đđđ đđđđđâđ đ đđđđđđđđ đđđđđ. đâ°đŚ˘.âἍᥠâ iâll be reblogging soon, please give them all the love and support. random fandom order, 18+ only please.
â part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4
Coming Home To You, đ.đ, @moodyabbott
City Limits, đ.đ, @in-ky
Always Go Older, đ.đ, @bluetimeombre
The Better Woman, đ.đ, @annsfics
Little Green Monster, đ.đ, @seewhoyouwanttosee
Bet Gone Right, đ.đ, @fangirl-dot-com
Test The Theory, đ.đ, @moodyabbott
Special Treatment, đ.đ, @popecodysgirl
Give Me Five Minutes, đ.đ.đ, @groovyangelkisses
Strays, đ.đ, @rr-after-dark
To Need Somebody, đ.đ, @barnesdreamcatcher
Paper Thin Walls, đ.đ, @agnireed
Can We Just Be Quick, đ.đ.đ, @romantic-insomniac
Darling, đ.đ, @mooninsaggy
Inferno, đ.đ, @glamorizethechaos
Take You Down, đ.đ, @sugartalkingwrites
Watermelon, đ.đ, @groovyangelkisses
Heartbeat, đ.đ, @youknowiloveyou-so
The Right Thing, đ.đ, @annsfics
Back In The Car, đ.đ.đ, @in-ky
Hard To Get, đ.đ, @bluetimeombre
Tacticle, đ.đ, @grimgasm
Slice Of Life, đ.đ.đ, @rr-after-dark
Helpful, đ.đ, @groovyangelkisses
Manâs Duty, đ.đ, @annsfics
Iced Lemonade, đ.đ, @moodyabbott
Controversially Younger, đ.đ, @j4ckr4bbits
The Aftermath, đ.đ, @seewhoyouwanttosee
Pulled Over, đ.đ, @groovyangelkisses
Safe Haven, đ.đ.đ, @agnireed
Devil Of The Danforth Estate, đ.đ, @cherienymphe
Breaking Him, đ.đ, @nowimconvinced
Young Nurse, đ.đ, @popecodysgirl
Get What I Want, đ.đ, @annsfics
Beautifully Broken, đ.đ.đ, @pedroscurls
Sweetheart, đ.đ, @unhoelyplaces
Kiss It Better, đ.đ, @cherryambition
Her Name, đ.đ.đ, @fanficwritinggirl
Safety, đ.đ, @rynwrites4fun
Townhouse On The Corner, đ.đ, @moodyabbott
Guard Dog, đ.đ.đ, @rr-after-dark
Praise Perfection, đ.đ, @agnireed
Lonely Out In Paris, đ.đ, @ceriseangels
The Baby Gift, đ.đ, @raccooninthemachine
Got No Game, đ.đ, @pittrabbit
First Fight, đ.đ.đ, @tumbleweedstillhaspanic
summary: Every year, around the anniversary of his wifeâs death, Jack starts slipping away from you piece by pieceâand this time, the loneliness festering between you finally reaches a breaking point.
cw: angst, smut (mdni, 18+), arguments, misplaced jealousy, insecurities, discussions of death, jack's not doing great, a happy ending
smut warnings: the opening scene involves consensual sex with some internal conflict and hesitation from the reader. thereâs no explicit refusal, but there are moments of discomfort and emotional tension, so please read with that in mind.
wc: 5kÂ
a/n: Iâm lying, this fic is 4.9k words. not beta read bc i don't want to
now playing:Â Renegade â Big Red Machine, Taylor Swift
You have loved Jack long enough to recognize the signs. The fleeting eye contact, the missed dinner reservations, the driftingâhe turns into a ghost around this date, like he canât wait to join the woman he truly yearns for in the afterlife.Â
Part of you is aware that he doesnât mean to hurt your feelings, and that you are hardly being fair in your bitterness, but the jealousy comes and wonât go when you watch him sink into his melancholia.Â
You hold your breath and hope that the phase passes, as it always does, and that while it does, your soul stays intact. Despite the vicious covetousness that floods through your every vein, you want him to feel your supportâyou canât begin to imagine what it feels like to have lost the love of your life. You only know what it feels like not to be the love of his life.
Itâs the early morning, and for once, Jack isnât coming from his night shift to immediately get himself shot with SWAT. You hear the front door close, then the soft thump of his shoes being placed in the cupboard. Only half asleep, you can picture his after-work routine: a full glass of water downed in one sip, a quick shower, and then a fresh pair of pajamas. Except for the change of clothes and the removal of his prosthetic, none of those things happen before he slips into bed.Â
His hands are cold when they find your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You wait for the kiss on your cheek that he usually bestows upon you to greet you, but it never comes.Â
âHi,â you mumble, sleep sticking to your voice.Â
He hums a half-answer, not a single word actually discernible.Â
Youâd blame it on a bad shift if the upcoming Friday wasnât that date.Â
Jack moves a little, and his hands wander up from your side to cross in front of your chest. Itâs harder to breathe like this, but you missed him so much you wonât complain.Â
Your nipples harden when his fingers brush over your breasts, and heat collects in your lower tummy, along with the slightest bit of discomfort. You would never say it out loud, but youâre terrified heâs imagining her right now.Â
He palms you through your camisole, his cool hands gentle but demanding.Â
It was one of the first things you noticed about himâhow cold his hands always were. He had laughed when you told him and said he was a doctor, that that was just part of the job. And it stayed true to this day; whether he was holding your hand, passing you something, or burying his fingers deep inside you, his skin was always icy enough to make you shiver a little.Â
You want to speak up, say something to him, ask him about his day, but the only thing that makes it out of your mouth is a soft moan when he cups your breast and kneads it.Â
âSuch a pretty sound, baby,â he whispers. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear, chasing goosebumps up and down your arms. His breath ghosts over your face, and your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open as Jack spins his webs of sweet comfort around you.Â
He spends so much time working you open and pliant for himâtugging and twisting your nipples until you are writhing right in his arms, desperation turning you into a whining mess. Only then does he move his fingers lower. They drift between the valley of your breasts, then over your belly button, until he meets the edge of your panties.Â
âJack,â you gasp, his name more prayer than anything else.Â
He shushes you sweetly, then slips underneath your waistband. Youâre warm and wet and gooey, like honey on the stove. His fingers drag through your folds, collecting your arousal that already drenches your underwear.Â
âFuck,â he whispers, âSo goddamn wet for me. Missed me that much, hm?â
He has no idea. How much you still miss him even now, while his pointer and middle finger circle your clit, the pressure just gentle enough to keep you eager.
âJackâyeah, I-I did,â you manage to answer.
With his free hand, he finds your mouth. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip before he tugs it down a little. Your tongue darts out almost instinctively, and he uses that opportunity to press the pad of his finger against the wet muscle. When your lips close around his digit, he moans out loud.Â
The pressure in your mouth almost makes you gag, but with his fingers teasing your entrance, all you can think about is how badly you want him. You keep letting your tongue swirl around his finger, sucking him deeper into the hollow of your throat, while his middle and ring finger slip inside of you.Â
At first, the fullness is what youâve been waiting for. Your warm walls stretch for him, accommodating the size of his digits that work their way in and out of you. But when he thrusts his fingers deeper into you, thereâs a new coldness introduced, one you wish wouldnât belong to him.Â
As he curls his fingers to meet your G-spot, you feel the hard metal of his wedding ring bite against your skin. Itâs a sensation youâve gotten used to, but today, it feels differentâjust another reminder that there was someone before you, someone Jack would give anything to have again.Â
Your jaw grows slack with his thumb still inside your mouth, and part of you wants to tap out, but the heat at the base of your spine grows tighter. The knot unravels as his fingers piston in and out of you, and you cum on his hand with a muffled cry.Â
Jack works you through your release until you are shaking from overstimulation and pushing his hands away.Â
âThat was a good one, huh?â he mutters, and pulls his respective hand from your mouth and cunt.Â
You are still catching your breath as you nod, tears that wonât spill collecting on your waterline.Â
âYeah,â you whisper.Â
Jack hugs you from behind, wrapping his big arms around your middle. You stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for that inherent feeling of sadness to pass.Â
âHow was work?â you ask.
âFine,â he answers, then presses a kiss to the back of your neck. âLess busy than usual.â
He clears his throat and tightens his arms around you.Â
âIâm really tired,â he declares softly.
You swallow hard, the spit in your mouth bitter.Â
âYou should get some sleep then, my love,â you whisper, âI gotta get up soon anyway.â
--
Youâve learned to only ever cry in the shower when Jack gets like this. It wouldnât be fair to him to unload your burdens and insecurities on him while he is grieving the life he could have lived.Â
As the warm water cascades down your back, and the suds of soap collect at your feet, you let the tears flow until you no longer feel like you are going to choke on them.Â
The lump in the back of your throat doesnât exactly go away, but it eases. You breathe a little better, and the tightness in your chest feels more like a memory than an active threat.Â
Wrapped in a towel, you stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. You might look worse than himâdark circles under your eyes, your lips dry and flaky. You pull on the dead skin with your teeth until you bleed, then put on moisturizer and get dressed.Â
Jack is asleep, or pretends to be, when you walk into the bedroom. His eyes are shut, his chest rises and falls softly. Your wet hair drips down the back of your neck and drenches your fresh blouse.Â
For a moment, you watch your boyfriend. He always looks younger in his sleep, but it is so obvious that this time of the year is tough on him. Itâs not that you expect him to just be okay; youâre not that selfish. You simply wish that he would talk to you instead of acting like things were fine. But then again, one might say you are doing the same thing.Â
So you keep getting ready for the day and make yourself lunch while this large cloud of things left unsaid hangs over you.Â
Work passes by in a blur and drags on simultaneously. Itâs a little after 5 pm when you come home, and Jack is up by then. You put your shoes in the cupboard and walk into the kitchen.Â
âHi,â you greet him.Â
Jack turns to face you, a tender smile on his lips. He crosses the room slowly, then kisses you briefly.
âHey,â he answers when he pulls away.Â
He smells freshly showered, and the tips of his hair are still a little wet.Â
As you lean against the counter, he fills up a glass of water and passes it to you.Â
âDrink up,â he says.Â
The gesture is sweet, but your skin crawls during the entire interaction. Everything feels so utterly performative and unreal that you almost wish he would leave for work early. The word âdisassociationâ bounces around in your mind, just jumping out of reach every time you try to get a hold of it.Â
When you look at Jack, his face doesnât mirror yours at all. He seems unaware of your emotional turmoil, as if he doesnât take issue with the situation at all. His face might as well be blank.
Every day, you miss his smug smile, his cheeky remarks, and the way he loves to tease you. All those habits die down every time the date gets closer, and then it takes a few days afterwards until he builds up the courage to slip back into that persona.
Sometimes, you feel like you are being gaslit. Like youâre imagining all these issues, because he just wonât say or show that there is something wrong.Â
So you pour a little oil into the fire.Â
âAny plans for the weekend?â you ask. âI saw that youâre not working.â
His work schedule hangs on the fridge, this weekend being the only one blank for the entire month.Â
You watch as Jack freezes in his step, just for a moment, before he fills his mug with tea.Â
âNope, not really,â he answers then. Lie.
