the original sinner @anyoneseenadam - Tumblr Blog

Gonna be carving out some time on Christmas Eve to re read some jack and sleepy, because THE JOY IT BRINGS IS WHAT THE HOLIDAYS WAS INTENDED FOR !!!!!!

CHRISTMAS FANTASY

Even when it's Christmas morning with his dream girl naked against him as she harasses him with her cold feet, Jack can't help but let the holiday surface his possessive, deepening thoughts about her...her being you, and you, and you. 🎄❤️

WORD COUNT: 2.3K // NSFW in the sense that Jack wants to fuck you badly, filthy references to when you've fucked, but no actual fucking. A little bit of nipple stuff, though. // Jack's POV // implications of an unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, entitlement, and obsessiveness, but it ain't so bad cause it's Christmas with Abbot!! // J.A MASTERLIST // ROBBY MASTERLIST // AUTHOR MASTERLIST

** Crash!Jack is not a widower // age gap // there's a surprise in this one! **

Jack wakes to warmth on Christmas morning. Not the brittle winter cold—but warmth that smells like lavender and feels like your tits pressing against his chest.

It’s the familiar, perfected pressure of a sleepy body, yours. He doesn’t open his eyes right away.

“Damn it—”

But he has to when your foot, cold as absolute sin, nudges against his shin.

There goes the warmth he was praising you for. Snippy, risky whore.

“Jesus Christ.”

He hears and feels you laughing softly, the sound pressed into his collarbone. He swallows the burn of your lips because it’s Christmas, and that means something, apparently.

Things like “I probably should keep myself from stuffing kiddo before she gets to open a gift. Especially when I got to the night before. Greedy fuck.”

…You’re the one who came to him in nothing but a Santa hat. You couldn’t possibly be surprised that he made sure you’re still leaking from Christmas Eve, Sleepy.

Let him be filthy against you without self-hatred. Think of it as a gift he desperately needs. Really.

“It’s Christmas. You should be up and about!”

You’re sprawled on top of him, hair a mess, and face nuzzling into his neck like you belong there. He feels that Goddamned sacreligious scrooge burn everywhere: in the lazy weight of your thigh thrown over his, the heat where your skin meets his…saved for your hypothermic toes, the night still lingering in your swollen lips and faint marks around your nipples.

He remembers making them. He finds the images with his pants suddenly becoming tighter and a car crunching over snow outside his window.

“...Mhm.”

Jack rolls his neck with the flip of his stomach that he remembers resenting with all of the pink in his brain, but those days are fading more and more because, well, he has to make room for moments like these, you swollen and bare against him bare, like his body could possibly deserve yours.

And he’s not exactly the happy wanderer that he’s practically the happy wanderer in forgetting when he was moral enough about you to be a guilty bastard. That should mean something.

His hand slides up your stomach to squeeze your breast. He stares up at the ceiling as he locks on the little gaspish squeak you make.

Isn’t that a Christmas Carol?

Jack’s lips curve into a half-smile before clearing his throat.

“It’s too early for you to be assaulting me with your freezing toes—”

Your foot pushes harder, victorious. Jack blinks quickly over whatever gruff noise escapes him.

For how perfect you are, you can be such a little shit sometimes. Like last with the Santa hat stint, when you simply said you were going to take a shower and locked the door behind you. Now he has a broken lock for the bathroom.

“You run hot. I’m regulating.”

Jack half-snorts before flickering your nipple and finding your waist, pressing you closer to his body. Regulating would be keeping you inside him and letting you ice his veins. You make a quiet sound of protest that melts into a laugh.

You fit there too easily, kiddo—tucked into him, warm where you’re supposed to be. His body responds instantly, annoyingly, with the pulse of his cock, a shallowing breath.

Those things, along with a heat pooling in his crotch and the…sharp humming of his skin. Look. You make a starving poet out of him.

“That’s not regulation. That’s you being hostile.”

Still hungry, Abbot, hence the fact that it’s right to claim you’re a greedy bastard. Yeah…there’s so much—too much Goddamned time wasted with kiddo, but breathe.

You’ll have all the Christmases in the world to fill her holes. Cook her breakfast. Watch her sleep. Keep her safe.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Jackie.”

You shift, and Jack’s pretty sure it’s a deliberate stretch like you know exactly what it does to him—the familiar nuisance of your cold foot wedges itself under his knee.

“You trying to kill me?”

“You love it.”

Jack traps the offending foot under his knee, smothering it like that’ll solve anything. You sigh in satisfaction, utterly pleased with yourself as he looks to your innocent foot.

Your nails are painted. Bright. Festive. Fitting for sunshine. There’s a tiny snowflake on the big toe, chipped at the edge.

Jack swallows, focus taking a lingering moment to find its way back to your breasts, then your face, then the ceiling again. He feels that heavy, low twist at the pit of his stomach at your wiggling toes under him.

