older! neighbor jack who's having a midlife crisis over his love for you.
older! neighbor jack who "accidentally" leaves his shutters open when he's cooking so he can catch you drooling at his biceps.
older! neighbor jack who will always drive you home after a night out.
older! neighbor jack who tucks you in at night, leaving a cup of water on your nightstand.
older! neighbor jack who would notice you getting closer to him over time, touching him more, looking at him through your lashes.
older! neighbor jack who would reluctantly let you crash at his place when you felt lonely but would sleep on the couch so you could be comfy.
older! neighbor jack who's questioning his morals when you grab his face so he can no longer look away from you.
older! neighbor jack who lets you fall asleep on his lap on movie nights.
older! neighbor jack who rubs your back and carries you to bed.
older! neighbor jack who stutters out an "i can't, honey" when you ask him to stay.
older! neighbor jack who spends his entire shift texting you back after you try to flirt with him. "No, you shouldn't be thinking about me like that."
older! neighbor jack who has to slam his phone down after you send him a picture of your shirtless body.
older! neighbor jack who has no clue what to say. "Honey, were you supposed to send that to me?"
older! neighbor jack who's walking home at the end of his shift, picking up his phone and sending you a stupid 'dad' selfie. "Leave your door unlocked."
you lay on the snow-white sheets, basking in post-orgasmic bliss. through your half-closed eyelids, you watched jack, your eyes drifted lazily between the profile of his face, his freckled, muscular arms, and broad back, which was now marked with mean red lines, pausing on his large, rough hands that held your wrist gently, while two fingers checked your pulse. you watched silently, focusing your gaze on his eyes that were concentrated on the veins beneath your soft skin. after a long moment, jack moved his hand toward the crook of your arm, sliding upward, stopping at the back of your neck, gently cupping it and stroking your jaw.
you closed your eyes, relishing in the older man's affection as he gazed at your chest, watching the movement of your bare, perky breasts rising and falling, slower and calmer with each passing second.
when you felt his hand on your brow bone, you opened your eyes and looked at him, but your lips remained closed, offering no resistance to any of the things jack was doing to you, obediently accepting everything he did to your body.
“is everything okay, doctor abbot?” you asked quietly , with a shadow of playfulness in your voice as his hand left your forehead and found its way into your hair.
“everything is okay” he said fondly , wrapping his arms around your neck and pulling your sweaty body towards him.
in response, you grabbed his broad shoulders, climbing onto his lap, sitting comfortably on his muscular legs, wrapping your thighs around him—hot and wet from your juices and his thick cum.
your lips rested on his cheek, brushing against it slowly, taking their time as they moved across his face, marking every inch of his skin with a wet kiss as a silent thank you for making sure you were okay.
but jack didn’t need a thank you, your health and well-being were his priority, and after you’d let your body be used and abused, he had to make sure.
make sure his sweet girl was safe and sound.
Vacation with Sugardaddy!JackAbbot x Spoiledsugarbaby!Reader
Summary: Your sugar daddy spoils you on a trip to Italy. Plan to be spoiled and fuck like rabbits.
Tags: unprotected piv sex, semi-public making out, oral sex (m and f receiving), 69-ing, cowgirl style, quickies, possessiveness?, ED mention, power imbalance themes (he has all the money), use of term “daddy”, Jack is a disabled man, Jack Abbot x reader smut.
WC: 2.5k
Notes: Inspired by moodboard made by @lacontroller1991 — vacationing with Jack Abbot <3 I’ve never done this format of fanfic/blurb before. I think I might have written too much. Proofread by Grammarly. MDNI
SD!Jack Abbot who tells you you're going on a summer trip with him a day before the flight. He sends you a quick text with the 5-star hotel in Monaco and an itinerary—no questions asked. After all, you were his sugar baby, and he needed you by his side. A pretty thing to show off at expensive cocktail hours on private yachts or to sit on his lap on a white sandy beach in nothing more than a strappy bikini.
You agreed without hesitation.
SD!Jack Abbot who didn't make you beg for his shiny black card (you soon learned it was actually an American Express Centurion). You had 24 hours you prime yourself for your luxury Italian vacation: 4 hours sitting in the salon chair -$560, 1 hour getting a mani-pedi -$175, 1 hour Brazilian waxing appointment -$120; and of course your favorite part, 8 solid hours spent in the lux mall to buy the skimpiest bikinis and sundresses, heels, makeup, jewelry -$11,000. The best thing about Jack's card is that he had no limit. You had whined and pouted about spending more than $500 when you first met him, and sighed when he deemed that pocket change. 10k was his minimum, and he wanted you to spend to your heart's content. If you didn't buy it, he'd just buy it anyway. You don't even bother looking at price tags anymore; instead, you appreciate the item for what it is. Like a red lace thong and matching bra from Fleur de Mal that caught your eye while passing through the store. Maybe you'll surprise Jack later...
SD!Jack Abbot who leads you around the international airport with a gentle hand on the small of your back. He walked with a steady confidence that made you want to turn your brain off. He knew exactly where to go and wouldn't let you lift a finger. Chauffeur-driven airport transfers, a personal flight attendant who prechecked bags and loaded them first with TSA precheck, facial massages, and a Michelin-star brunch provided in the Emirates lounge area. They even offered to get Jack a wheelchair for his leg, but he insisted on walking with his girl.