âYeah?â you go on, knowing that youâre treading the line, and leaning dangerously to one side.Â
âYes,â he says, a little sharper than before. His fingers tap against the counter once, twice, before he looks out the window.Â
âActually,â he continues, âMaybe Iâll visit the garage with Robby. Check out some bikes with him.â Lie.Â
âOh,â you reply dumbly.Â
You watch as the tension builds in his shoulders, and you think you might have him now, but when he turns to face you, Jack is smiling.Â
âYeah, donât worry, sweetheart, I wonât start riding, too,â he vows quietly.Â
He holds your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, then kisses you again. There is not an ounce of feeling to it.Â
You smile weakly, and he accepts that.Â
The hour between your arrival from work and his parting for his shift, you spend in shared discomfort. You start cooking dinner and pack some of it for his âbreakâ that he wonât get, while he hovers in the kitchen like he is scared to leave you alone for too long, but not willing to talk to you either.Â
Youâre incredibly thankful for the invention of music because you would have fled the house if Jack hadnât turned on some jazzy playlist to cover the fact that neither one of you had anything to say to the other.Â
The second the clock strikes half past six, you pass Jack a Tupperware with his food, then kiss him goodbye.Â
âHave a good shift,â you mumble when you pull away.Â
His smile doesnât reach his eyes as he answers, âWill try.â
The front door falls shut, and dinner tastes like ash.Â
--
On Thursday morning, things come to a boil.Â
Jack comes home from his shift, the look of death written all over his face. He barely even greets you before he walks straight to the bathroom and locks himself in there for thirty minutes.Â
You call in sick to work when you hear the water running but never catch him stepping into the bathtub.Â
Pure fear settles in your stomach, so you pace up and down in front of the bathroom. You know you should tell him youâre there for him and that he can talk to you, but you are too scared to spook him. Your nervous wandering turns into a slow trot before you slide down the bathroom door and sit there in silence.Â
Itâs almost 10 am when you dare to call out his name.Â
âJack?â
You hear a gasp and a soft thump, then his voice follows.
âSweetheart? What- what are you doing here? Why arenât you at work?â
The thick wood of the door makes him sound muffled, but you donât miss his tone. Jack usually compartmentalizes well, even after a terrible shift, but right now, he sounds like rock bottom is close, and he is holding a shovel.Â
âI took the day off,â you reply.Â
He stays quiet for a moment. You picture him in the room, sitting on the edge of the bathtub or leaning over the sink with horror etched into his face, memories heâll never shake replaying in his mind.Â
âWish I had done that,â he murmurs then. The words are so quiet that you barely catch them, but you do.Â
You chew on your lip, trying to think of something to say, anything that might soothe his aching soul, but you canât come up with anything. So you try the next best thing.
âCan you let me in?â
Your choice of words almost makes you laughâafter all, that is all youâve wanted for the last few days.Â
The other side of the door stays quiet for a long while, and you almost give up hope. Until the lock clicks. You scramble to your feet just in time to meet Jackâs eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this. Faint tear tracks glisten on his cheeks, wiped away hastily until his skin had reddened.
âMy loveâŚ,â you mumble, and he looks away instantly.Â
âJust a bad shift,â he mutters, his eyes trained on the floor.Â
You shake your head and take his hand.Â
âItâs not just that, is it?âÂ
You know the answer; you knew it before you even asked the question. Jackâs eyes find yours for a second, and your heart drops as you see his expression: thereâs anger in his gaze. Just for a moment. Just a millisecond. It fades into sadness, the one youâd do anything to carry for him. But it was there long enough for you to see it. To read it. To file it away and have it gnawing at your already dwindling confidence until the end of your days.Â
But now is not the time for your worries and hurt feelings.Â
You pull yourself together and lead Jack out of the bathroom. After situating him on the bed, you bring him a fresh pair of sweatpants and a simple black shirt. You watch him change, watch how his skin is exposed and then covered again by cloth. The faint scars, from training and his time overseas, the ones you know by heart, are a little more noticeable today.Â
âLetâs get you into bed,â you whisper to Jack as you push back the blanket. He follows your request on autopilot, slipping underneath the covers. Seeing the blank stare, you almost wish heâd go back to being angry at you.Â
âDo you want to eat something, my love?â you ask.Â
He shakes his head.Â
âCan I keep you company?â you continue.Â
You hold your breath as you wait for his answer, and he takes his time. The vacant look in his eyes threatens to trigger tears in your own. His lips part once, twice, before he turns his head and looks away.
âIâd like that,â he mutters then.Â
His skin is cold beneath your fingers when you find your place next to him on the bed. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, feeling the sturdy beat below.Â
You take a deep breath and try to think of the best thing to say.Â
âI know tomorrow will be hard for you,â you begin.Â
Jackâs entire body tenses up, and his head whips to you, the first sign of life flashing across his face.Â
âDonât,â he pleads. âDonât talk about it.â
Your lips part, uncertainty making it impossible to think properly.
His eyebrows draw together as you struggle for the right answer, and you can almost hear his thoughts.Â
âAlright,â you whisper against your better judgment. âJust⌠just get some rest, honey.â
--
Friday morning, you wake up to an empty bedânot the way youâre used to. In the entirety of your relationship, you can practically count the days you woke up in Jackâs arms on both hands, but today, itâs a new loneliness that greets you as the sunlight filters in through the curtains.Â
His side on the mattress isnât even warm anymore, and you wonder just how much time he had even spent asleep.Â
As you climb out of bed, you let your eyes drag through the room and find your favorite photo of all time. Your face is half hidden in it, mushed into Jackâs neck, your nose tickled by his slightly unkempt beard, but it is the happiest youâve ever looked. You still remember the day as clear as if it had been yesterday.Â
It had been taken on your six-month anniversary, just you, Jack, and a small boat he barely knew how to commandeer.Â
As the salty sea water had sprayed your face with its cold droplets, you grinned at Jack, all smiles and teeth and pure unfiltered happiness.Â
He had wrapped his arms around you and whispered, âI love it when itâs just us.â
With his chest pressed against your back, you had stared out onto the sea, his warm lips pressing against your cheek.Â
âMe, too,â you had mumbled fondly.Â
Now, you wonder how much of that was still true today.Â
Back then, you had known that he was a widower but hadnât known the date of his wifeâs passing yet. Â
You know itâs wrong to be so jealous of a dead womanâand Jack would probably hate you if you knew just how much you despised her on some days.Â
But as your fingers drift over the cold, empty space in bed next to you, you allow yourself to wallow in your melancholy a little longer.Â
Selfishly, you think you wouldnât want Jack to move on if you were to die. Of course, no part of you wished to see him sink into depression and utter loneliness as heâd mourn you, but your heart constricts at the idea of him finding love after your passing. You wonder if his wife had thought the same thing, or if she had been a much better person than you and hoped for his happinessâor if the thought hadnât even crossed her mind at all.Â
The sound of the front door closing rips you out of your head. You run to the window overlooking your front yard just in time to catch Jack slamming his car door shut and driving off.Â
âFuck,â you whisper to yourself.Â
You think of the past years, of all the anniversaries of her death during which you watched from the sidelines, breath bated.Â
On the first, you didnât even know what was happening. Jack had hidden from you all day, keeping his head buried as he worked a double shift. When he came home, all 24 hours of her death day having already passed, he confessed to you what the date meant to him.Â
A year later, you thought you were preparedâyou were wrong. You bought flowers and made soup and lasagna, the most comforting food you could think of. When Jack came home that morning (âthis time around, you had convinced him not to work all dayâ), he ate a spoonful before he excused himself and cried in the bathroom. His sobs still echo through your head every now and then when the darkest, deepest part of your insecurities comes to life.Â
Eleven months after that, you made the biggest mistake to date. You tried to get Jack out of the city for that week. A booked hotel room, coupleâs massages, and room service all went down the drain when you tried to surprise Jack with it. He hadnât screamed at youâit mightâve hurt less if he had. Instead, he had only muttered that he couldnât believe youâd think heâd want to do something like that on a day like this.
Which is why you didnât come up with any plans this year.Â
But not doing anything at all feels worse than giving yourself to him as an outlet for his pain.Â
The day passes like chewing gum stretches. It expands and grows and keeps giving until you think it might snap, but it doesnât. Solitude clings to you, burying itself in your bonesâit practically settles in your lungs to the point where youâre not sure anymore whether youâre still breathing.
You wander around, fulfilling chores and taking care of things that need to be done, but you donât remember any of it by the time the clock strikes seven pm.Â
Jack isnât home.Â
You are.Â
He is chasing a ghost youâll never be able to replace.Â
As you get into your car and drive, itâs an obvious guess where he is.Â
--
Wind chases goosebumps down your spine when you open the squeaky gate. Its metal looks old, the rust on its surface rough against your palm. The lush greenery all around surprises youâitâs too early in the year for the shrubs to have that color, but you understand the intention. No one wants to grieve their loved ones in a field of grey.Â
The graveyard looks well-kept, some of the graves more than others. Shame fills your chest as you catch yourself wondering how much money Jack might spend on the upkeep of his wifeâs one per month.Â
It could be more than your rent, and sheâd deserve every penny.Â
He is easy to spot. The silver hairs stand out, illuminated by the gentle evening sun just beginning to settle in for the night. He stands awkwardly, most of his weight shifted onto his left leg, and you feel your heart clench. Itâs obvious that he is in pain.
You donât know for sure whether he has been here all day, but you assume so as you walk up to him.Â
The bouquet youâre holding trembles in your hands. You take a deep breath before you come to a stop just a few meters shy of him.
You try to think of something to say, something clever or loving or maybe even funny.Â
âHi,â is all you can manage.Â
Jack flinchesâand you wish you hadnât come. You almost wish he had never even met you.Â
Seconds that feel like hours pass where neither one of you speaks or moves. One of the petals of the chrysanthemum in your bouquet falls to the ground.Â
Jackâs mouth opens and closes twice, but not a single sound comes out.Â
âIâŚâÂ
You stand there in front of him, feeling like a little kid caught up past their bedtime.Â
âI hope itâs okay that I came,â you mumble then.Â
He doesnât answer. Instead, he glances at the flowers in your hands and clenches his jaw.Â
âIâll come home soon,â he murmurs.
His voice is rough from disuse, thick with tears unshed, or maybe they have been shed already, and he has run out.Â
Your heart sinks.Â
âYou donât have to,â you reply. âYou- you can stay here. I can stay here with you.â
âNo.âÂ
His answer is final. Itâs not cold or disapproving, just desperateâbut so are you.Â
âJack, please,â you beg. âLet me stay. Just⌠let me help you.â
He flinches as if you shot him. One hand raised uncomfortably, like heâs trying to keep you at bay, he stands there as still as a deer in headlights. Youâre the car going ninety.Â
âMy love, please,â you repeat, taking a step towards him. âI⌠Just talk to me. Tell me- tell me how you feel, or about herââ
âNo,â he interrupts. âJesus Christ, do you really thinkââÂ
He stops himself and shakes his head.Â
Your worst fears unhinge their jaws as they get ready to feast on you.
âDo I really think what?â you prompt bitterly. âDo I really think that I⌠that I deserve to know her? That Iâm the one who could maybe help you a bit through this grief? I donât know, Jack, you obviously donât.â
His mouth falls open.Â
âWhat?â he croaks.Â
You shrug helplessly.Â
âYou donât want me here,â you reply.