Well, he has all the Christmases in the world to realize he can still be guilty of filthy fucking things, too.

He blinks when he feels you shift in a way that means you’re going to get up and leave him.

He catches your wrist and waist before you do.

“Where are you going?”

You’re watching him sitting up, eyes warm and unguarded. No flinch when he attempts to stare you into an answer, and maybe that’s because his question wasn’t as gruff as it could be, but you’re unbothered by his scrutiny. You always are, now.

Wasn’t there a time when that’s what you claimed you would never want, Abbot? That there was a time something like this seemed impossible, even if you did?

Wasn’t there a time you’d blown your brains out at the dangerous, thick satisfaction that settles in your chest over this? Over kiddo’s acceptance of your awful way about her? Yeah. You haven’t forgotten that yet.

“M’ gonna get dressed and get ready for presents. And hot cocoa. And Home Alone Two.”

“We’re watching Die Hard.”

You never recoil at what’s…conventionally possessive about him. His therapist is brave enough to name it as obsessiveness over you, your body, your safety, being the only thing at the forefront of the pink of your brain. He’s not there yet. Soft steps, right?

It can’t be completely as hellish as his counselor and self-hatred perceive it to be, not if you don’t recoil or tease him for it. You just relax into it like it’s expected, like it’s the shape of things.

Like these…behaviors are Jack, and you can’t change what or who he is or how he loves and needs you.

You don’t bristle at his edges, you just accept his watchfulness, his rules, the way his concern always sharpens into control.

Why push away all of the things that make up your partner’s soul? Even if he’s sure it’d be going to hell if there was one. You know not to. Sleepy would never do that.

“Mm…”

You lean in, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw, then his mouth—unhurried and indulgent. Comfortable. Jack shuts his eyes.

Keep going and see if you’ll get to open your presents in the next twenty minutes. Go ahead, Sleepy.

“We’re watching Home Alone Two.”

Jack opens his eyes. His hand slides to your cheek.

“Not a damn chance.”

He rolls his shoulders, eye twitching as he scratches underneath. He stretches before stating what is not a suggestion, because you don’t have to do anything on a holiday, you’re much more festive about than he is.

“Stay here. I’ll get your clothes.”

You pause in your smile, and for a split second, Jack expects resistance…like you wouldn’t just smile instead. Soft girl going to like back down with an—

“Okie dokie, captain.”

You and he will probably do everything wrong and perfect after you get ready. Coffee in old mugs. You’ll steal his shirt, like you always you, but he won’t protest, because if you don’t protest…well, you deserve a return on that.

He’ll correct how you butter your toast. At most, you’ll roll your eyes, but do it his way anyway. He’ll stand too close behind you in the kitchen, chin resting on your shoulder.

You won’t bristle when he tells you to slow down on the ice. Domestic irritation and knowing damn well that even though it’s not Christmas tomorrow, you two will do it all over again.

At one point, you’ll ask if he’s going to be like this all day.

“Like what?”

“Bossy.”

He’ll shrug. “Probably.”

Right now, you're snuggling yourself back onto the couch.

“You didn’t have to go overboard.” You glance over at the small pile of gifts beneath the three, most of them for you, all of them stupidly feminine and decorated.

Exactly you.

“I’m guilty of how little my pile for you looks next to yours. How could you do this to me?”

Jack doesn’t blink as he rubs your thigh. Ridiculous woman.

“Yeah, how dare I buy you a mountain of things you desperately want?”

And every single one, you’ll open them with a gasp, delighted and squealing. You’ll probably throw yourself back at him and kiss him to the point where you shouldn’t be mad that he won’t make it to the next gift, stuffing your hole with your head under the tree as you reach for his palms—

“You want marshmallows in your cocoa?”

Save the fantasy spiel, Abbot. Let her have her day. It’ll be a reality later.

“Duh. What kind of question is that?”

“Don’t try it.” Jack swings his legs over the side of the couch, ready to stand and find himself slaving over the stove to make you hot chocolate.

“I can still hide some of those for next…”

Jack’s feet hit the floor.

He blinks. He looks down.

Yeah. It’s feet. Not one foot. Two. Cold tile under both soles.

He had—has two legs to swing over the side of the couch. To stand on.

The weight distribution is even in a way his body hasn’t known for years. His foot—his right foot—presses flat into the rug. There’s no careful, routined shift or hitch in movement. No phantom ache he carries every other morning without thinking. No absence. Both legs are solid and whole.

There’s no prosthetic to find against the coffee table.

The warmth drains out of his chest so rushed that it gives him every other symptom of a heart attack.

“No. No.”

“Jack, what’s wrong?”

Jack, on the impossible ease and symmetry of his legs, turns back to you.

He stares down at his legs. At the symmetry. At the impossible ease of it.