SD!Jack Abbot who got to the gate and only had to flash a smile to the attendant to be ushered past a line of people awaiting the plane. It felt wrong and so completely foreign. But once settled in the plush seats of the first class, all you could think about is the wonderful 2 weeks ahead of you. Jack sits down beside you with a small groan and rubs at his metallic knee before unhooking it. "You okay, Jackie?" You look up at him with doe eyes, chin propped up in your hand. "Why are you worried about me, baby?" He smiled, flicking the tip of your nose with his finger, " 'm fine." He ordered two drinks and melted into the seat. One hand held the thin glass flute, and the other found the soft flesh of your thigh, kneading it gently. You occupy yourself throughout the flight with movies, shitty offline mobile games, books, and a short catnap before landing at Nice Côte d'Azur airport in France. Monaco was only a 30-minute drive away.
SD!Jack Abbot who rented a sleek black Mercedes-Benz for the rest of the trip, let you be the passenger princess. "Do you know where you're going?" He shoots you a look. "Jus saying... Google Maps doesn't work around here. "I can read a map" "You brought a paper map?" "A souvenir," he claimed as he unfolded the paper in his lap and pointed at a road, "we should be somewhere around here..." "Jack. Don't tell me we're lost." You eventually made it to your destination, a large coastal resort fit with a golf course and a 2000 sqft luxury suite. Your belongings were already in the room, clothes sorted in dressers, robes, and welcome gifts on the bed. You turn to Jack to place a big kiss on his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck.
SD!Jack Abbot who doesn't even flinch when you thank him, just brushes it off with a "anything for my girl" and a slap on the ass. He plops onto the California king-size bed and pats the space beside him. You ignore the spot altogether and crawl onto his lap. His hands ran down your body, squeezing your plump chest, caressing your hips, rubbing your thighs. You place kisses against the mature lines of his neck and begin unbuttoning his tacky, vibrant vacation shirt. You trailed your lips all the way down to his navel when his phone vibrated. Work
SD!Jack Abbot who unbuckles his belt and shoves his pants down when he answers the phone. He talks into the earpiece, voice unwavering as he fucked your face. "Yep, we'll be there tonight, Robby." You heard him say over the sound of your slurping and gagging. He let out a rough exhale as the man on the other side of the phone just kept talking. Your hot mouth and soft hands on his cock were driving him insane, closer to the edge. "...fuck---no sorry. Yep, I'm fine, brother, be there tonight. Roma Yacht, left off the pier" a sharp inhale when you took him to the back of your throat, "I will see you tonight. In the middle of business. Yep, bye!"
SD!Jack Abbot who grabbed your hair and rutted himself into your mouth the second the call ended. He emptied himself in your throat, pulling out and letting the last spurt of cum land all over your face. He swiped a thumb over the mess at the corner of your lip and pressed it between your lips "Go clean up. We have somewhere to be, baby."
SD!Jack Abbot who watches you walk over to the bathroom, pulled his pants back on. He looked in the mirror and fixed his salt and pepper curls. You come out of the bathroom with a clean face and a little black dress. He let you get dolled up so you didn't look like you had just had your face fucked 5 minutes ago. He gave you a slow once-over that screamed "I'm not done with you." You smooth your hair out of your face and follow him out of the resort to the line of expensive yachts waiting on the coast.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ pt.2
SD!Jack Abbot who introduced you to all his colleagues as his 'girlfriend' and joked about how you kept him young. He handed you a glass of expensive rosé. You had only the expectation to smile, look pretty, hold the champagne glass daintily, bat your eyes at old couples, laugh at suggestive jokes about your appearance—the old song and dance that came with these events. You brushed it off and wrapped yourself tighter around Jack's bicep.
SD!Jack Abbot who couldn't keep his hands off you all night. A hand resting on your hip, an arm around your shoulder, lips against your temple. He did NOT care about PDA. He whispered reassurances into your ear all night long, sometimes in front of guests, not caring who overheard him calling you a good girl or how pretty you looked.
SD!Jack Abbot who snuck you into a private room in the interior rooms of the yacht to make out. He loved the way you made him feel alive again, your skin hot and soft against his. He hastily returned to the fancy gathering of doctors, lawyers, and dignitaries. Back to the niceties of shallow conversation. Robby raised his brow at the smudged lipstick on the crisp white collar of Jack's dress shirt. Hm. You smile and laugh it off, letting the alcohol and laughter soothe the suspicions.
SD!Jack Abbot who you convinced to get into the hot tub connected to the suite bedroom. He concedes with some light pressuring and your nude form under the bubbling hot water. "Don't be shy, daddy. C'mere," you rest your cheek against the edge of the tub. "...but my leg, can't get it wet. "then take it off." He pursed his lips and went to undo the mechanism connecting his prosthetic. He sat down on the edge of the bed and hobbled over with crutches, "Really sexy, huh?" His voice was sarcastic and horribly insecure. How could this man possibly be insecure!? You must prove him wrong. You tug him into the hot tub, “very”.