âNo, I donât,â he replies. âBut not⌠not because I think you donât deserve to know her, but because⌠because you donât deserve this weight on your shoulders. My griefâmy fucking⌠never-ending griefâŚâ
As his words drizzle out into uncertainty, youâre left to stare at him.Â
âI⌠I just donât want you to see me like this and think⌠think that IâŚâÂ
He shakes his head.Â
âThat you want her instead of me,â you finish for him.Â
âThatâs not the case,â he says sharply.Â
âIsnât it?â you counter.Â
âNo,â he hisses. âSheâs gone, and thereâs nothing I can do to bring her back. Youâre here.â
âYeah, but if you couldââ
âBut I canât!âÂ
His shoulders tremble as he fights to keep his voice down.Â
âSheâll never come back. Never.â
âBut youâll never stop loving her,â you whisper.
âHow can I?â he snaps. âI⌠I vowed to love her until death do us part, and nowânow she is dead, and weâre apart, but Iâm still here. And I fell for you.â
He takes a deep breath.
âEvery day, Iâm fucking terrified that I make you feel like⌠like you have to compete for my love with someone who is not here anymore, and obviously, Iâve fucking done that. And you look at me like⌠like Iâm wounded. You treat me like Iâm someone to take care of, so I behave like it.â
âBut you donât let me take care of you,â you reply. âYou donât let me in. You donât let me help.â
âBecause if I do, Iâll have to start talking about her to you. Iâll have to tell you how much I love her and thatâI canât fucking do that to you!â he answers.
âBut Iâm asking you to do that,â you spit out. âIâd rather hear how much love her than live with her fucking ghost looming over us unmentioned. Like that, I donât even get to feel second best next to her.â
The world grows quiet at your admission. The wind that was blowing before dies down, much like your bravery. You want to take it back. You wish you could rewind time.Â
âFuck, Jack,â you whisper. âIâm sorry.â
His eyes are glassy as he looks at you.Â
âYouâre not second best,â he mutters. âYou matter as deeply to me as she does. I just donât know how to show you that.â
âMaybe start letting me in,â you whisper. âTreat me like Iâm worth your time. Donât lie to me about how terrible you feel. Help me help you.â
You awkwardly shake the flowers in your hands.Â
âLet me be part of your grief.â
His eyes follow your hands, and he swallows hard.Â
âDid you buy them for her?â he asks quietly.Â
âYeah,â you mumble.Â
As you walk towards him, it feels like crossing a bridge into unknown territory. Maybe youâre overstepping. Maybe youâre being cruel. Maybe you should be more understanding.Â
âTheyâre⌠I donât know what kind of flowers she liked, or⌠if she liked them at all, but theyâre chrysanthemums and Peruvian lilies,â you explain.Â
âShe wouldâve liked them,â he answers quickly. âShe liked all flowers.â
He reaches out but stops himself.Â
âDo you⌠do you want toâŚâÂ
He motions to the grave and steps aside. Your path is clear.Â
Her grave stone is made from smooth limestone, her name engraved in simple, strong letters.Â
Beloved wife.
You crouch down and lean the flowers against the stone, then stay there for a second. As you glance over your shoulder, you see Jack looking at you. At both of you.Â
âI didnât get her any,â he mumbles.Â
You straighten up and return to his side.Â
âWhy not?â you ask.Â
He stays quiet for a moment before he turns to look at you.
âIt felt disrespectful to you.â
For a second, itâs like he has stolen all the air from you. The pit in your stomach deepens. And then it eases.Â
âJack,â you whisper, âI donât care if you get her a million flowersâIâll deliver them here myself. I just want to know that you look at me and see me. Not her, or her⌠her successor.â
âI do,â he vows, âI do see you.â
in floriography (the language of flowers), chrysanthemums and peruvian lilies stand for honor, respect, and loyalty
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summary: Every year, around the anniversary of his wifeâs death, Jack starts slipping away from you piece by pieceâand this time, the loneliness festering between you finally reaches a breaking point.
cw: angst, smut (mdni, 18+), arguments, misplaced jealousy, insecurities, discussions of death, jack's not doing great, a happy ending
smut warnings: the opening scene involves consensual sex with some internal conflict and hesitation from the reader. thereâs no explicit refusal, but there are moments of discomfort and emotional tension, so please read with that in mind.
wc: 5kÂ
a/n: Iâm lying, this fic is 4.9k words. not beta read bc i don't want to
now playing:Â Renegade â Big Red Machine, Taylor Swift
You have loved Jack long enough to recognize the signs. The fleeting eye contact, the missed dinner reservations, the driftingâhe turns into a ghost around this date, like he canât wait to join the woman he truly yearns for in the afterlife.Â
Part of you is aware that he doesnât mean to hurt your feelings, and that you are hardly being fair in your bitterness, but the jealousy comes and wonât go when you watch him sink into his melancholia.Â
You hold your breath and hope that the phase passes, as it always does, and that while it does, your soul stays intact. Despite the vicious covetousness that floods through your every vein, you want him to feel your supportâyou canât begin to imagine what it feels like to have lost the love of your life. You only know what it feels like not to be the love of his life.
Itâs the early morning, and for once, Jack isnât coming from his night shift to immediately get himself shot with SWAT. You hear the front door close, then the soft thump of his shoes being placed in the cupboard. Only half asleep, you can picture his after-work routine: a full glass of water downed in one sip, a quick shower, and then a fresh pair of pajamas. Except for the change of clothes and the removal of his prosthetic, none of those things happen before he slips into bed.Â
His hands are cold when they find your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You wait for the kiss on your cheek that he usually bestows upon you to greet you, but it never comes.Â
âHi,â you mumble, sleep sticking to your voice.Â
He hums a half-answer, not a single word actually discernible.Â
Youâd blame it on a bad shift if the upcoming Friday wasnât that date.Â
Jack moves a little, and his hands wander up from your side to cross in front of your chest. Itâs harder to breathe like this, but you missed him so much you wonât complain.Â
Your nipples harden when his fingers brush over your breasts, and heat collects in your lower tummy, along with the slightest bit of discomfort. You would never say it out loud, but youâre terrified heâs imagining her right now.Â
He palms you through your camisole, his cool hands gentle but demanding.Â
It was one of the first things you noticed about himâhow cold his hands always were. He had laughed when you told him and said he was a doctor, that that was just part of the job. And it stayed true to this day; whether he was holding your hand, passing you something, or burying his fingers deep inside you, his skin was always icy enough to make you shiver a little.Â
You want to speak up, say something to him, ask him about his day, but the only thing that makes it out of your mouth is a soft moan when he cups your breast and kneads it.Â
âSuch a pretty sound, baby,â he whispers. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear, chasing goosebumps up and down your arms. His breath ghosts over your face, and your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open as Jack spins his webs of sweet comfort around you.Â
He spends so much time working you open and pliant for himâtugging and twisting your nipples until you are writhing right in his arms, desperation turning you into a whining mess. Only then does he move his fingers lower. They drift between the valley of your breasts, then over your belly button, until he meets the edge of your panties.Â
âJack,â you gasp, his name more prayer than anything else.Â
He shushes you sweetly, then slips underneath your waistband. Youâre warm and wet and gooey, like honey on the stove. His fingers drag through your folds, collecting your arousal that already drenches your underwear.Â
âFuck,â he whispers, âSo goddamn wet for me. Missed me that much, hm?â
He has no idea. How much you still miss him even now, while his pointer and middle finger circle your clit, the pressure just gentle enough to keep you eager.
âJackâyeah, I-I did,â you manage to answer.
With his free hand, he finds your mouth. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip before he tugs it down a little. Your tongue darts out almost instinctively, and he uses that opportunity to press the pad of his finger against the wet muscle. When your lips close around his digit, he moans out loud.Â
The pressure in your mouth almost makes you gag, but with his fingers teasing your entrance, all you can think about is how badly you want him. You keep letting your tongue swirl around his finger, sucking him deeper into the hollow of your throat, while his middle and ring finger slip inside of you.Â
At first, the fullness is what youâve been waiting for. Your warm walls stretch for him, accommodating the size of his digits that work their way in and out of you. But when he thrusts his fingers deeper into you, thereâs a new coldness introduced, one you wish wouldnât belong to him.Â
As he curls his fingers to meet your G-spot, you feel the hard metal of his wedding ring bite against your skin. Itâs a sensation youâve gotten used to, but today, it feels differentâjust another reminder that there was someone before you, someone Jack would give anything to have again.Â
Your jaw grows slack with his thumb still inside your mouth, and part of you wants to tap out, but the heat at the base of your spine grows tighter. The knot unravels as his fingers piston in and out of you, and you cum on his hand with a muffled cry.Â
Jack works you through your release until you are shaking from overstimulation and pushing his hands away.Â
âThat was a good one, huh?â he mutters, and pulls his respective hand from your mouth and cunt.Â
You are still catching your breath as you nod, tears that wonât spill collecting on your waterline.Â
âYeah,â you whisper.Â
Jack hugs you from behind, wrapping his big arms around your middle. You stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for that inherent feeling of sadness to pass.Â
âHow was work?â you ask.
âFine,â he answers, then presses a kiss to the back of your neck. âLess busy than usual.â
He clears his throat and tightens his arms around you.Â
âIâm really tired,â he declares softly.
You swallow hard, the spit in your mouth bitter.Â
âYou should get some sleep then, my love,â you whisper, âI gotta get up soon anyway.â
--
Youâve learned to only ever cry in the shower when Jack gets like this. It wouldnât be fair to him to unload your burdens and insecurities on him while he is grieving the life he could have lived.Â
As the warm water cascades down your back, and the suds of soap collect at your feet, you let the tears flow until you no longer feel like you are going to choke on them.Â
The lump in the back of your throat doesnât exactly go away, but it eases. You breathe a little better, and the tightness in your chest feels more like a memory than an active threat.Â
Wrapped in a towel, you stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. You might look worse than himâdark circles under your eyes, your lips dry and flaky. You pull on the dead skin with your teeth until you bleed, then put on moisturizer and get dressed.Â
Jack is asleep, or pretends to be, when you walk into the bedroom. His eyes are shut, his chest rises and falls softly. Your wet hair drips down the back of your neck and drenches your fresh blouse.Â
For a moment, you watch your boyfriend. He always looks younger in his sleep, but it is so obvious that this time of the year is tough on him. Itâs not that you expect him to just be okay; youâre not that selfish. You simply wish that he would talk to you instead of acting like things were fine. But then again, one might say you are doing the same thing.Â
So you keep getting ready for the day and make yourself lunch while this large cloud of things left unsaid hangs over you.Â
Work passes by in a blur and drags on simultaneously. Itâs a little after 5 pm when you come home, and Jack is up by then. You put your shoes in the cupboard and walk into the kitchen.Â
âHi,â you greet him.Â
Jack turns to face you, a tender smile on his lips. He crosses the room slowly, then kisses you briefly.
âHey,â he answers when he pulls away.Â
He smells freshly showered, and the tips of his hair are still a little wet.Â
As you lean against the counter, he fills up a glass of water and passes it to you.Â
âDrink up,â he says.Â
The gesture is sweet, but your skin crawls during the entire interaction. Everything feels so utterly performative and unreal that you almost wish he would leave for work early. The word âdisassociationâ bounces around in your mind, just jumping out of reach every time you try to get a hold of it.Â
When you look at Jack, his face doesnât mirror yours at all. He seems unaware of your emotional turmoil, as if he doesnât take issue with the situation at all. His face might as well be blank.
Every day, you miss his smug smile, his cheeky remarks, and the way he loves to tease you. All those habits die down every time the date gets closer, and then it takes a few days afterwards until he builds up the courage to slip back into that persona.
