not more vacation!jack fics? Please send them all my way. I hope people have some fun upcoming vacations planned as summer ramps up! GIF by @sammy-bryant found HERE. Dividers as always by @saradika-graphics.
Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
POSITANO, AMALFI COAST ITALY
You woke slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains of your suite at Le Sirenuse. Jack lay on his stomach beside you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other relaxed at his side. His face was turned toward you, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted. You had talked your man into ditching the hospital for a sunny getaway. Jack was utterly deserving of this rest. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in the faint scent of salt and his skin. He had been working tirelessly lately, and dating someone in such a high-stakes profession wasn’t easy, but he had recently switched to the day shift, telling you he didn’t like your opposite schedules anymore. Knowing he wanted to spend more time with you made you feel truly special.
You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.
Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.
You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.
Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.
You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.
The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.
"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.
Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."
Jack lowered himself into the sofa beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.
You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.
"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"
"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."
"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.
"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.
"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.
"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.
You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.
You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:
"I booked us that exclusive Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."
"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.
"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."
His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.
You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"
He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the sofa beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."
Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.
The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.
Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.
And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.
What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.
He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.
Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.
He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.
His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.
"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.
You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.
"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.
He deserved that.
"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.
"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.
"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.
"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."
Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at a massive institution managing over $7 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.
"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."
He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.
"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."
Jack paused. "Who?”
You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."
The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.
You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.
A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.
"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.
"A mojito, please."
"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the palms. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.
"Grazie," you said.
The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.
You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.
After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.
You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.
"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.
"You’re not from around here, are you?"
"Nope."
"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."
"Lucky them," you muttered.
"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.
"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.
He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."
"I guess."
"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."
"I’m not interested."
"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.
"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.
"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."
"Good thing I’m not yours, then."
He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.
A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.
"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"
Jack stood shirtless in swim trunks, a t-shirt twisted between his hands, the afternoon light catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.
The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his prosthetic caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.
"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"
"Look, I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued.
"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."
The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."
You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.
Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.
"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.
"Yeah. I am."
He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."
"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."
You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.
After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."
You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."
"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."
"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."
"You say that now—"
"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.
"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."
His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.
"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."
"Really?" you asked meekly.
Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.
"4 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy.
Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).
"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.
"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."
You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.
"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."
"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.
"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.
You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.
A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.
"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"
A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.
"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."
You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."
"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.
His logic was a seductive trap.
"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.
He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered, his voice a low, tender rumble. "Let me take care of you now."
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.
Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.
"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. "You’re doing so good for me."
You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.
"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."
As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his fingers moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.
Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.
"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”
His movements became more deliberate, his fingers curling slightly, searching. When he found that sweet spot inside you, your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.
"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.
"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed another soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"
He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.
A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with a filthy, knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."
He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you gasp. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a relentless counterpoint on your clit.
"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."
The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.
"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.
He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.
"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers curled, pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come again, just from my tongue."
"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.
"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."
He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you with a deep, steady rhythm that hit that perfect, devastating spot every single time.
"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"
The command in his voice, the filthy, vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.
He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.
You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.
"You did so good for me."
He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.
"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."
He turned around, and you draped limply over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.
Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger. You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.
He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.
"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.
"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.
"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."
Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.
"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.
Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.
Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.
"I love you," you murmured.
"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.
You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.
You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.
"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.
"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"
"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."
"Tempting.” His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last, playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."
You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging briefly to his torso.
"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.
"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?
He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.
"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."
You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.
"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.
"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said, her accent a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.
He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"
"Yes," you giggled.
She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.
"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."
He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.
"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.
You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.
"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."
"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.
"Thank you," you said.
As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.
Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.
Robby: She’s so out of your league.
Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.
Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.
Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.
Jack: I’m nervous as hell.
Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.
Robby then sent another quick message.
Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.
Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.
When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x female!reader
Warnings: domestic established relationship, breast massage for pain relief, comfort.
Summary: After a double shift, Jack helps soothe the ache of a long day.
Jack is about to say something about ordering takeout, but the words catch in his throat when he looks inside the bedroom.
You’ve already kicked off your sneakers and shed your jeans. Standing at the foot of the bed in just your sweatpants, you grab the hem of your t-shirt, and pull it over your head, letting it drop to the bed.
Next comes the real relief.
You reach back, unhooking your bra that’s been digging into your ribs for the last hours. With a groan of comfort, you toss it onto the nightstand. You cup your breasts, using your hands to gently massage the aching skin where the wires had been pressing and trapping heat all day, trying to get the blood flowing again.