SD!Jack Abbot who was completely in the nude, sank into the hot water. His grey-haired, speckled chest came just above the water line. You tried to keep your eyes from trailing down to the reflection of his dick. You wade over to him on the bench and sit on his good thigh. "You enjoy tonight, sweetheart?" he asked, “I know I did.” You nod and run a greedy hand down his abdomen to his stump and back up to his neck.
SD!Jack Abbot who froze at the simple words "I love you" that fell from your lips. Your very wet and kissable lips. "Yeah, you like this old man?" "mature" he let out a raspy laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling, "yeah right. Whatever the hell you want to call it, baby. The wrinkles and grey aren’t gonna scare you away?" You nibble at your lower lip and shake your head. "What am I gonna do with you. Hm?" He took your jaw with his large palm, forcing you to look at him. You close the gap between your faces and plant sloppy kisses on his lips, his stubble scratchy against your chin.
SD!Jack Abbot who couldn't seem to get hard, his cock staying flaccid when you fondled him. "Shit" he hissed. "'s okay, Jackie." "I forgot to bring my prescription...sorry, baby." "It's okay, really." His lips pulled into a tight, frustrated line. You'd been teasing him all night, and now he couldn't even do anything about it.
SD!Jack Abbot who begged you to sit on his face when you both got out of the hot tub. "Sit down all the way," he growled as you hovered over his waiting lips. He yanked you down by the hips. You gripped his hair as he ate you out thoroughly, his tongue dipping into your hole and lapping at your clit. At the same time, he pumped furiously at his half limp cock. You turn around on his mouth, your ass cheek now pressed against his nose, so you could lean down and go down on his soft member. A hand landed on your ass with a tight grip when you suckled on the head of his cock.
SD!Jack Abbot who flipped you over the second he got hard enough to put it in you. He held your wrists over your head as he pounded into you hard and fast. He liked the way you moaned his name, daddy, or whatever could get out of you. Then he stopped.
SD!Jack Abbot who told you it was time to "show him a little gratitude" and ride him. Why did he have to do all the work after paying for this trip? You climbed on top of him shakily, sinking yourself on his thick, veiny cock that was now rock solid. He rests his hands behind his head as he watches you make a mess of yourself on his cock: head thrown back, makeup smudged, a mess of juices inside your thighs. He rested a hand on your hip to thrust up into you lazily. The cool European air wafted through the open balcony doors. He could look over your shoulder and look at the water and the late setting sun. How the golden glow made your skin look radiant.
SD!Jack Abbot who cums in you 3 times and holds you upright through your orgasms. It was dark by then. You fall against his chest, and he whispers into your ear, "You know we're doing this all over tomorrow, sweet girl?" You nod a little and pass out in his embrace. Jack doesn't even bother to pull out. The old man is tuckered out, sore, and knows he'll feel it in the morning. And every morning for the next 2 weeks. He can't complain.
prone bone with jack abbot sexually explicit content 18+
constantly thinking about early morning prone bone sex with jack; soft yellow sunlight streaming through the linen drapes of your shared bedroom while your jaw is being hugged by jack’s meaty, freckled bicep. the bed consistently tapping against the back wall, jack’s burly chest pressed against your sweating back, as he slides his shaft in and out of your weeping, sopping cunt.
he’s keeping his pace steady, using his thirty-something years of experience against you, rocking his hips against your plump, arched ass. you can almost picture the scarring redness on both your body’s from the friction, but the pleasure of it is secondary to his leaking tip nudging your spongy walls over and over. your moans fall slightly airy from his arm around your neck, holding your head up to the sky like you should be looking at where you’re making him feel he is. his heavy grunts are right in your ear, harmonizing with the banging headboard, while you do the same with the morning songbirds right outside the window.
it’s blatantly obvious he’s taking advantage of you both having the same day off; it being such a rare occurrence, there’s an unspoken knowing that your pussy would be stuffed all day. thick fingers push stray hairs off your face before his arm returns to its strict place on your jugular; he takes note of your rising pulse beneath your carotid artery, force of habit. panting with eyes screwed shut, your arm shoots out to the headboard to steady you both. his full, almost aching, balls hit your pussy lips, both covered and dripping in a combined mix of all your slick juices.
those same thick fingers reach up to your parted, tone-carrying lips, and he groans at the feeling of your tongue swirling so desperately on the pads; he keeps his pointer and middle pressing on your pink muscle and bottom-row teeth as he swivels your head back towards him. his stubble runs against your ear, scraping and burning, as he gruffs into it, “c’mon, baby, lemme see you,” your eyes are tearing as you gag on his digits with a craned neck, “there she is… stay like that. need to see my girl when i cum in her.”
he doesnt even realise hes doing it. the money in his bank account is practically infinite and everybody knows it, he is an ex veteran and doctor after all.
it starts with him buying you coffee on his way to work. then when you guys started seeing eachother outside of work he would start buying you breakfast or dinner. you would always offer to pay, split the bill, but he would always say ‘dont worry about it’ andhand over his black amex like it was nothing.
then once you guys got serious he would start taking you to nicer places. places you never though you would be able to afford. you would feel bad, try ordering the cheapest thing on the menu, but he would notice immediately and ask the waiter to comeback in five.
then he started buying you clothes, jewellery. jack said he wanted you to be happy, and joked that you were ‘always complaining’ about having nothing to wear when he takes you out. you tell him you feel bad, you dont like draining his bank account. ‘baby this is nothing, i just want you to feel good. i like making you feel good.’ he would reply as his hand slid up your thigh. ‘if youre uncomfortable just tell me. ok?’ you climbed onto his lap and took his head into your hands. running your hands though his grey curls.