Sometimes, you feel like you are being gaslit. Like youâre imagining all these issues, because he just wonât say or show that there is something wrong.Â
So you pour a little oil into the fire.Â
âAny plans for the weekend?â you ask. âI saw that youâre not working.â
His work schedule hangs on the fridge, this weekend being the only one blank for the entire month.Â
You watch as Jack freezes in his step, just for a moment, before he fills his mug with tea.Â
âNope, not really,â he answers then. Lie.
âYeah?â you go on, knowing that youâre treading the line, and leaning dangerously to one side.Â
âYes,â he says, a little sharper than before. His fingers tap against the counter once, twice, before he looks out the window.Â
âActually,â he continues, âMaybe Iâll visit the garage with Robby. Check out some bikes with him.â Lie.Â
âOh,â you reply dumbly.Â
You watch as the tension builds in his shoulders, and you think you might have him now, but when he turns to face you, Jack is smiling.Â
âYeah, donât worry, sweetheart, I wonât start riding, too,â he vows quietly.Â
He holds your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, then kisses you again. There is not an ounce of feeling to it.Â
You smile weakly, and he accepts that.Â
The hour between your arrival from work and his parting for his shift, you spend in shared discomfort. You start cooking dinner and pack some of it for his âbreakâ that he wonât get, while he hovers in the kitchen like he is scared to leave you alone for too long, but not willing to talk to you either.Â
Youâre incredibly thankful for the invention of music because you would have fled the house if Jack hadnât turned on some jazzy playlist to cover the fact that neither one of you had anything to say to the other.Â
The second the clock strikes half past six, you pass Jack a Tupperware with his food, then kiss him goodbye.Â
âHave a good shift,â you mumble when you pull away.Â
His smile doesnât reach his eyes as he answers, âWill try.â
The front door falls shut, and dinner tastes like ash.Â
--
On Thursday morning, things come to a boil.Â
Jack comes home from his shift, the look of death written all over his face. He barely even greets you before he walks straight to the bathroom and locks himself in there for thirty minutes.Â
You call in sick to work when you hear the water running but never catch him stepping into the bathtub.Â
Pure fear settles in your stomach, so you pace up and down in front of the bathroom. You know you should tell him youâre there for him and that he can talk to you, but you are too scared to spook him. Your nervous wandering turns into a slow trot before you slide down the bathroom door and sit there in silence.Â
Itâs almost 10 am when you dare to call out his name.Â
âJack?â
You hear a gasp and a soft thump, then his voice follows.
âSweetheart? What- what are you doing here? Why arenât you at work?â
The thick wood of the door makes him sound muffled, but you donât miss his tone. Jack usually compartmentalizes well, even after a terrible shift, but right now, he sounds like rock bottom is close, and he is holding a shovel.Â
âI took the day off,â you reply.Â
He stays quiet for a moment. You picture him in the room, sitting on the edge of the bathtub or leaning over the sink with horror etched into his face, memories heâll never shake replaying in his mind.Â
âWish I had done that,â he murmurs then. The words are so quiet that you barely catch them, but you do.Â
You chew on your lip, trying to think of something to say, anything that might soothe his aching soul, but you canât come up with anything. So you try the next best thing.
âCan you let me in?â
Your choice of words almost makes you laughâafter all, that is all youâve wanted for the last few days.Â
The other side of the door stays quiet for a long while, and you almost give up hope. Until the lock clicks. You scramble to your feet just in time to meet Jackâs eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this. Faint tear tracks glisten on his cheeks, wiped away hastily until his skin had reddened.
âMy loveâŚ,â you mumble, and he looks away instantly.Â
âJust a bad shift,â he mutters, his eyes trained on the floor.Â
You shake your head and take his hand.Â
âItâs not just that, is it?âÂ
You know the answer; you knew it before you even asked the question. Jackâs eyes find yours for a second, and your heart drops as you see his expression: thereâs anger in his gaze. Just for a moment. Just a millisecond. It fades into sadness, the one youâd do anything to carry for him. But it was there long enough for you to see it. To read it. To file it away and have it gnawing at your already dwindling confidence until the end of your days.Â
But now is not the time for your worries and hurt feelings.Â
You pull yourself together and lead Jack out of the bathroom. After situating him on the bed, you bring him a fresh pair of sweatpants and a simple black shirt. You watch him change, watch how his skin is exposed and then covered again by cloth. The faint scars, from training and his time overseas, the ones you know by heart, are a little more noticeable today.Â
âLetâs get you into bed,â you whisper to Jack as you push back the blanket. He follows your request on autopilot, slipping underneath the covers. Seeing the blank stare, you almost wish heâd go back to being angry at you.Â
âDo you want to eat something, my love?â you ask.Â
He shakes his head.Â
âCan I keep you company?â you continue.Â
You hold your breath as you wait for his answer, and he takes his time. The vacant look in his eyes threatens to trigger tears in your own. His lips part once, twice, before he turns his head and looks away.
âIâd like that,â he mutters then.Â
His skin is cold beneath your fingers when you find your place next to him on the bed. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, feeling the sturdy beat below.Â
You take a deep breath and try to think of the best thing to say.Â
âI know tomorrow will be hard for you,â you begin.Â
Jackâs entire body tenses up, and his head whips to you, the first sign of life flashing across his face.Â
âDonât,â he pleads. âDonât talk about it.â
Your lips part, uncertainty making it impossible to think properly.
His eyebrows draw together as you struggle for the right answer, and you can almost hear his thoughts.Â
âAlright,â you whisper against your better judgment. âJust⌠just get some rest, honey.â
--
Friday morning, you wake up to an empty bedânot the way youâre used to. In the entirety of your relationship, you can practically count the days you woke up in Jackâs arms on both hands, but today, itâs a new loneliness that greets you as the sunlight filters in through the curtains.Â
His side on the mattress isnât even warm anymore, and you wonder just how much time he had even spent asleep.Â
As you climb out of bed, you let your eyes drag through the room and find your favorite photo of all time. Your face is half hidden in it, mushed into Jackâs neck, your nose tickled by his slightly unkempt beard, but it is the happiest youâve ever looked. You still remember the day as clear as if it had been yesterday.Â
It had been taken on your six-month anniversary, just you, Jack, and a small boat he barely knew how to commandeer.Â
As the salty sea water had sprayed your face with its cold droplets, you grinned at Jack, all smiles and teeth and pure unfiltered happiness.Â
He had wrapped his arms around you and whispered, âI love it when itâs just us.â
With his chest pressed against your back, you had stared out onto the sea, his warm lips pressing against your cheek.Â
âMe, too,â you had mumbled fondly.Â
Now, you wonder how much of that was still true today.Â
Back then, you had known that he was a widower but hadnât known the date of his wifeâs passing yet. Â
You know itâs wrong to be so jealous of a dead womanâand Jack would probably hate you if you knew just how much you despised her on some days.Â
But as your fingers drift over the cold, empty space in bed next to you, you allow yourself to wallow in your melancholy a little longer.Â
Selfishly, you think you wouldnât want Jack to move on if you were to die. Of course, no part of you wished to see him sink into depression and utter loneliness as heâd mourn you, but your heart constricts at the idea of him finding love after your passing. You wonder if his wife had thought the same thing, or if she had been a much better person than you and hoped for his happinessâor if the thought hadnât even crossed her mind at all.Â
The sound of the front door closing rips you out of your head. You run to the window overlooking your front yard just in time to catch Jack slamming his car door shut and driving off.Â
âFuck,â you whisper to yourself.Â
You think of the past years, of all the anniversaries of her death during which you watched from the sidelines, breath bated.Â
On the first, you didnât even know what was happening. Jack had hidden from you all day, keeping his head buried as he worked a double shift. When he came home, all 24 hours of her death day having already passed, he confessed to you what the date meant to him.Â
A year later, you thought you were preparedâyou were wrong. You bought flowers and made soup and lasagna, the most comforting food you could think of. When Jack came home that morning (âthis time around, you had convinced him not to work all dayâ), he ate a spoonful before he excused himself and cried in the bathroom. His sobs still echo through your head every now and then when the darkest, deepest part of your insecurities comes to life.Â
Eleven months after that, you made the biggest mistake to date. You tried to get Jack out of the city for that week. A booked hotel room, coupleâs massages, and room service all went down the drain when you tried to surprise Jack with it. He hadnât screamed at youâit mightâve hurt less if he had. Instead, he had only muttered that he couldnât believe youâd think heâd want to do something like that on a day like this.
Which is why you didnât come up with any plans this year.Â
But not doing anything at all feels worse than giving yourself to him as an outlet for his pain.Â
The day passes like chewing gum stretches. It expands and grows and keeps giving until you think it might snap, but it doesnât. Solitude clings to you, burying itself in your bonesâit practically settles in your lungs to the point where youâre not sure anymore whether youâre still breathing.
You wander around, fulfilling chores and taking care of things that need to be done, but you donât remember any of it by the time the clock strikes seven pm.Â
Jack isnât home.Â
You are.Â
He is chasing a ghost youâll never be able to replace.Â
As you get into your car and drive, itâs an obvious guess where he is.Â
--
Wind chases goosebumps down your spine when you open the squeaky gate. Its metal looks old, the rust on its surface rough against your palm. The lush greenery all around surprises youâitâs too early in the year for the shrubs to have that color, but you understand the intention. No one wants to grieve their loved ones in a field of grey.Â
The graveyard looks well-kept, some of the graves more than others. Shame fills your chest as you catch yourself wondering how much money Jack might spend on the upkeep of his wifeâs one per month.Â
It could be more than your rent, and sheâd deserve every penny.Â
He is easy to spot. The silver hairs stand out, illuminated by the gentle evening sun just beginning to settle in for the night. He stands awkwardly, most of his weight shifted onto his left leg, and you feel your heart clench. Itâs obvious that he is in pain.
You donât know for sure whether he has been here all day, but you assume so as you walk up to him.Â
The bouquet youâre holding trembles in your hands. You take a deep breath before you come to a stop just a few meters shy of him.
You try to think of something to say, something clever or loving or maybe even funny.Â
âHi,â is all you can manage.Â
Jack flinchesâand you wish you hadnât come. You almost wish he had never even met you.Â
Seconds that feel like hours pass where neither one of you speaks or moves. One of the petals of the chrysanthemum in your bouquet falls to the ground.Â
Jackâs mouth opens and closes twice, but not a single sound comes out.Â
âIâŚâÂ
You stand there in front of him, feeling like a little kid caught up past their bedtime.Â
âI hope itâs okay that I came,â you mumble then.Â
He doesnât answer. Instead, he glances at the flowers in your hands and clenches his jaw.Â
âIâll come home soon,â he murmurs.
His voice is rough from disuse, thick with tears unshed, or maybe they have been shed already, and he has run out.Â
Your heart sinks.Â
âYou donât have to,â you reply. âYou- you can stay here. I can stay here with you.â
âNo.âÂ
His answer is final. Itâs not cold or disapproving, just desperateâbut so are you.Â
âJack, please,â you beg. âLet me stay. Just⌠let me help you.â
He flinches as if you shot him. One hand raised uncomfortably, like heâs trying to keep you at bay, he stands there as still as a deer in headlights. Youâre the car going ninety.Â
âMy love, please,â you repeat, taking a step towards him. âI⌠Just talk to me. Tell me- tell me how you feel, or about herââ
âNo,â he interrupts. âJesus Christ, do you really thinkââÂ
He stops himself and shakes his head.Â
Your worst fears unhinge their jaws as they get ready to feast on you.