Jack stands there for a moment, his gaze softening. The sheer domesticity of the scene makes something melt in him.
He steps fully into the room. "Everything okay, doll?" he asks.
You look up, letting out a smile. "Yeah. Just... bras are brutal after a double shift. It feels like they're trying to bruised my ribs by the end of the day."
Jack closes the distance between you.
"Bra problems require expert care," he teases softly, his hands coming to rest gently on your hips. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Let me take over? My hands are warm, and I happen to have an excellent bedside manner."
You smile, tilting your head. "Is that an official medical recommendation, Dr. Abbot?"
"Strictly therapeutic," he murmurs.
Jack turns you, his chest brushing against your bare back as he closes the distance. You instinctively lean into him, letting out a soft sigh as he supports you.
He wraps his arms around your waist for a brief second, pressing a warm kiss to the crook of your neck.
"Relax, doll," he whispers warmly against your skin.
He slides his hands upward, his palms completely warm against your skin as they replace your own. His hands cup you gently, immediately bringing a sense of relief to the ache.
Jack knows exactly how much pressure to apply, using his thumbs to trace the red indentations left behind by the underwire, smoothing over the irritated skin in slow circles.
You let your eyes close, completely melting against him. Your back is pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady, calming thud of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.
"Better?" Jack asks softly, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as his hands continue their soothing, rhythmic motion.
"So much better," you murmur, closing your eyes and letting your head rest back against his shoulder. "You're hired permanently."
"Good, because I don't plan on quitting my job," Jack chuckles. He presses a tender kiss to the side of your neck, his thumbs smoothing over your skin, content to just hold you and soothe away the stress of the day for as long as you need.
babe idk if this is up ur alley but im thinking about mean!pope degrading me saying something like “yknow you said you were a sweet girl but…” petting my hair “mm i dunno… sweet girls don’t beg for cock like this, and you wouldn’t lie to me would you?” and then he’s lowkey manipulative and makes me prove to him that im really a sweet girl 🙂↕️
HM HM HM maybe u've been getting in his feet all damn day...knowing he was gonna be busy talking a job out with his brothers which meant you should be sitting your ass safe n pretty by the pool all day until Pope was done and could come fuss on you.
N' you decided to mess that up, naughty little thing u are, just couldn't give the man a minute of peace when he already had to deal with Baz and Smurf breathing down his neck.
First it's "Andy, can you come rub sunscreen on my back?" delivered all sweet with a bat of your pretty lashes.
"Can't reach it," you pout, satisfied in seeing his already annoyed gaze zero in on your barely clad tits. He's there by your deck chair in the next five minutes, those big hands of his slathering SPF down your spine and sides until no patch of your supple skin is left unprotected.
Pope has shit to do (like he told you already, bunny) so he leaves you out there right after with little more than a peck to your lips and a gruff "'m busy." when you whine for more. But that just won't do will it?
It's after a few more increasingly desperate interruptions from your end (asking Pope if he could refill your drink when the fridge was right there was the cherry on top) that Andrew finally catches onto your little attention begging scheme and subsequently drags your pretty little ass to his old bedroom, locking the door on the way in with a resonant -click!- that makes you shiver. Uh oh.
"What's t'matter with you, huh?" Pope bites out, manhandling you onto his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. One of his hands grips the back of your thigh and pulls, pinning you to his body, the other roughly grabbing both your cheeks until your lips pucker out. "You want my attention that bad?"
The fucker smirks when you whine n tell him he's being mean, jaw aching from how hard he's holding your face. If anything, his thumb presses harder into the meat of your cheek, the hand holding your thigh drifting up to grope your asscheek. "Mean? You're the one bein' naughty, bun,"
"Thought you were my sweet girl..." He murmurs, his voice all gravelly, as he leans slightly further into your space if even possible. You whine again, a pitiful "I'm your sweet girl-" that makes Pope hem and haw as if mocking you. "I dunno...sweet girls don't spend all day annoyin' their boyfriend for cock,"
Downright predatory hazel eyes flick from your pouty lips to your pleading gaze and back again. "That's what you want, right? Want me to take care of my girl?" Ugh, that mocking tone coupled with the look sends a thrill down your spine that has you squirming in his lap, soaked bikini bottoms rubbing over his chubbing dick as you nod n babble "Please-", only for you to get spanked on the asscheek he was fondling in response, his rough paw swatting your pretty behind in quick succession. "Uh uh,"
"Not until you say sorry first," Fucker. Choosing to be petty when his cock is fully hard against your clothed pussy, twitching even.