‘so what…are you my sugar daddy?’ you joked. a smirk grew on his face, ‘is that what you want, huh?’ he started pulling your shirt up over your head, ‘an excuse to call me daddy?’
Please keep interacting with this post because when I come to tumblr to procrastinate, this shows up again in my notifications and guilts me into writing again
Y'all wanted the bet, here it is. Menace!Jack for the win
blurb one ⋆ blurb two ⋆ blurb three ⋆ blurb four
"Whatever you do, do not kiss Abbot."
Your head whips up to meet Ellis's panicked gaze so fast you're surprised you don’t give yourself whiplash.
"Okay, what the fuck?" you question. "Why would I—"
"Cut the shit, the sexual tension between the two of you is so thick we need a saw to cut through it."
"A girl can't have any fun now?" you lean forward, words venomous. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna kiss him.”
"I don't need to know the details of your absurd, borderline psychotic foreplay, just don't kiss him."
"If this is reverse psychology, it's not working."
It's totally working.
"Good," she looks around the room, paranoid. "Just don't fall for it, he's gonna try to trick you, resist it."
You grimace, face contorting into absurd confusion as you try to make sense of the words. But before you can even think to ask, she catches sight of Shen making his way out of central nine. And just like that, she's gone.
You make eye contact with the other attending across the hall, both your gazes narrowing as if to seize up the other.
He takes a sip of his iced coffee, you slowly advert your gaze back to charting.
They're both being weird which can only mean one thing.
The fucking bet.
It had all started a few months ago after the first bar incident.
Trinity, notorious for not being able to not run her mouth, had spread the tale like wildfire, obviously arriving at the second messiest person’s radar by end of shift — Shen.
It was all downhill after that.
A pool was started.
Parameters were set.
From what you’ve gathered, a lot of money is on the line.
If Jack knows about it, you definitely don’t know. He hasn’t been acting any different than usual.
He lingers, he jokes, he teases — just normal for the two of you.
On the other hand, you have been amping up the stakes.
You’d managed to bribe Ahmad pretty early on and he’d feed you information from time to time. At this point, it was him (and you) against Ellis, against Shen.
So when Ellis dropped that morsel of information, you just knew it was time.
You glance up at Ahmad who instantly catches your stare.
Your eyebrow raises slightly in a silent question and he simply nods once.
It's go time.
You'd set a trap over a week ago, planned it out, made sure that everything would fall to your favor.
So the second that Jack slipped next to you even though every single computer at the hub was open, you struck.
“What do you want?”
You didn't even have to say anything for him to know, the mischievous smile on your lips, the one you couldn't contain when something so juicy was afoot it simply took ahold of you and gave you away.
"I want you to kiss me."
His eyebrows raise in a mixture of shock and confusion, cruel of you to say that to him, crueler to say it now.
You stare at him, picture perfect angel, eyes wide and innocent, and all he can do is grin wolfishly.
He knows.
"I want half."
"Hell no."
"I don't know who taught you how to negotiate, but just some friendly advice," he turns to you, inching closer. "That's not how you do it."
You roll your eyes. "Twenty — of my half"
He scoffs, unbelievable.
"Twenty five."
You stand up from your seat, brazenly entering his personal space, faces only a few breaths away from each other.
"Fifteen and I let you buy me dinner."
He laughs and you can't help the genuine smile that tugs at your lips.
Fuck, why does he have to be so beautiful when he feels joy?
"I buy you dinner all the time."
"Officially."
He pauses at that, assessing you.
You've always been bold within the teasing, the fantasy that the two of you have created, so you wouldn't throw something like that out there unless—
"Ten," he leans in. "I buy you dinner," he emphasizes just for the two of you. "And I'll let you kiss me with tongue."
Now it's your turn to laugh and his turn to smile, a soft blush tinting his cheeks at the sound.
God, he wishes he could spend the rest of his miserable life making you laugh like that all the time.
"You're smug tonight," you whisper, stepping forward until your chests are touching.
"And you're gonna get us sent to HR."
"No one's gonna snitch," you press your palms against his chest, feeling the fury of his heart rattling his entire body. "Not like those day shifters."
Jack chuckles. "You really wanna do this?"
You shrug. "Shift's almost over, gotta give them something to talk about."
He hovers over you for a long second, gaze dropping to look at your lips and then right back up at your eyes.
Your heart does a flip, right into your stomach.
Fuck, he's so close, closer than he's ever been before.
You can smell the faint aftershave on his skin, see the little freckles over his cheekbones, find a little eyebrow hair that's out of line that you want to pluck—
And then his lips are on yours and the entire room fades into nothingness.