âDo I really think what?â you prompt bitterly. âDo I really think that I⌠that I deserve to know her? That Iâm the one who could maybe help you a bit through this grief? I donât know, Jack, you obviously donât.â
His mouth falls open.Â
âWhat?â he croaks.Â
You shrug helplessly.Â
âYou donât want me here,â you reply.
âNo, I donât,â he replies. âBut not⌠not because I think you donât deserve to know her, but because⌠because you donât deserve this weight on your shoulders. My griefâmy fucking⌠never-ending griefâŚâ
As his words drizzle out into uncertainty, youâre left to stare at him.Â
âI⌠I just donât want you to see me like this and think⌠think that IâŚâÂ
He shakes his head.Â
âThat you want her instead of me,â you finish for him.Â
âThatâs not the case,â he says sharply.Â
âIsnât it?â you counter.Â
âNo,â he hisses. âSheâs gone, and thereâs nothing I can do to bring her back. Youâre here.â
âYeah, but if you couldââ
âBut I canât!âÂ
His shoulders tremble as he fights to keep his voice down.Â
âSheâll never come back. Never.â
âBut youâll never stop loving her,â you whisper.
âHow can I?â he snaps. âI⌠I vowed to love her until death do us part, and nowânow she is dead, and weâre apart, but Iâm still here. And I fell for you.â
He takes a deep breath.
âEvery day, Iâm fucking terrified that I make you feel like⌠like you have to compete for my love with someone who is not here anymore, and obviously, Iâve fucking done that. And you look at me like⌠like Iâm wounded. You treat me like Iâm someone to take care of, so I behave like it.â
âBut you donât let me take care of you,â you reply. âYou donât let me in. You donât let me help.â
âBecause if I do, Iâll have to start talking about her to you. Iâll have to tell you how much I love her and thatâI canât fucking do that to you!â he answers.
âBut Iâm asking you to do that,â you spit out. âIâd rather hear how much love her than live with her fucking ghost looming over us unmentioned. Like that, I donât even get to feel second best next to her.â
The world grows quiet at your admission. The wind that was blowing before dies down, much like your bravery. You want to take it back. You wish you could rewind time.Â
âFuck, Jack,â you whisper. âIâm sorry.â
His eyes are glassy as he looks at you.Â
âYouâre not second best,â he mutters. âYou matter as deeply to me as she does. I just donât know how to show you that.â
âMaybe start letting me in,â you whisper. âTreat me like Iâm worth your time. Donât lie to me about how terrible you feel. Help me help you.â
You awkwardly shake the flowers in your hands.Â
âLet me be part of your grief.â
His eyes follow your hands, and he swallows hard.Â
âDid you buy them for her?â he asks quietly.Â
âYeah,â you mumble.Â
As you walk towards him, it feels like crossing a bridge into unknown territory. Maybe youâre overstepping. Maybe youâre being cruel. Maybe you should be more understanding.Â
âTheyâre⌠I donât know what kind of flowers she liked, or⌠if she liked them at all, but theyâre chrysanthemums and Peruvian lilies,â you explain.Â
âShe wouldâve liked them,â he answers quickly. âShe liked all flowers.â
He reaches out but stops himself.Â
âDo you⌠do you want toâŚâÂ
He motions to the grave and steps aside. Your path is clear.Â
Her grave stone is made from smooth limestone, her name engraved in simple, strong letters.Â
Beloved wife.
You crouch down and lean the flowers against the stone, then stay there for a second. As you glance over your shoulder, you see Jack looking at you. At both of you.Â
âI didnât get her any,â he mumbles.Â
You straighten up and return to his side.Â
âWhy not?â you ask.Â
He stays quiet for a moment before he turns to look at you.
âIt felt disrespectful to you.â
For a second, itâs like he has stolen all the air from you. The pit in your stomach deepens. And then it eases.Â
âJack,â you whisper, âI donât care if you get her a million flowersâIâll deliver them here myself. I just want to know that you look at me and see me. Not her, or her⌠her successor.â
âI do,â he vows, âI do see you.â
in floriography (the language of flowers), chrysanthemums and peruvian lilies stand for honor, respect, and loyalty
â¤ď¸ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog â¤ď¸ â find my masterlist here â
summary: Every year, around the anniversary of his wifeâs death, Jack starts slipping away from you piece by pieceâand this time, the loneliness festering between you finally reaches a breaking point.
cw: angst, smut (mdni, 18+), arguments, misplaced jealousy, insecurities, discussions of death, jack's not doing great, a happy ending
smut warnings: the opening scene involves consensual sex with some internal conflict and hesitation from the reader. thereâs no explicit refusal, but there are moments of discomfort and emotional tension, so please read with that in mind.
wc: 5kÂ
a/n: Iâm lying, this fic is 4.9k words. not beta read bc i don't want to
now playing:Â Renegade â Big Red Machine, Taylor Swift
You have loved Jack long enough to recognize the signs. The fleeting eye contact, the missed dinner reservations, the driftingâhe turns into a ghost around this date, like he canât wait to join the woman he truly yearns for in the afterlife.Â
Part of you is aware that he doesnât mean to hurt your feelings, and that you are hardly being fair in your bitterness, but the jealousy comes and wonât go when you watch him sink into his melancholia.Â
You hold your breath and hope that the phase passes, as it always does, and that while it does, your soul stays intact. Despite the vicious covetousness that floods through your every vein, you want him to feel your supportâyou canât begin to imagine what it feels like to have lost the love of your life. You only know what it feels like not to be the love of his life.
Itâs the early morning, and for once, Jack isnât coming from his night shift to immediately get himself shot with SWAT. You hear the front door close, then the soft thump of his shoes being placed in the cupboard. Only half asleep, you can picture his after-work routine: a full glass of water downed in one sip, a quick shower, and then a fresh pair of pajamas. Except for the change of clothes and the removal of his prosthetic, none of those things happen before he slips into bed.Â
His hands are cold when they find your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You wait for the kiss on your cheek that he usually bestows upon you to greet you, but it never comes.Â
âHi,â you mumble, sleep sticking to your voice.Â
He hums a half-answer, not a single word actually discernible.Â
Youâd blame it on a bad shift if the upcoming Friday wasnât that date.Â
Jack moves a little, and his hands wander up from your side to cross in front of your chest. Itâs harder to breathe like this, but you missed him so much you wonât complain.Â
Your nipples harden when his fingers brush over your breasts, and heat collects in your lower tummy, along with the slightest bit of discomfort. You would never say it out loud, but youâre terrified heâs imagining her right now.Â
He palms you through your camisole, his cool hands gentle but demanding.Â
It was one of the first things you noticed about himâhow cold his hands always were. He had laughed when you told him and said he was a doctor, that that was just part of the job. And it stayed true to this day; whether he was holding your hand, passing you something, or burying his fingers deep inside you, his skin was always icy enough to make you shiver a little.Â
You want to speak up, say something to him, ask him about his day, but the only thing that makes it out of your mouth is a soft moan when he cups your breast and kneads it.Â
âSuch a pretty sound, baby,â he whispers. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear, chasing goosebumps up and down your arms. His breath ghosts over your face, and your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open as Jack spins his webs of sweet comfort around you.Â
He spends so much time working you open and pliant for himâtugging and twisting your nipples until you are writhing right in his arms, desperation turning you into a whining mess. Only then does he move his fingers lower. They drift between the valley of your breasts, then over your belly button, until he meets the edge of your panties.Â
âJack,â you gasp, his name more prayer than anything else.Â
He shushes you sweetly, then slips underneath your waistband. Youâre warm and wet and gooey, like honey on the stove. His fingers drag through your folds, collecting your arousal that already drenches your underwear.Â
âFuck,â he whispers, âSo goddamn wet for me. Missed me that much, hm?â
He has no idea. How much you still miss him even now, while his pointer and middle finger circle your clit, the pressure just gentle enough to keep you eager.
âJackâyeah, I-I did,â you manage to answer.
With his free hand, he finds your mouth. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip before he tugs it down a little. Your tongue darts out almost instinctively, and he uses that opportunity to press the pad of his finger against the wet muscle. When your lips close around his digit, he moans out loud.Â
The pressure in your mouth almost makes you gag, but with his fingers teasing your entrance, all you can think about is how badly you want him. You keep letting your tongue swirl around his finger, sucking him deeper into the hollow of your throat, while his middle and ring finger slip inside of you.Â
At first, the fullness is what youâve been waiting for. Your warm walls stretch for him, accommodating the size of his digits that work their way in and out of you. But when he thrusts his fingers deeper into you, thereâs a new coldness introduced, one you wish wouldnât belong to him.Â
As he curls his fingers to meet your G-spot, you feel the hard metal of his wedding ring bite against your skin. Itâs a sensation youâve gotten used to, but today, it feels differentâjust another reminder that there was someone before you, someone Jack would give anything to have again.Â
Your jaw grows slack with his thumb still inside your mouth, and part of you wants to tap out, but the heat at the base of your spine grows tighter. The knot unravels as his fingers piston in and out of you, and you cum on his hand with a muffled cry.Â
Jack works you through your release until you are shaking from overstimulation and pushing his hands away.Â
âThat was a good one, huh?â he mutters, and pulls his respective hand from your mouth and cunt.Â
You are still catching your breath as you nod, tears that wonât spill collecting on your waterline.Â
âYeah,â you whisper.Â
Jack hugs you from behind, wrapping his big arms around your middle. You stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for that inherent feeling of sadness to pass.Â
âHow was work?â you ask.
âFine,â he answers, then presses a kiss to the back of your neck. âLess busy than usual.â
He clears his throat and tightens his arms around you.Â
âIâm really tired,â he declares softly.
You swallow hard, the spit in your mouth bitter.Â
âYou should get some sleep then, my love,â you whisper, âI gotta get up soon anyway.â
--
Youâve learned to only ever cry in the shower when Jack gets like this. It wouldnât be fair to him to unload your burdens and insecurities on him while he is grieving the life he could have lived.Â
As the warm water cascades down your back, and the suds of soap collect at your feet, you let the tears flow until you no longer feel like you are going to choke on them.Â
The lump in the back of your throat doesnât exactly go away, but it eases. You breathe a little better, and the tightness in your chest feels more like a memory than an active threat.Â
Wrapped in a towel, you stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. You might look worse than himâdark circles under your eyes, your lips dry and flaky. You pull on the dead skin with your teeth until you bleed, then put on moisturizer and get dressed.Â
Jack is asleep, or pretends to be, when you walk into the bedroom. His eyes are shut, his chest rises and falls softly. Your wet hair drips down the back of your neck and drenches your fresh blouse.Â
For a moment, you watch your boyfriend. He always looks younger in his sleep, but it is so obvious that this time of the year is tough on him. Itâs not that you expect him to just be okay; youâre not that selfish. You simply wish that he would talk to you instead of acting like things were fine. But then again, one might say you are doing the same thing.Â
So you keep getting ready for the day and make yourself lunch while this large cloud of things left unsaid hangs over you.Â
Work passes by in a blur and drags on simultaneously. Itâs a little after 5 pm when you come home, and Jack is up by then. You put your shoes in the cupboard and walk into the kitchen.Â
âHi,â you greet him.Â
Jack turns to face you, a tender smile on his lips. He crosses the room slowly, then kisses you briefly.