“This is—this isn’t…”

Jack trails off at the fact that you’re still smiling at him, and it doesn’t take him being an M.D to know something about it is off now, and that’s an impossible, possibly horrifying fucking thing—for your smile to be anything less than something that burns a hole through him. But it’s too…smooth.

Too accepting.

The room tilts. The tree lights sharpen into a garble. The smell of lavender disappears.

You blear into nothing.

“Wait—”

Jack jolts awake.

His heart hammers, blankets tangled around his waist. His place is silent. Empty. Gray winter light filters through the blinds he hasn’t cared to open in days. In a deepening sigh, he looks toward the coffee table.

His prosthetic stands exactly where he left it.

His lips narrow with clenched fists and a fire setting under his muscles.

…You filthy fucking idiot.

How could he—how in the hell could he let a dream like that happen? And no, he shouldn’t allow himself to be this fucking pissed over a dream not being real, not when it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

…But he just woke up. He’s just too tired to turn his self-awareness into anything meaningful.

“Merry Christmas to you, you fuck.”

Jack half-slams his one foot against the coffee table, snagging his prosthetic just in time before it falls, never not glaring into nothing as he settles it onto his body, which will feel ridiculous later, but he…he—

He had it.

No. All he had was a stupid fucking dream.

On the newly distance tabled, his phone buzzes. He grabs it too fast and turns it over to focus his glare on the lit screen.

Speak of the devil.

Merry Christmas JACK!!! 🎄❤️, hope you get some rest today xx

That’s it.

No warmth against his body. No cold, painted toes poking him awake. No warmth under his arm. No cold foot poking him awake. No easy, dangerous version of a world where you stay and don’t mind the cost.

Yeah. That’d be enough to get him this riled up. That’s not your fault.

Jack rubs his face, after staring at the screen longer than he should, chest tight and jaw set, as if he doesn’t move, this moment might rearrange itself into something.

Call that a Christmas miracle.

The garage is colder than the house, breath fogging as Jack steps onto the rubber mat. He doesn’t put music on. Doesn’t need it. The rhythm of iron is enough.

Deadlifts. Slow. Controlled. Overkill. Push-ups until his shoulders burn.

It's balance work with jaw clenched, furious at the way his body reminds him—again—of what he doesn’t have.

Every rep is penance. Every rep is controlled.

By the time he’s done, sweat-soaked and shaking, the edge of the dream has dulled.

The anger hasn't. Neither has the hunger that seeps from the luckier Jack Abbot.

Jack showers before he tries to sit on the couch and watch TV in nothing but a towel. The first home alone is on.

He shuts it off after five minutes.

When he goes to dress, he finds the dresser drawer sticks when he tries to open it, and the wood groans and resists as he yanks on it.

“Of course.”

He grabs his keys and finds a singular hardware store that’s open with dim, buzzing fluorescent lights. He wanders the aisles and ends up buying a small tool he’s needed for weeks and didn’t bother to get.

This is what a Christmas off shift is for, really. Making use of time.

At the register, the cashier—a woman his age, rightfully tired but cheerful—rings him up.

“Last-minute Christmas shopping?”

Jack exhales through his nose.

“Something like that.”

She smiles.

“For someone special?”

He doesn’t hesitate. There’s no shame in the answer. Trust him, there’s a lot of other things Jack has to be ashamed about, and one of those things happened not two hours ago.

“For me.”

The lady laughs politely. He adds, dry:

“Hard to disappoint myself.”

That gets a real chuckle. She wishes him a Merry Christmas.

He nods, already halfway out the door.

There’s a diner Jack stops in that’s open too. A miracle for him. A punishment for their workers who probably just want to be home with their families.

He orders something heavy with meat and eats it in his car because he doesn’t want to sit and bother the poor guys with his presence and the possibility that they might have to refill his coffee mug.

The police scanner crackles softly from the dash, familiar, grounding—voices talking about quiet emergencies.

The world is still turning. Still messy. He chews. Swallows.

She’s probably with her family. She’ll probably where her pajamas the entire day. His filth is unfortunate enough to know what you usually wear to bed from the occasional selfie you send, but you’re definitely one to match your sleepwear with the holiday. You’re probably in flannel. Flannel’s good. Flannel’s good.

Jack takes another bite of his food, chewing as he pulls out his phone.

Hope you’re having a good day.

The typing bubble appears, disappears, and appears again. Jack swallows:

I am 🥰 lots of food, too much family. Missing work a little though. You okay?

He almost scoffs. Missing work. Of course, she would.

…He does too.

I’m fine.

It’s not a dramatic lie. Even if there was, there is never a place in the universe that makes it plausible, probable, or possible that Jack would ever tell you about the dream.

Merry Christmas, Sleepy.

There’s a pause in the reply. Longer this time. Jack blinks at the screen.

Merry Christmas, Jack ❤️

At that, Jack leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing. The day will keep moving past you.

God, father of the birthday boy, knows he won’t.