Your eyes close instinctively but his don't, at least not all the way. He doesn't want to seem like a psycho but he's desperate to see you, to take in every micro expression you're offering him on a silver platter.
Your lips are so soft, exactly what he'd imagined for so long but even his imagination could never compare.
One of his hands lands on your hip, not to grab or fondle, just to ground him in the knowledge that this is real.
And then your tongue swipes over his lips, desperate for entry.
He fucking knew it.
But no amount of previous knowledge could ever prepare him for the real thing.
He's a goner.
His cocky smile lasts only one second before his own urge to devour you takes over.
You taste like mint and that stupid coffee lipgloss Ellis bought you for your birthday.
He tastes like sunscreen and vanilla from that stupid root bear he likes to have at three in the morning instead of coffee.
It's when every ounce of your brain screams for you to wrap your legs around his waist and thread your fingers through his hair that you pull back.
Your eyes open first and for a split second you get to take him in. The definite pink tint over his cheeks, the way his neck is covered in goosebumps, the blissful expression that lingers over his features.
Your eyes meet and for a split second there's only honesty between the two of you.
Nothing to hide behind.
Nothing to joke about.
And then the two of you burst out laughing.
The rest of the ED groans in response.
Of course it's a ruse. It's just another one of your stupid pranks.
At least they think it is.
But the two of you know that it was real.
As real as you would get for now.
As real as you'll allow yourself to be.
"That was easier than I thought," Shen's boasts, a little too loud, a little too close to the entrance of the ED.
His comment lands him a smack on his arm from Ellis, a warning.
"What?" he complains, counting the bills from their real side bet with Ahmad. The woman can only roll her eyes because deep down she knows he's right. "Hey, how much money do you think we can make if we get them to f—"
Ellis shoves him then and it's a miracle that he doesn't end up tangled in the bushes outside the hospital.
summary: when your ex is brought into the ED, jack finds himself noticing things he shouldn’t—like how much it bothers him, and how little his feelings for you feel like friendship anymore.
warnings: yearning!!! (a man who yearns is a man who earns...just not in this part tho..) age gap, protective/petty!abbot, reader girl bosses at emotional repression & not enough complex (abbot hates loves to see her coming, yeesh!), a few suggestive lines. thats it me thinks, first abbot fic whaaadddd up!! im in the pitt! also medical setting but minimal medical jargon cos im an #adminprincess not a #medicinebaddie
wc: 3.2k
It never ceases to shock Abbot how violently fast everything shifts in the ED. One minute he’s tugging off a stiff gown speckled with someone’s worst day, and the next he’s snapping on fresh gloves, forcing his brain to do a quick factory reset in order to keep moving, until he has time to process it all. And when the processing does finally make its rounds, it usually doesn’t happen on hospital grounds.
Apparently, his job isn’t the only thing that requires triage, his mind does too. It was something his therapist had said once, comparing his thoughts to patients crammed into a waiting room. At the time, Abbot had nearly rolled his eyes. It sounded like one of those metaphors people reach for when they’re trying too hard to be relatable.
But, annoyingly, it stuck, because the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
Compartmentalisation really does feel like triage. Some thoughts barge straight to the front of the queue, unavoidable and demand attention, while others can last a little while longer, sitting to one side.
He’s not really sure where seeing you fits into all of that. Or what it does to him exactly—just that it does. His shoulders drop a fraction, the background noise in his head sort of…dims, like someone’s turned the volume down without asking. It’s subtle enough that he almost misses it, until he realises he’s not thinking about anything else anymore. Just you.
He huffs out a quiet laugh when he sees you before he can catch it, mostly because it’s a little unfair. You are, very clearly, going through something.
Your nose is wrinkled, like something deeply offensive has lodged itself at the back of your throat, and you’re unsuccessfully trying to swallow it down, which doesn’t look like it’s going well for you. Your arms are held rigidly away from your body like touching anything, or being touched, might genuinely ruin your week. Possibly your entire sense of self.
“Everything okay?” he asks, which feels like a trick question.
You don’t even look at him. Which hurts a little.
“I wouldn’t get any closer if I were you,” you warn, already veering off towards the hand sanitiser dispenser. You pump it once. Twice. Three times. And then, for reasons known to only you and whatever higher power governs poor decision-making, a fourth.
It’s funny. He’s usually the one running that line through his own head on a loop. Don’t stand so close, don’t read into things—quiet warnings he’s choosing to ignore, despite them being dressed in bells and buzzers and all things loud and bright. So hearing it from you tossed out so casually lands…strange. Even if he knows you mean something else entirely.
He folds his arms loosely. “Define closer. How far is safe?”
“I’d say at least two metres,” you reply grimly, scrubbing your hands together. “Unless you’re curious about what my patient had for dinner.”
Abbot winces. “That bad?”
You nod, shooting him a tired look. “Projectile. Zero warning. I just happened to be standing right in the centre of her aim. It’s fine, it happens, I just need to get out of these scrubs.”
“Kid okay?”