âHey,â he answers when he pulls away.Â
He smells freshly showered, and the tips of his hair are still a little wet.Â
As you lean against the counter, he fills up a glass of water and passes it to you.Â
âDrink up,â he says.Â
The gesture is sweet, but your skin crawls during the entire interaction. Everything feels so utterly performative and unreal that you almost wish he would leave for work early. The word âdisassociationâ bounces around in your mind, just jumping out of reach every time you try to get a hold of it.Â
When you look at Jack, his face doesnât mirror yours at all. He seems unaware of your emotional turmoil, as if he doesnât take issue with the situation at all. His face might as well be blank.
Every day, you miss his smug smile, his cheeky remarks, and the way he loves to tease you. All those habits die down every time the date gets closer, and then it takes a few days afterwards until he builds up the courage to slip back into that persona.
Sometimes, you feel like you are being gaslit. Like youâre imagining all these issues, because he just wonât say or show that there is something wrong.Â
So you pour a little oil into the fire.Â
âAny plans for the weekend?â you ask. âI saw that youâre not working.â
His work schedule hangs on the fridge, this weekend being the only one blank for the entire month.Â
You watch as Jack freezes in his step, just for a moment, before he fills his mug with tea.Â
âNope, not really,â he answers then. Lie.
âYeah?â you go on, knowing that youâre treading the line, and leaning dangerously to one side.Â
âYes,â he says, a little sharper than before. His fingers tap against the counter once, twice, before he looks out the window.Â
âActually,â he continues, âMaybe Iâll visit the garage with Robby. Check out some bikes with him.â Lie.Â
âOh,â you reply dumbly.Â
You watch as the tension builds in his shoulders, and you think you might have him now, but when he turns to face you, Jack is smiling.Â
âYeah, donât worry, sweetheart, I wonât start riding, too,â he vows quietly.Â
He holds your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, then kisses you again. There is not an ounce of feeling to it.Â
You smile weakly, and he accepts that.Â
The hour between your arrival from work and his parting for his shift, you spend in shared discomfort. You start cooking dinner and pack some of it for his âbreakâ that he wonât get, while he hovers in the kitchen like he is scared to leave you alone for too long, but not willing to talk to you either.Â
Youâre incredibly thankful for the invention of music because you would have fled the house if Jack hadnât turned on some jazzy playlist to cover the fact that neither one of you had anything to say to the other.Â
The second the clock strikes half past six, you pass Jack a Tupperware with his food, then kiss him goodbye.Â
âHave a good shift,â you mumble when you pull away.Â
His smile doesnât reach his eyes as he answers, âWill try.â
The front door falls shut, and dinner tastes like ash.Â
--
On Thursday morning, things come to a boil.Â
Jack comes home from his shift, the look of death written all over his face. He barely even greets you before he walks straight to the bathroom and locks himself in there for thirty minutes.Â
You call in sick to work when you hear the water running but never catch him stepping into the bathtub.Â
Pure fear settles in your stomach, so you pace up and down in front of the bathroom. You know you should tell him youâre there for him and that he can talk to you, but you are too scared to spook him. Your nervous wandering turns into a slow trot before you slide down the bathroom door and sit there in silence.Â
Itâs almost 10 am when you dare to call out his name.Â
âJack?â
You hear a gasp and a soft thump, then his voice follows.
âSweetheart? What- what are you doing here? Why arenât you at work?â
The thick wood of the door makes him sound muffled, but you donât miss his tone. Jack usually compartmentalizes well, even after a terrible shift, but right now, he sounds like rock bottom is close, and he is holding a shovel.Â
âI took the day off,â you reply.Â
He stays quiet for a moment. You picture him in the room, sitting on the edge of the bathtub or leaning over the sink with horror etched into his face, memories heâll never shake replaying in his mind.Â
âWish I had done that,â he murmurs then. The words are so quiet that you barely catch them, but you do.Â
You chew on your lip, trying to think of something to say, anything that might soothe his aching soul, but you canât come up with anything. So you try the next best thing.
âCan you let me in?â
Your choice of words almost makes you laughâafter all, that is all youâve wanted for the last few days.Â
The other side of the door stays quiet for a long while, and you almost give up hope. Until the lock clicks. You scramble to your feet just in time to meet Jackâs eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this. Faint tear tracks glisten on his cheeks, wiped away hastily until his skin had reddened.
âMy loveâŚ,â you mumble, and he looks away instantly.Â
âJust a bad shift,â he mutters, his eyes trained on the floor.Â
You shake your head and take his hand.Â
âItâs not just that, is it?âÂ
You know the answer; you knew it before you even asked the question. Jackâs eyes find yours for a second, and your heart drops as you see his expression: thereâs anger in his gaze. Just for a moment. Just a millisecond. It fades into sadness, the one youâd do anything to carry for him. But it was there long enough for you to see it. To read it. To file it away and have it gnawing at your already dwindling confidence until the end of your days.Â
But now is not the time for your worries and hurt feelings.Â
You pull yourself together and lead Jack out of the bathroom. After situating him on the bed, you bring him a fresh pair of sweatpants and a simple black shirt. You watch him change, watch how his skin is exposed and then covered again by cloth. The faint scars, from training and his time overseas, the ones you know by heart, are a little more noticeable today.Â
âLetâs get you into bed,â you whisper to Jack as you push back the blanket. He follows your request on autopilot, slipping underneath the covers. Seeing the blank stare, you almost wish heâd go back to being angry at you.Â
âDo you want to eat something, my love?â you ask.Â
He shakes his head.Â
âCan I keep you company?â you continue.Â
You hold your breath as you wait for his answer, and he takes his time. The vacant look in his eyes threatens to trigger tears in your own. His lips part once, twice, before he turns his head and looks away.
âIâd like that,â he mutters then.Â
His skin is cold beneath your fingers when you find your place next to him on the bed. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, feeling the sturdy beat below.Â
You take a deep breath and try to think of the best thing to say.Â
âI know tomorrow will be hard for you,â you begin.Â
Jackâs entire body tenses up, and his head whips to you, the first sign of life flashing across his face.Â
âDonât,â he pleads. âDonât talk about it.â
Your lips part, uncertainty making it impossible to think properly.
His eyebrows draw together as you struggle for the right answer, and you can almost hear his thoughts.Â
âAlright,â you whisper against your better judgment. âJust⌠just get some rest, honey.â
--
Friday morning, you wake up to an empty bedânot the way youâre used to. In the entirety of your relationship, you can practically count the days you woke up in Jackâs arms on both hands, but today, itâs a new loneliness that greets you as the sunlight filters in through the curtains.Â
His side on the mattress isnât even warm anymore, and you wonder just how much time he had even spent asleep.Â
As you climb out of bed, you let your eyes drag through the room and find your favorite photo of all time. Your face is half hidden in it, mushed into Jackâs neck, your nose tickled by his slightly unkempt beard, but it is the happiest youâve ever looked. You still remember the day as clear as if it had been yesterday.Â
It had been taken on your six-month anniversary, just you, Jack, and a small boat he barely knew how to commandeer.Â
As the salty sea water had sprayed your face with its cold droplets, you grinned at Jack, all smiles and teeth and pure unfiltered happiness.Â
He had wrapped his arms around you and whispered, âI love it when itâs just us.â
With his chest pressed against your back, you had stared out onto the sea, his warm lips pressing against your cheek.Â
âMe, too,â you had mumbled fondly.Â
Now, you wonder how much of that was still true today.Â
Back then, you had known that he was a widower but hadnât known the date of his wifeâs passing yet. Â
You know itâs wrong to be so jealous of a dead womanâand Jack would probably hate you if you knew just how much you despised her on some days.Â
But as your fingers drift over the cold, empty space in bed next to you, you allow yourself to wallow in your melancholy a little longer.Â
Selfishly, you think you wouldnât want Jack to move on if you were to die. Of course, no part of you wished to see him sink into depression and utter loneliness as heâd mourn you, but your heart constricts at the idea of him finding love after your passing. You wonder if his wife had thought the same thing, or if she had been a much better person than you and hoped for his happinessâor if the thought hadnât even crossed her mind at all.Â
The sound of the front door closing rips you out of your head. You run to the window overlooking your front yard just in time to catch Jack slamming his car door shut and driving off.Â
âFuck,â you whisper to yourself.Â
You think of the past years, of all the anniversaries of her death during which you watched from the sidelines, breath bated.Â
On the first, you didnât even know what was happening. Jack had hidden from you all day, keeping his head buried as he worked a double shift. When he came home, all 24 hours of her death day having already passed, he confessed to you what the date meant to him.Â
A year later, you thought you were preparedâyou were wrong. You bought flowers and made soup and lasagna, the most comforting food you could think of. When Jack came home that morning (âthis time around, you had convinced him not to work all dayâ), he ate a spoonful before he excused himself and cried in the bathroom. His sobs still echo through your head every now and then when the darkest, deepest part of your insecurities comes to life.Â
Eleven months after that, you made the biggest mistake to date. You tried to get Jack out of the city for that week. A booked hotel room, coupleâs massages, and room service all went down the drain when you tried to surprise Jack with it. He hadnât screamed at youâit mightâve hurt less if he had. Instead, he had only muttered that he couldnât believe youâd think heâd want to do something like that on a day like this.
Which is why you didnât come up with any plans this year.Â
But not doing anything at all feels worse than giving yourself to him as an outlet for his pain.Â
The day passes like chewing gum stretches. It expands and grows and keeps giving until you think it might snap, but it doesnât. Solitude clings to you, burying itself in your bonesâit practically settles in your lungs to the point where youâre not sure anymore whether youâre still breathing.
You wander around, fulfilling chores and taking care of things that need to be done, but you donât remember any of it by the time the clock strikes seven pm.Â
Jack isnât home.Â
You are.Â
He is chasing a ghost youâll never be able to replace.Â
As you get into your car and drive, itâs an obvious guess where he is.Â
--
Wind chases goosebumps down your spine when you open the squeaky gate. Its metal looks old, the rust on its surface rough against your palm. The lush greenery all around surprises youâitâs too early in the year for the shrubs to have that color, but you understand the intention. No one wants to grieve their loved ones in a field of grey.Â
The graveyard looks well-kept, some of the graves more than others. Shame fills your chest as you catch yourself wondering how much money Jack might spend on the upkeep of his wifeâs one per month.Â
It could be more than your rent, and sheâd deserve every penny.Â
He is easy to spot. The silver hairs stand out, illuminated by the gentle evening sun just beginning to settle in for the night. He stands awkwardly, most of his weight shifted onto his left leg, and you feel your heart clench. Itâs obvious that he is in pain.
You donât know for sure whether he has been here all day, but you assume so as you walk up to him.Â
The bouquet youâre holding trembles in your hands. You take a deep breath before you come to a stop just a few meters shy of him.
You try to think of something to say, something clever or loving or maybe even funny.Â
âHi,â is all you can manage.Â
Jack flinchesâand you wish you hadnât come. You almost wish he had never even met you.Â
Seconds that feel like hours pass where neither one of you speaks or moves. One of the petals of the chrysanthemum in your bouquet falls to the ground.Â
Jackâs mouth opens and closes twice, but not a single sound comes out.Â
âIâŚâÂ
You stand there in front of him, feeling like a little kid caught up past their bedtime.Â
âI hope itâs okay that I came,â you mumble then.Â
He doesnât answer. Instead, he glances at the flowers in your hands and clenches his jaw.Â
âIâll come home soon,â he murmurs.