Pope bullies his thumb between your lips, putting pressure in your tongue as spit floods your mouth. "Say sorry, bunny," the hand groping your ass crawls between your legs, fingers pulling the gusset aside so his index and middle digits can sink into your slick, sloppy puss.
Andrew fingers you like its a science, long nights of lovemaking having thought him exactly how you like to be touched and, more importantly, how to make you keen. His fingers scissor inside you between slow, squelching pumps, stretching you his chubby cock if only you'd behave right.
"'m sorry Andy-" you mumble, whimpering through your full mouth as your own hands scramble to grab at his shoulders, hips stuttering as the thrust of his fingers gets rougher and he leaves your poor clit purposefully abandoned.
"Say it like you mean it," he insists, forehead butting with yours as his pretty lashes flutter. He pulls his thumb away, replacing it with his questing mouth as he nips at your lower lip until you keen. "You're sorry for being bad, aren't you?"
It's only after you're almost crying with frustration, hips pushing back onto his hand, a litany of strung together "i'msorry,i'msorry,i'msorry-"'s that your usually sweet Andy takes pity on you and pins you prone to the bed, the sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor followed by the zip of his pants.
You feel him before you can even hear, blood rushing in your ears as he grabs the back of your neck and pins you down while the blunt head of his cock finally presses against your weeping entrance and into your soaked puss. "Shh, s'ok bun, lemme take care of my pretty girl,"
Jack Abbot who decided that he wanted you to have his kids. He was getting older and in his list of aspirations in the middle of to ‘be a good doctor’ and ‘be a perfect husband’ was ‘be a great dad’. His first two aspirations were completed, which meant that there was one more thing he needed to get done. Thankfully he had you, his pretty little wife to help him achieve his goal.
Jack Abbot whose first order was to check on his own fertility count. But clearly he took good care of himself, with the exception of a horrendous sleeping schedule, and that showed in his great results. Once that was out of the way, he needed to inspect you.
Jack Abbot who had woken up wanting to have a serious talk about having kids until he saw you bent over, ass in the air, cheeks flushed from the physical effort. And really there was nothing stopping him from propping you up into his arms and fast walking into the room, stopping the instinct he had of just tearing your clothes away and taking you then and there.
Jack Abbot who lays you down on your shared bed as you throw him an inquisitive glance, after all, you were in the middle of your home yoga practice when your husband had picked you up without a word.
Jack Abbot who met your lips with his, silencing your surprise by swiping in his tongue, loving how you taste. He had prowled over you, hazel eyes dark with need, taking what he wanted as he slowly started grinding his bulge over your cunt, only separated by the thin fabric of leggings.
Jack Abbot who whispered in your ear about a pussy inspection, that he wanted to make sure that ‘His perfect girl could take his seed’. And of course that made you gasp at how dirty he sounded, but in reality you loved it, loved how he made you feel so made for him.
Jack Abbot who actually ripped your leggings apart one handedly but you were too horny, too lost in the kiss to care.
Jack Abbot who drew shapeless patterns down your neck with his tongue, sucking on your nipples before letting go with a resounding pop. Continuing his trajectory downwards until he left a perfect lick where you needed him most.
Jack Abbot who chuckled when he started sucking on your clit, his hands holding your hips down as you tried to buck up for even more friction.
Jack Abbot who made you cum once before explaining clearly what he was going to do with his fingers.
“Sweetheart you’re going to take one finger first, and then I’ll inch in the others slowly, you get it? 'm wanna make sure your pussy is perfect, so I can make you the mom of my children”
Jack Abbot who follows through, enjoying the quelching sound of him entering your warmth, the way your eyes rolled back when three of his fingers pistoned into you at a fast pace after you passed his first inspection, the way your eyes rolled back when he finally used his cock.
Jack Abbot who cums not once, not twice, but three times just from imagining you as the mother of his children, already knowing how soft and patient you would be. He then holds up your legs as though it was scientific, and continuously pushes his cum back deep into you when it threatened to spill onto the sheets, not caring as your body shuddered from overstimulation.
Jack Abbot who made a mental note to look up which positions would be most likely to lead to pregnancy.
♡ first thing he does, GROW A BEARD. maintaining it while hunting and moving around all day every day is really difficult, but when you guys start living in one place, he likes to take care of himself like that. plus, he grows out his hair, and he knows you love it.