Your expression softens immediately. “Yeah, she’s just scared, kept apologising like she’d committed a crime. Told her I get the same way when I’m at the dentist.” You turn back to face him, lifting a finger in warning. “Minus the sick part. I would like to make it very clear that I have not thrown up in the middle of a cleaning.”
A grin slides across his face. “You have a fear of the dentist?”
“Doesn’t everybody? Needles and drills—” you pull a face, “—who in their right mind would willingly choose to work with such things?”
“You work in an emergency department.”
“Correct,” you reply primly, walking backward towards the lockers. “But at least I’m the one doing the jabbing here.”
“Hm. Better to inflict than receive?” he calls after you.
“You just get me!” you say, pointing at him before turning on your heel as you jog down the corridor.
He watches you go, shaking his head, another laugh escaping under his breath. You’re ridiculous. Ridiculously kind. Ridiculously capable. Ridiculously easy to look at, even in hospital scrubs that deserve retirement. And he’s ridiculous for noticing, for letting his mind linger there at all.
Abbot is almost glad when the commotion outside starts to swell, voices overlapping, wheels clattering and metal clanging. A few seconds later a gurney is being rolled in.
Perfect. A distraction. Exactly what he needs right now.
Ellis reaches it first, guiding it to the open trauma bay.
“Daniel Miller, cyclist versus vehicle, thrown approximately ten feet,” one of the paramedics rattles off as they move.
“No helmet worn. Brief disorientation at the scene.”
“Ouch,” Ellis mutters, catching a glimpse of the patient's leg which is now skin fused with fabric, specks of gravel clinging to the wounds. “That’s a nasty bit of road burn.”
The man groans as the gurney jolts to a stop, one hand hovering near his ribs like he’s not entirely sure where the worst of it is, just that it’s bad.
Abbot leans in to help position him, and then pauses.
The guy looks familiar.
Not in an obvious way. Not enough to immediately go oh, right, him. Nothing that neat or convenient. But there’s something about his face that snags. A pull at the back of Abbot’s mind, the kind that almost clicks if you don't think about it too hard, but the second you do, it just slips.
Huh.
That’s going to bother him.
“Where do you want me?” you ask, a little breathless from rushing back which, out of context, is a wildly dangerous question to be asking him. In a non-work setting, he’s fairly certain he’d have a very different answer. Several, actually. None of them are appropriate.
He bites his tongue. Hard. And decides with great maturity not to comment on that, or the fact that you smell like you’ve walked directly through a perfume shop on your way here.
“Help Ellis irrigate,” he says instead, like a true professional.
You nod, grabbing a pair of gloves as you stand right next to Ellis.
Abbot glances up and catches the way your brows pinch together, the tilt of your head, like your brain is still trying to catch up with what it’s seeing. Or rather, who.
Weird.
So it’s not just him then.
“Dan?” you murmur, tone dressed in recognition.
There it is. Hearing you say his name—nickname—and suddenly Abbot’s mind stops circling and clicks into place, the earlier confusion blooming into clarity.
Your ex.
Abbot’s marginally surprised he hadn’t clocked it sooner, but quite frankly ever since you told him you’d broken up, he’d been glad to lose the headache and had scrubbed the guy out of his thoughts completely.
But now, seeing him up close, even if he does look a little different from the photos you had tucked in your locker, his face now marked with cuts and scratches, all that distaste comes rushing back.
It’s still the same face.
The same one he used to have the irrational urge to scribble devil horns onto, to cross out the eyes whenever he caught a glimpse of it over your shoulder while you were digging around in your locker.
The same asshole.
Or maybe Abbot was the one that was being the asshole.
After all, who you saw in your free time was none of his business. Even if you did seem to have a habit of going for absolute losers.
He wonders, not for the first time, if there’s a reason for that. Something that’s a little more buried, tucked away behind the easy smiles and the way you make light of things, like you’re picking people who don’t quite meet you where you are. Not because you can’t do better, but because somewhere along the line you decided that was enough.
That you were enough for everyone else, but never quite enough for something better.
He frowns at the thought.
Maybe it’s something that comes with time. With age.
Or maybe you’ve just never had anyone stick around long enough to prove you wrong.
“Hey,” Dan croaks and Abbot has to physically stop his eyes from rolling. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Abbot tells himself that’s a poor attempt at a joke, not the very real possibility that the guy genuinely forgot where you work.
You don’t laugh.
“You were hit pretty hard,” you say instead, ignoring the look Ellis seems to be giving you, somewhere between I want to know everything and should I be punching this guy in the face. Abbot hopes, quite sincerely, that she’s leaning towards the second. “Try to stay still,” you continue, reaching for fresh gauze.
“Still doing the whole… saving people thing, huh?” There’s a crooked sort of smile pulling at his mouth, like he thinks he’s being charming. Abbot briefly wonders if that’s ever actually worked on you.
“Hold this,” you instruct, pressing the gauze lightly to his hand.
He glances down at it, then back up at you. “Bossy. Guess some things never change.”
Abbot’s jaw tightens. “Pain level?” he cuts in bluntly. “One to ten.”
Dan barely looks at him. “I’m fine.”
“Great. Then you won’t mind if I press here.” His hand settles firmly against the man’s ribs.
Dan sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah, okay, maybe not fine.”