His voice is rough from disuse, thick with tears unshed, or maybe they have been shed already, and he has run out.Â
Your heart sinks.Â
âYou donât have to,â you reply. âYou- you can stay here. I can stay here with you.â
âNo.âÂ
His answer is final. Itâs not cold or disapproving, just desperateâbut so are you.Â
âJack, please,â you beg. âLet me stay. Just⌠let me help you.â
He flinches as if you shot him. One hand raised uncomfortably, like heâs trying to keep you at bay, he stands there as still as a deer in headlights. Youâre the car going ninety.Â
âMy love, please,â you repeat, taking a step towards him. âI⌠Just talk to me. Tell me- tell me how you feel, or about herââ
âNo,â he interrupts. âJesus Christ, do you really thinkââÂ
He stops himself and shakes his head.Â
Your worst fears unhinge their jaws as they get ready to feast on you.
âDo I really think what?â you prompt bitterly. âDo I really think that I⌠that I deserve to know her? That Iâm the one who could maybe help you a bit through this grief? I donât know, Jack, you obviously donât.â
His mouth falls open.Â
âWhat?â he croaks.Â
You shrug helplessly.Â
âYou donât want me here,â you reply.
âNo, I donât,â he replies. âBut not⌠not because I think you donât deserve to know her, but because⌠because you donât deserve this weight on your shoulders. My griefâmy fucking⌠never-ending griefâŚâ
As his words drizzle out into uncertainty, youâre left to stare at him.Â
âI⌠I just donât want you to see me like this and think⌠think that IâŚâÂ
He shakes his head.Â
âThat you want her instead of me,â you finish for him.Â
âThatâs not the case,â he says sharply.Â
âIsnât it?â you counter.Â
âNo,â he hisses. âSheâs gone, and thereâs nothing I can do to bring her back. Youâre here.â
âYeah, but if you couldââ
âBut I canât!âÂ
His shoulders tremble as he fights to keep his voice down.Â
âSheâll never come back. Never.â
âBut youâll never stop loving her,â you whisper.
âHow can I?â he snaps. âI⌠I vowed to love her until death do us part, and nowânow she is dead, and weâre apart, but Iâm still here. And I fell for you.â
He takes a deep breath.
âEvery day, Iâm fucking terrified that I make you feel like⌠like you have to compete for my love with someone who is not here anymore, and obviously, Iâve fucking done that. And you look at me like⌠like Iâm wounded. You treat me like Iâm someone to take care of, so I behave like it.â
âBut you donât let me take care of you,â you reply. âYou donât let me in. You donât let me help.â
âBecause if I do, Iâll have to start talking about her to you. Iâll have to tell you how much I love her and thatâI canât fucking do that to you!â he answers.
âBut Iâm asking you to do that,â you spit out. âIâd rather hear how much love her than live with her fucking ghost looming over us unmentioned. Like that, I donât even get to feel second best next to her.â
The world grows quiet at your admission. The wind that was blowing before dies down, much like your bravery. You want to take it back. You wish you could rewind time.Â
âFuck, Jack,â you whisper. âIâm sorry.â
His eyes are glassy as he looks at you.Â
âYouâre not second best,â he mutters. âYou matter as deeply to me as she does. I just donât know how to show you that.â
âMaybe start letting me in,â you whisper. âTreat me like Iâm worth your time. Donât lie to me about how terrible you feel. Help me help you.â
You awkwardly shake the flowers in your hands.Â
âLet me be part of your grief.â
His eyes follow your hands, and he swallows hard.Â
âDid you buy them for her?â he asks quietly.Â
âYeah,â you mumble.Â
As you walk towards him, it feels like crossing a bridge into unknown territory. Maybe youâre overstepping. Maybe youâre being cruel. Maybe you should be more understanding.Â
âTheyâre⌠I donât know what kind of flowers she liked, or⌠if she liked them at all, but theyâre chrysanthemums and Peruvian lilies,â you explain.Â
âShe wouldâve liked them,â he answers quickly. âShe liked all flowers.â
He reaches out but stops himself.Â
âDo you⌠do you want toâŚâÂ
He motions to the grave and steps aside. Your path is clear.Â
Her grave stone is made from smooth limestone, her name engraved in simple, strong letters.Â
Beloved wife.
You crouch down and lean the flowers against the stone, then stay there for a second. As you glance over your shoulder, you see Jack looking at you. At both of you.Â
âI didnât get her any,â he mumbles.Â
You straighten up and return to his side.Â
âWhy not?â you ask.Â
He stays quiet for a moment before he turns to look at you.
âIt felt disrespectful to you.â
For a second, itâs like he has stolen all the air from you. The pit in your stomach deepens. And then it eases.Â
âJack,â you whisper, âI donât care if you get her a million flowersâIâll deliver them here myself. I just want to know that you look at me and see me. Not her, or her⌠her successor.â
âI do,â he vows, âI do see you.â
in floriography (the language of flowers), chrysanthemums and peruvian lilies stand for honor, respect, and loyalty
â¤ď¸ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog â¤ď¸ â find my masterlist here â
Being with a widower must be so challenging because they are grieving and then they feel guilty for still grieving if they have found love. And when you are the partner, you feel guilty for feeling like second best, but feelings are feelings! Tough read, but this was beautifully done
summary: what is supposed to be the happiest day of your lives leaves jack in complete frustration. you assure him that you love him just the way he is and that he isnât any less for needing to take a break.
cw: loss of a limb and how it affects someone even years later, insecurities (jack), just lots of angst but so much fluff and comfort too!! wedding day troubles
wc:Â 1.7k
a/n: almost made myself cry when I came up with this idea
now playing:Â Coming Up Roses â Harry Styles
Dressed in white silk and delicate lace, you were grinning ear to ear. You had practiced your soft smile in the mirror a million times, wanting to look gracious and delicate in your wedding photos. But now that the vows have been exchanged and youâve danced yourselves into the night, the happiness practically spilled out of you.Â
Jackâs face almost mirrored yoursâjust with tiny differences. While the moisture dampening your hairline stemmed from your carefree twirling on the dancefloor, sometimes in your husbandâs arms, other times surrounded by your friends and family, sweat pearled down his temples from pure exhaustion.Â
The light that lit up in his eyes when you walked down the altar has dimmed a little with every passing hour, just as the muscles in his jaw had grown tighter.Â
You were worried, but you havenât had the chance to truly ask him, not when you were constantly fenced in by relatives wanting to congratulate you.
The relief that had flooded Jackâs eyes when you sat together at the center of the banquet during the speeches had long died down. He was fighting through the exhaustion and nerves and anxietyâhe didnât want to let you down.Â
One of his aunts, or maybe a cousinâyou werenât sureâwas talking to you when Jack came up to you. He was limping a little, his mouth clamped tight, but when your eyes met his, he smiled.Â
âHey, sweetheart,â he muttered.Â
He pulled you into his side and planted a tender kiss in your hair, then glanced at you. Just as his lips parted to say something to you, the DJâs voice echoed through the speakers.Â
âMay we ask Mr. and Mrs. Abbot to return to the dancefloor now? Weâre oh-so-desperate to see them back here.â
Just for a second, Jackâs face fell. And you saw it.Â
All eyes immediately snapped to the two of you, big smiles all around. Everyone seemed so utterly happy, but you didnât care about them. You only cared about Jack.
âWe donât have to, Jack,â you mumble, low enough that only he caught it. âWe can take a break.â
If you had one wish guaranteed, youâd ask the universe for Jack to never look at you again the way he did in that second.Â
Embarrassment flushed his face, and something in his eyes broke. You knew his stubbornness, having been on the receiving side of his pride a million times, but you didnât expect him to be like this, not today.Â
âNo, baby, letâs go dance,â he replied and took your hand.Â
He pulled you into the middle of the dance floor, waiting for the music to start. Not once did his eyes catch yours.Â
The song that began to play was slow, with violins and gentle piano notes filling the air. Jackâs hand snaked around your waist, pulling you close enough that you could feel his breath ghost over your cheek as he peered past you, anywhere but at you.Â
You smelled the sweat on his skin, the tell-tale sign of his utter exhaustion. As he started guiding you over the floor, his breath catching any time his right leg hit the ground, you tried to lead. Tried to make him slow down, tried to get him to lean onto you, tried anything to make it a little easier for him. But Jack was stubborn. He had worked 12, 15, hell, 24-hour shifts on his prosthetic; he had done the physical therapyâhe wasnât going to skip a single dance with you, not on your day. Not when today was the day he was meant to prove that he was worthy of you.
âHoney,â you whispered, desperation tinting your voice, âItâs okay. We can⌠we can sit this one out. Have⌠have some more cake.â
This time, his gaze bore into you, determination burning in his eyes.Â
âNo, sweetheart. I want to dance with my wife. I donât need a break,â he rasped.Â
You briefly loosened your hand from its spot on his shoulder to wipe the dampness from his brow. Jack practically flinched away.Â
âI mean it,â he muttered. âI can do it. Just⌠dance with me, baby. Please.â
So you kept dancing, ignoring the sound of your heart breaking for him with every step he took, every wince he suppressed.
You couldnât wait for the song to end.Â
But once it did, the next one played. And then the next one.Â
You saw the light dwindling in Jackâs eyes, his soft grunts turning into pained whines. The moon had long taken over the sunâs spot in the sky, surrounded by dark blues.Â
As Jack continued to bite his tongue instead of giving in, the pain growing more and more obvious, you decided to put an end to this.Â
âIâm so thirsty,â you declared, loud enough for the couples around you to hear it. âAnd my feet hurt sooo bad. These damn heels.â
Jack gave you a lookâa mix of shame and relief.
âYou sure, baby?â he asked. âI⌠I donât want you getting bored.â
âOh, Iâm sure,â you replied. âLetâs have some more champagne.â
You pulled him to the bar, basically forcing him onto the chair. All the guests were dancing, distracted. As the barkeeper passed you two glasses of champagne and then moved to the other side to âgive the newly-weds some privacyâ, you gave Jack a sharp glance.Â
âTake it off,â you muttered.Â
Jack shook his head immediately. âNo. Not here, not today.â
âHoney,â you murmured. âPlease. Youâre hurting. No⌠no oneâs gonna say anything. Everyone here loves you. I love you, with two legs or with one.â
He shook his head again, lips pressed together in a tight line.Â
âI donât need to take it off. I wonât.â
For a moment, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Anger bubbled up in you like venom, but you refused to let it boil over. Jack wasnât being unreasonable for the fun of itâhe was behaving like this out of fear.Â
Then you said, âYouâre coming with me. Right now.â
Even as he began to protest, your fingers enclosed his, and you pulled him out of the large hall, heading towards one of the smaller rooms used for storage. Your body pressed into his, making him lean on you a bit.
âSweetheart, I- I can do itââ Jack insisted again, but you didnât let him finish.Â
You forced him onto the floor and kneeled down in front of him. The tulle of your skirt got in your way, making you cry out in frustration.Â
âJesus,â you hissed, then pressed down the force of the dress.Â
Your shaky hands were quick to start cuffing Jackâs pant leg.Â
âMaybe you can do it,â you acknowledged angrily, âBut I canât. I canât keep watching you grit your teeth through the pain. It hurts me to see you like this.â
With quick, practiced ease, you loosened the prosthetic and leaned it against the wall next to him.Â
Jack gasped, both from shock and relief. He had never seen you like this.Â
âBabyâŚâ he began, then lowered his head. âFuck. Iâm sorry.â
âDonât you dare apologize,â you answered immediately. âNot for this. Not with me.â
You sat in silence for a while.