♡ he gets a job at a nice mechanic, but he also does volunteering at the local fire station. he always wanted to be a firefighter when he grew up, y'know?
♡ when he comes home from work, all sweaty and musty and stinky, all you wanna do is bury yourself in his neck and hold him. breathing in that secretly delicious scent is truly a reminder you're safe now.
♡ if you have kids, he is actually one of the best dads you've ever seen. he's gentle, even when his hands have so much blood on them. he's caring, and so kind. he loves your child(ren) like they're the greatest creation (they are, but whatever).
♡ he gets a guitar. acoustic, preferably. he learns his own favorite songs, he learns yours, he learns 'hey jude' first, because that song is so precious to him. he learns about half of the beatles discography, a lot of lynyrd skynyrd, and some billy joel (specifically 'lullaby (goodnight, my angel'). your favorite, though? he learns all of the songs you danced to at your wedding, plays them once a week on the porch if the weather's nice, you sitting beside him and singing with him gently.
♡ he is a beautiful woodworker. he makes cabinets, shelves, sculptures, silverware and dinnerware. but your favorite? a porch swing, with 'winchester' and your wedding date carved into the top of the bench.
♡ he goes to car shows, and quite often participates. when he does, he puts a cute little surprise in the secret trunk, which, is usually snacks for you guys to eat while people watching, but sometimes he'll put little games or toys for the children there.
♡ he loves it when the neighborhood kids come to check out Baby. he lets them sit in the front seat, crawl around the back, he always performs a little when he's driving around and they're outside, just to hear them cheer for his girl. all of which is a very, very huge surprise to you.
♡ you guys have weekly dinners with sam and eileen. you all sit at your custom made dinner table, in your beautiful dining room, where you and dean worked together to build the meal and dessert, sam calling you guys 'lovebirds' all night with eileen making a bunch of dirty jokes in sign that dean wishes he understood, and sam wishes he could rip his eyes out after.
♡ though he usually keeps baby's second trunk empty, he does still carry a hand gun around. better safe than sorry, right? and, if he met you after he retired from hunting, he tought you how to use it as soon as you got serious, because he can't risk losing you after getting this far.
nsfw
☆ you remember that beard from earlier? he loves to rub it softly against your skin, tickle your thighs, because he knows it makes you weak in the knees. he uses that beard as foreplay, teasing down your belly for at least 10 minutes before he finally puts his mouth where you want it.
☆ the old partly scrawny dean is gone. now, it's big, burly dean instead. his arms are bigger, he's so much stronger, he gained weight and muscle along with it, and my oh my. he can pin you down to the bed with one hand, and that's all i have to say about that.
☆ when he comes home from work and sees you all dolled up on the couch, he takes you straight, then and there. works you up like he has all night, because he does.
☆ he loves to take you down to the local bar just to get jealous when the other patrons stare at you, and then fuck you silly when you get home, pushing your head into the mattress and making sure you know you're his.
☆ sometimes, there's a place in town where they host rodeo nights, and if he said he didn't get a raging hard-on when he saw you dressed up like a sweet cowgirl, leather chaps and bell bottom jeans, a tied-up flannel, and topped off with a cute little cowboy hat and boots? he'd be a big fat liar. oh, and by the way? the hat stays on. and don't worry, sweetheart, he wears one too.
☆ he buys you lots of gifts. lingerie, toys, anything. he loves to sit back and let his girl play with them while he watches from afar, listening to how you whine his name when you get close, how he'll tell you exactly what to do and you do it, how he gets to sweet talk you so close to orgasm, then make you pull away at the last second.
☆ he LOVES showering together. a sleepy morning, holding your waist, grinding against your ass while fingering you, or a tired evening after work where all he wants to do is get inside you, moaning into your ear while your wet hair sticks to the side of his face. even if it's not sexual, he loves just washing your hair for you, rubbing your face wash in with calloused thumbs, letting you scratch his scalp and back with suds on your fingers.
☆ he loves whispering dirty things into your ear, like the things he's going to do to you later, the ways he's going to take all of your clothes off, the ways he's going to take you apart, the way he plans to moan your name as he cums inside of you, while you're in public. watching you get all flustered, blushing like a maniac in the middle of an aldis. during this whole thing, he pretends to be absolutely, completely innocent.
☆ everytime he fucks you, he makes the bed rock. he puts his whole body and strength into it. whether it be slow, sweet, and gentle, the bed creaking under your combined weight, or hard, fast, and rough, the headboard hitting the wall continuously, the bed is always moving. maybe he made the frame that way, maybe he's just putting so much into it he can't control it.