“Thought so.”
Ellis huffs under her breath, shaking her head with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.
“Could be a contusion or a rib fracture,” Abbott continues, tone flattening into something clinical, like the last five seconds didn’t just happen. “We’ll get a chest x-ray, rule out a pneumothorax.”
Dan shifts, but his attention slides straight back to you—right until a tall brunette rushes in.
“Dan, baby, I’m here.” She reaches for him, gripping his foot at the edge of the bed. “How is he? Is he going to be okay?”
You’re the only one not occupied in that second, so you step toward her on instinct, already softening. “He’s going to be okay. We’re just checking him over.”
She nods quickly, still holding onto him.
You hesitate for a second. “You are…?”
“His fiancée,” she says like it’s obvious. “I told you not to go out that late. Gosh, it’s so dark and you never wear a helmet or anything, you could’ve died!”
Abbot watches the way your eyes catch on the pretty cut diamond resting on her finger. It's quick and easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. But he is. Just a flicker of light catching on the shape of it, something unreadable passing over your face before your expression smoothes into something practised and polite.
You reach gently for her elbow. “Why don’t we give them a bit of space to work?”
She hesitates, looking between you and Dan.
“I just—I don’t want to leave him—”
“You’re not leaving,” you reassure her. “Just a couple of steps outside. I’ll come get you the second we’re done here.”
“I’m fine, babe,” Dan adds with a small nod.
That seems to do it, her body language loosens as you guide her out, passing her off to one of the nurses. You turn to head back in, but your name is called somewhere down the corridor, and you’re gone before Abbot even registers where you’ve been pulled to.
Abbot had only caught brief glimpses of you over the next few hours, which wasn’t unusual, that’s kind of how shifts in the ED worked. People moving in and out of your line of sight, always just out of reach, always somewhere else you’re not. Still, it irritated him more than it should. Mostly because he hasn’t actually had a chance to check if you’re okay.
Which, technically, isn’t his job. There are plenty of other people around. You’re perfectly capable. You’d say something if you weren’t. He knows that.
Doesn’t make it any less annoying.
So when he finally spots you at one of the computers, still in one place for more than five seconds, there’s a small sense of relief that he refuses to examine too closely.
He detours to grab a coffee first. For you.
He sets the mug down beside your mouse when he gets back, close enough that you notice the movement but not so close that it disrupts whatever you’re doing. You look up mid-type, a little startled, fingers still hovering over the keyboard like you’ve been caught between thoughts.
“I know it’s not that iced stuff you and Shen drag in here by the litre.” He nods towards the steaming cup. “But it’s the best the staff room can offer.”
“No, it’s perfect. Thank you.” You smile up at him, already reaching for it.
“Still hot,” he warns.
Too late.
You take a sip and immediately regret it. Your face scrunches, the mug pulling back too fast to be graceful, which is exactly how a splash of it ends up on your thigh.
“Told you,” Abbot murmurs, grabbing a tissue box nearby and pulling out a small handful.
You’re still staring down at the spreading patch, mildly horrified, which conveniently means you don’t notice how close he gets. Close enough that, for a second, it looks like he’s about to do it himself—press the tissues to your thigh, like that would be normal, like that wouldn’t be crossing several very obvious lines.
His hand lingers just above, hovering shy of contact, until you glance up and free him from the thought entirely by taking the tissues and dabbing them against your leg.
“Thanks,” you mumble tiredly.
“Yeah,” he says, taking a step to the side, forcing distance.
Yeah.
Great conversation.
“Daniel’s been discharged,” he adds, aiming for neutral, casual, but somehow landing right back in uncomfortable territory. “He’s going to be alright. Not sure he’ll be back to cycling anytime soon though.”
“Oh.” You ball up the tissues in your hand and toss them in the bin. “Good. That’s good.”
Abbot nods, drumming his fingers lightly against the counter. “And you?”
“Me? Have I been discharged?”
He shakes his head. “Not quite what I meant.”
“Shame. I was hoping to get off early.”
“Are you okay?”
Your smile wavers as you brush stray hairs back. “Yeah. Fine. Just didn’t expect to run into my ex here, out of all places."
He nods again. “Did you know he was engaged?”
“Nope,” you reply, popping the p. “In fact, it was the exact reason we broke up,” you add with a small laugh. “I wanted to get married, he didn’t.” You pause, turning back to your charting, fingers going back to typing. “It’s now very obvious that he did want a marriage,” you continue, a little quieter, “just not with me.”
“That’s not what that means.”
“No?” You glance sideways at him, one brow lifting. “Feels like a pretty straightforward conclusion.”
It shouldn’t get under his skin the way it does—the casual way you shrink yourself down to something easier to explain. But he’s discovered there’s a very long list of shouldn'ts when it comes to you.
“You ever thought that maybe he wasn’t the right fit for you, rather than you not being right for him?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, and he can tell he’s hit a nerve, but he’d press on it every single day if he thought it’d make a difference, if it might rewire the way you see yourself.
“It doesn’t really matter now anyway. He’s moved on and I’m happy for him. Who cares what I do with my feelings,” you say, waving a hand in his direction like you can brush it all off.