Once the anger in your veins had eased, you moved to sit next to Jack. He hesitated before he slowly lowered his head to rest on your shoulder. You felt the tension leave both your bodies instantaneously.Â
âWhy would you do this to yourself?â you asked softly. âWhy⌠why didnât you⌠just take a break?â
Jack sighed so deeply you felt his entire chest deflate.Â
âI⌠itâs embarrassing,â he muttered.Â
You took his hand between yours and squeezed insistently.Â
âYou donât need to be embarrassed. Itâs only me and you,â you whispered.Â
âItâs our wedding day,â he murmured. âI⌠Iâm your husband now. Iâm supposed to take care of you and keep you safe andââ
âWeâre supposed to keep each other safe,â you interrupted.Â
His fingers played with yours as he stared straight ahead. The sun-kissed skin of his arms stood out against the white of your dress.
âI just want to be good enough for you. I want toâI want to deserve you,â he said quietly then.Â
His words tugged at your heartstrings so forcefully that you were afraid it would shatter.Â
âJesus, Jack,â you whispered, âWhy would you⌠You are good enough for meâfuck, youâre more than good enough. Youâre a great man, the only man I could ever want.  Whether you have two legs or one, itâit doesnât matter to me. I love you for you. And if you need to take a break, Iâll be sitting right there next to you.â
Jack chuckled wetly, the sound sending goosebumps down your arms. You cupped his face and turned it towards you. A single tear ran down his cheek.Â
âOh, honey,â you gasped. You pressed your forehead against his, the proximity almost allowing you to taste the salt on his face. His skin felt hot against yours.Â
âI donât know how I got so lucky with you,â he mumbled.
âJust shut up,â you replied, but there was no bite to it.Â
âNo, I mean it,â he insisted. âI⌠you kinda got the short straw with me. I work nights, and I carry a goddamn boatload of baggage with me. The legâthatâs just the fucking cherry on top. When I⌠when I proposed, I couldnât believe that you said yes to this⌠this fucking mess.â
âStop it,â you pleaded. âJack, Iâm so serious right now. I donât wanna hear any more of this. I said yes because you asking me, getting down on your kneeâit meant the world to me. I knew what I was getting into. And Iâd do it all over again. A million times. Thereâs no⌠no parallel universe where I wouldnât kill to be your wife.â
Jack was quiet for a while. You could almost see the way his brain worked to make space for your words.Â
âYou really mean that?â he asked.Â
âOf course I do,â you replied. âI love you.â
Through the walls of the room, you heard the music play on, but neither one of you cared to return to your party. Jack kissed your knuckles one by one and exhaled.Â
âItâs only me and you, right?â
â¤ď¸ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog â¤ď¸
â find my masterlist here â
i hate that when you try and look up shit for writing purposes it starts linking suicide hotlines and addiction advice articles like bro i just wanna know the information im not killing myself i promise. now tell me what i wanna know
thank you so much for tagging me @mcthsman!!! i have soooooo many wips so I decided to sort them by character
everything marked with an * was requested
there are a couple of wips that i haven't worked on in months that might be abandoned, idk yet
rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!
jack abbot
All out to sea // pregnancy loss
As long as you're with me // gentle smut
Clinical Trials // inexperienced!reader, series, a lot of firsts
fifthy for sure // dd/lg, fingers in mouth (a lot)
measles fic // angsty smut, fertility struggles
Not even the memories are immortal // reader as jack's dead wife
Nowhere to go // bascially Fuck Me Eyes by Ethel Cain
title // um... this one is about fucking on the couch at a friend's sleepover
You come back with gravity // toxic situationship (both are trying really hard)
clark kent
All the pretty stars shine for you* // virginity loss, dacryphilia
cherry pie // diner romance, also virginity loss (???)
Choke me // reluctant breath play with clark
Drown in your lust* // feeling clark up under the blankets while watching a movie with your friends
Fuck me for life // period sex
Let it be us, let it be home // avoidant attachment style!reader
Problematic office romance // kara's best friend falls for clark during her internship at the daily planet
rut // lmao take a guess what this is about
still tied to me // angsty smut
Underneath the Purple Rain // situationship that ended badly
rabbot
Pulled apart at the seams // series, reader falls for both robby and jack
Everything is blue // chapter 1 of pulled apart at the seams
together, together // high threesome :P
joel miller
A perfect case for my certain skill-set // idk which one is crazier, joel or reader?
Hard Times // after an argument with her father, reader searches for comfort in her dad's best friend's bed
I just want you // reader misses joel and he comes home at the right time
Somebody's daughter's making money tonight // camgirl!reader
You're abandoned like me // joel falls for the girl who tries to rob him
there is no way i'm going to finish all of these any time soon, but a few of them should be coming out this month i think
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.Â
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.Â
when it gets dark, jackâs chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if itâs a group of men. heâll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groupsâjack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he wonât let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if youâre too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesnât say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when youâre out together. heâll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if itâs âjustâ your thighs.Â
when you canât decide what to wear, heâll pick for you.Â
âthe purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.â
heâll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
âsuch a pretty girl, mhm?â
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. heâll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.Â
âattagirlâ
âgood job, babyâ
âyouâre doing so goodâ
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. youâll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.Â
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesnât grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the worldâbecause to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, heâll scratch your head until you practically purr.Â
âyou like that, baby?âÂ
âjust relax. but donât fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open fâme.â
itâs your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, youâre jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.
cw: light injuries from a small fall (reader), worried!jack, fem!readerÂ
Since Jack works nights, he spends most of his day asleep. He doesnât necessarily want toâhe misses out on so much time with youâbut he canât exactly run on fumes just so that he can see you.Â
And youâd never expect that of him.Â
You want him to get the rest he needs. Deserves.Â
Which is why you tend to get yourself mixed up in little adventures Jack would never want to find you in.Â
Youâre currently balancing on a chair, trying to unscrew the last bit of resistance that keeps your IKEA bookshelf mounted to the wall. With your tongue tucked between your lips, you hold the cordless screwdriver and give it your best shot.
You are an emancipated woman in the 21st century after all.Â
The chair underneath you wobbles a bitâwhich you choose to ignore.Â
Bad choice.
Because of the blaring noise of the screwdriver, youâre only thinking about how badly you donât want to wake Jack, so you donât notice how unsteady you are. Another shuffle forward, your toes already creeping over the edge (and this really should be a shoes-on activity), and the world suddenly rips out from under you.Â
Youâre going down quicker than you realize, a startled shout falling from your lips. On your way towards the floor, you drop the machine you donât really know how to handle and try to hold yourself up on one of the shelves, but your fingers slip.Â
The landing is rough. The chair has tipped over, breaking your fall in a not very kind way. You feel the throbbing on the back of your head first, then the sting in your wristâthe one you caught yourself with.Â
âOuch,â you mutter.Â
A door flies open. Steps bolt down the stairs.Â
How does Jack sleep through construction work and the doorbell, but he hears a tiny scream you let out?Â
You mean to stand up before he can enter the room, but not only is he surprisingly fast on his crutches, but youâre also still in shock from the fall.Â
The sight that greets youâdisheveled grey curls, the print of the pillow on his cheek, that salt and pepper stubble he wonât shave because you like it so muchâwould be your favorite if Jack didnât look utterly horrified.Â
âBaby,â he gasps, dropping to his knees by your side. âWhat the hell happened? Are you hurt?â
He drops his crutches and sits down by your side before he takes your face between his palms, tilting his head to catch your eyes.Â
âI fell,â you mutter. A warm flush creeps up your neck.Â
âYeah, I heard,â he replies. âDid you hit your head? What hurts, baby?â
âMy wrist and the back of my head. But itâs fine, I think I just bumped it,â you answer timidly.Â
âUh-uh, let me take a look.â
Jack cards through your hair with one hand, starting at the nape of your neck and working his way up to the swollen spot thatâs forming as he feels for it.Â
âHurts?â he asks when you wince.Â
âStings a little,â you murmur.Â
He frowns at you sternly.Â
âOkay, yes, it hurts a bit,â you concede.Â
Next is your wrist. Jack takes your hand into his, then bends it slowly. His eyes jump from your arm to your face, waiting for a reaction. Itâs a little sore.
âCan you make a fist?â he asks, demonstrating it with his own hand.Â
You flex your fingers, then curl them towards your palm.Â
âAll good,â you declare.Â
âIâll be the judge of that,â he says.Â
He pinches each one of your fingers, then presses a kiss to your knuckles.
âIâd say youâll live,â he announces gently. âBut Iâm worried about your head.â
âI just bumped it,â you remind him, but he shakes his head before you even finish your sentence.Â
âHead injuries can be so serious, baby. We gotta get it checked out,â he insists.Â
âIâll go to the doctor tomorrow.â
âNo, weâre going to Urgent Care right now.âÂ
âJack.â
âSweetheart.â
He is serious. You look at him with pleading eyes, but he doesnât budge.Â
âWeâre gonna have you checked out. And even if thereâs no injury from the fall, I still wanna know whatâs wrong with you that you would climb onto a chair and use the screwdriver. Youâve never done that before.â
A small smile on his face eases the bite from his words.Â
âI thought I could do it by myself,â you mutter.Â
âBaby, Iâm sure you can do it by yourselfâafter I get the ladder from the basement for you and show you how,â Jack reassures you.Â
âI didnât wanna wake you.â
The second those words fall from your lips, Jackâs face grows solemn again. He takes your hands into his, mindful of your wrist, and really looks at you.
âSweetheart, for the love of God. Iâd rather miss out on a couple hours of sleep than find you hurt. Or next time, you just wait a day. Iâve got tomorrow off. We could have done it together.â
He helps you stand up and steadies you gently.Â
âI mean it,â he says, âPlease donât ever do something like that again. I swear, youâre gonna give me a heart attack.â
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.Â
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.Â
when it gets dark, jackâs chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if itâs a group of men. heâll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groupsâjack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he wonât let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if youâre too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesnât say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when youâre out together. heâll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if itâs âjustâ your thighs.Â
when you canât decide what to wear, heâll pick for you.Â
âthe purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.â
heâll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
âsuch a pretty girl, mhm?â
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. heâll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.Â
âattagirlâ
âgood job, babyâ
âyouâre doing so goodâ
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. youâll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.Â
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesnât grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the worldâbecause to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, heâll scratch your head until you practically purr.Â
âyou like that, baby?âÂ
âjust relax. but donât fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open fâme.â
itâs your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, youâre jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.Â
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.Â
when it gets dark, jackâs chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if itâs a group of men. heâll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groupsâjack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he wonât let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if youâre too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesnât say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when youâre out together. heâll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if itâs âjustâ your thighs.Â
when you canât decide what to wear, heâll pick for you.Â
âthe purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.â
heâll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
âsuch a pretty girl, mhm?â
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. heâll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.Â
âattagirlâ
âgood job, babyâ
âyouâre doing so goodâ
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. youâll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.Â
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesnât grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the worldâbecause to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, heâll scratch your head until you practically purr.Â
âyou like that, baby?âÂ
âjust relax. but donât fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open fâme.â
itâs your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, youâre jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.