Summary: Just a little blurb about reader and jack’s escapades in bed. With filming mini sex tapes being one of their favourite ways to spice things up in the bedroom.
Wordcount: 800 ~
Tags: Smut 18 + MDNI, sex tapes, dirty talk, pet names, idk its pretty self explanatory, no use of y/n, softdom!abbot, established relationship, freak4freak.
A/N: explicit writing eeeek! Luv the idea of freak4freak gotta meet each other on the same page, implied previous conversations on kink/boundaries etc. Healthy boundaries and communication is important and hot u guys!
Dividers by @strangergraphics!
There is really something about how Abbot loves to film you. He really is obsessed with you, the way you squirm under his gaze, under his touch, and of course under his filthy habit of filming little snippets of your sex life.
You can see it in his eyes, he’d be all sweet and loving on you rubbing down your tits, whispering sweet nothings into your ears as he bites down on your ear and jaw. You’d see the glint in his eyes when you moan a bit louder at the contact of his teeth with your jaw and he pulls back quickly, pushing into you deeply. Without missing a beat or thrust, Jack reaches over you to get his phone from the nightstand, telling his pretty girl to keep going, just like that, with you taking over, rocking your hips up towards Jack with a level of determination you reserve only for the bedroom. He takes his phone in one hand, and drills into you just the way you like it, eyes rolling back and whimpers running out of your mouth. Oh it’s like he is so obsessed with catching you mid orgasm, clawing at him to pay attention to you, but no, he is too busy with his phone,
“Sush, this is for us - for when we aren’t together baby”.
And you stretch more, over exaggerate like the good girl you are, tits up to the camera, desperate for him to tell you how well you are doing, a firm hand landing on the side of your hip, squeezing the soft flesh, half moons from his nails pressing into your skin.
“oh Jackie please, please, oh please - yes!”,
exclaiming as he aids you riding out that wave, thumb of his freehand swirling around your clit, laughing smugly at your desperation. As much as Jack loves to see you like this, his favourite part, to catch on camera, more than your desperate moans or your hips rocking harshly against his, is his ropes hitting your chest with you all blissed out, pussy pulsing from the sudden loss of him inside. He murmurs over and over as he cums -
“oh god yeah, such a pretty girl for me - oh god f-uck”.
He makes damn sure to zoom in on how his cum looks on your plush tits, capturing the obscenity of it all. As you both come down from it all, heavy breathing and deep kisses, Jack puts the phone down beside you turning it off. With one deep kiss on your jaw he tells you that he doesn’t think its possible to love you anymore, telling you in between laboured breaths that your his -
“Sweet, sweet angel, I love you so much baby”
If anyone found out what the two of you got up to in the bedroom, you’d be mortified, you think you’d have to leave the country from embarrassment, but in the moment Jack makes you feel so good, so safe and so loved that you couldn’t care less that he takes out his phone, in fact, you secretly love putting on the performance of a lifetime for him as he shines the camera light in your face. Afterwards, you are lying in bed, water in hand, chest cleaned with the precision only he could have, head on his chest curled in as if you’d die if you didn’t have as much surface area contact between your bodies as possible, asking Jack -
“You would never show anyone these videos would you?”
the post sex clarity and anxiety slowly seeping in. Jack sweeps the messy strands of your hair off your forehead, looking down on you with a level of softness that makes your legs weak. A look of concern washes over his eye, as he pushes those gorgeous, now damp, curls off of his forehead, trying to gauge how serious you are being right now. You know he wouldn’t ever actually do anything with the video or spread it around, but you need to be reassured anyways.
“No sweetness, why would I ever do something so cruel to you?”
And you hum sleepily against his side curled up, and god, you would do anything to stay like this forever. As you sink further into his side, Jack thinks of all the times he’s looked at the select few videos he has of you, tucked away in a private password protected folder, made especially for when your schedules don’t align and god the sound of your moans nearly give him a heart attack with how much it makes him want you. It leaves him counting down the hours until the next time he gets to hear you keen “Jackie” at him again. He sighs in sync with you, wondering what he did to deserve a woman like you in his life, his sweet, sweet girl.
♡ first thing he does, GROW A BEARD. maintaining it while hunting and moving around all day every day is really difficult, but when you guys start living in one place, he likes to take care of himself like that. plus, he grows out his hair, and he knows you love it.
♡ he gets a job at a nice mechanic, but he also does volunteering at the local fire station. he always wanted to be a firefighter when he grew up, y'know?
♡ when he comes home from work, all sweaty and musty and stinky, all you wanna do is bury yourself in his neck and hold him. breathing in that secretly delicious scent is truly a reminder you're safe now.
♡ if you have kids, he is actually one of the best dads you've ever seen. he's gentle, even when his hands have so much blood on them. he's caring, and so kind. he loves your child(ren) like they're the greatest creation (they are, but whatever).
♡ he gets a guitar. acoustic, preferably. he learns his own favorite songs, he learns yours, he learns 'hey jude' first, because that song is so precious to him. he learns about half of the beatles discography, a lot of lynyrd skynyrd, and some billy joel (specifically 'lullaby (goodnight, my angel'). your favorite, though? he learns all of the songs you danced to at your wedding, plays them once a week on the porch if the weather's nice, you sitting beside him and singing with him gently.
♡ he is a beautiful woodworker. he makes cabinets, shelves, sculptures, silverware and dinnerware. but your favorite? a porch swing, with 'winchester' and your wedding date carved into the top of the bench.
♡ he goes to car shows, and quite often participates. when he does, he puts a cute little surprise in the secret trunk, which, is usually snacks for you guys to eat while people watching, but sometimes he'll put little games or toys for the children there.
♡ he loves it when the neighborhood kids come to check out Baby. he lets them sit in the front seat, crawl around the back, he always performs a little when he's driving around and they're outside, just to hear them cheer for his girl. all of which is a very, very huge surprise to you.
♡ you guys have weekly dinners with sam and eileen. you all sit at your custom made dinner table, in your beautiful dining room, where you and dean worked together to build the meal and dessert, sam calling you guys 'lovebirds' all night with eileen making a bunch of dirty jokes in sign that dean wishes he understood, and sam wishes he could rip his eyes out after.
♡ though he usually keeps baby's second trunk empty, he does still carry a hand gun around. better safe than sorry, right? and, if he met you after he retired from hunting, he tought you how to use it as soon as you got serious, because he can't risk losing you after getting this far.
nsfw
☆ you remember that beard from earlier? he loves to rub it softly against your skin, tickle your thighs, because he knows it makes you weak in the knees. he uses that beard as foreplay, teasing down your belly for at least 10 minutes before he finally puts his mouth where you want it.
☆ the old partly scrawny dean is gone. now, it's big, burly dean instead. his arms are bigger, he's so much stronger, he gained weight and muscle along with it, and my oh my. he can pin you down to the bed with one hand, and that's all i have to say about that.
☆ when he comes home from work and sees you all dolled up on the couch, he takes you straight, then and there. works you up like he has all night, because he does.
☆ he loves to take you down to the local bar just to get jealous when the other patrons stare at you, and then fuck you silly when you get home, pushing your head into the mattress and making sure you know you're his.
☆ sometimes, there's a place in town where they host rodeo nights, and if he said he didn't get a raging hard-on when he saw you dressed up like a sweet cowgirl, leather chaps and bell bottom jeans, a tied-up flannel, and topped off with a cute little cowboy hat and boots? he'd be a big fat liar. oh, and by the way? the hat stays on. and don't worry, sweetheart, he wears one too.
☆ he buys you lots of gifts. lingerie, toys, anything. he loves to sit back and let his girl play with them while he watches from afar, listening to how you whine his name when you get close, how he'll tell you exactly what to do and you do it, how he gets to sweet talk you so close to orgasm, then make you pull away at the last second.
☆ he LOVES showering together. a sleepy morning, holding your waist, grinding against your ass while fingering you, or a tired evening after work where all he wants to do is get inside you, moaning into your ear while your wet hair sticks to the side of his face. even if it's not sexual, he loves just washing your hair for you, rubbing your face wash in with calloused thumbs, letting you scratch his scalp and back with suds on your fingers.
☆ he loves whispering dirty things into your ear, like the things he's going to do to you later, the ways he's going to take all of your clothes off, the ways he's going to take you apart, the way he plans to moan your name as he cums inside of you, while you're in public. watching you get all flustered, blushing like a maniac in the middle of an aldis. during this whole thing, he pretends to be absolutely, completely innocent.
☆ everytime he fucks you, he makes the bed rock. he puts his whole body and strength into it. whether it be slow, sweet, and gentle, the bed creaking under your combined weight, or hard, fast, and rough, the headboard hitting the wall continuously, the bed is always moving. maybe he made the frame that way, maybe he's just putting so much into it he can't control it.
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