“I do.” The words come out softer than intended, with no time to dress them up as something safer.
You pause at that, looking up at him properly now. “You don’t have to,” you reply airily, like you’re offering him an out he didn’t ask for.
“I know. But I do.”
“I’ll live. And you should know by now things like that would never impact my work.”
“And you should know by now that that’s not what I’m worried about.”
A breath leaves your nose, caught between a laugh and a sigh. “You’ve been really annoying since you started going to therapy.”
“Robby has never missed a day of telling me that.”
He observes you for a moment after that. He can tell you’re brewing something, like a teapot left too long on heat, and he’s just waiting for it to tip, for you to let even a little of it spill so he can try to ease just a fraction of the things he’s certain are eating you up inside.
A few seconds pass. Then a minute.
Abbot shifts his weight, already half turning away, figuring it’s time to leave you to it.
“I’m not—” you sigh, leaning back in your chair.
He stops.
“I’m not upset about him, okay? Not like that.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“It’s just…” you exhale, looking down at your hands, fingers stretching over the keyboard. “It makes you question things.”
“Like what?” he presses, not unkindly.
You shrug, but it's looser now, less defensive.
“Like whether you were asking for too much,” you admit. “Or…that maybe you’re right and it's just not the right person.”
He watches you carefully. “The second one.”
“You’re very sure about that.”
“Yeah.”
“Must be nice,” you say softly, “being that certain.”
He almost smiles, but nice isn’t the word he’d use.
Torture is closer.
All this certainty.
Because for him, that’s all it’s been. Knowing, without any real room to argue otherwise.
He knows he would be no good for you, not in a way that would make you feel unappreciated because he’d make you feel the opposite of that in excess, but in a way where he knows it still wouldn’t be enough. He’s very well aware that he’s further down the road than you are, that he’s already lived through things you’re only just approaching, that there are years between you that don’t just disappear because he wants them to.
And he knows himself well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt of knowing he’d taken something from you he had no right to take, even if you gave it willingly. Because what he’d be offering wouldn’t be equal, not really. It would be shaped around where he is, not where you should get to. And you…you’re still young, still standing at the start of things with so much ahead of you, the kind of future that should be wide open, not bent to fit someone who’s already lived most of his first.
He’s not someone who can give you that, not fully, not in the way you deserve, and that’s the part he’s most certain about.
“Not always,” he answers, rapping his knuckles against the counter.
You study him for a change, like you’re trying to find something there he’s not giving you, some crack in it you can pull apart. But when nothing gives, you shake your head and turn back to your work.
“Well, I’ll let you know when I’ve reached your level of emotional enlightenment."
“I’ll be waiting.”
You offer him a smile then, not the polite one you hand out to patients, not the one that disappears as soon as it’s seen. It stays long enough for him to appreciate it. Quietly. Because that’s all he’s allowed to do before he’s walking away.
Summary: In the chaos of a mass-casualty call, your badges get swapped, leading to a quiet, loving moment with Jack as you switch them back.
A/N: I need more Abbot on my screen now! This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.
Masterlist
The page comes in while you and Jack are still tangled together in bed, limbs warm and sweaty under the blanket.
The sheets are twisted around your legs, your fingers brushing against his arm, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat through the warmth of his chest. His head is buried into your shoulder, and you watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. The softness of his hair grazes your cheeks, and the faint scent of his cologne lingers in the bedroom air.
Not one, but the two sharp shrills echo through the quiet, dark room.
For a moment, neither of you moves, letting the warmth sink into your bones one last time. You cling to the familiar weight of him, memorizing the feelings of being wrapped in his arms.
Then the blankets are thrown back. Clothes are shoved on in a rush.
“Train derailment,” Jack mutters, already reaching for his pager. “Mass casualty.”
You don't even answer, just nod; both pagers going off are already a serious clue that something big has happened.
It was barely ten minutes ago that you were in bed, still feeling the lingering warmth of each other's skin, but now you're both pushing through the ambulance bay doors as if you're late.
The emergency department is pure chaos.
Sirens still wail outside as paramedics flood in, wheeling stretcher after stretcher, while nurses move quickly between trauma bays. Voices overlap with orders and updates, and someone is shouting for more crash carts. Monitors beep in uneven rhythms, alarms screaming in bursts, each one pulling your attention in a different direction. The smell of antiseptic and blood cuts through the air. The noise is so loud it makes your head spin.
You toss your bag aside, almost forgetting it in your rush, clipping your badge on without thinking. Jack does the same. Neither of you notices the switch, too busy being swept into the utter madness. Somewhere in the noise, the warmth and intimacy of the morning feel miles away.
You barely see Jack after you split off. One second, he’s beside you, next he's being pulled into Trauma Two while you’re being escorted into Trauma Four.
“Doctor, over here! Males, mid-forties, chest trauma, hypotensive–” a paramedic sounds as you slide the stretcher into the bay.
You’re already moving. “On my count: one, two, three,” you guide the team as the patient is transferred over. “Get me a pressure bag and a quick exam.”
Hands follow your motions automatically, your mind running through the mental checklist without a conscious thought. Every movement is precise, every order sharp, every instruction crisp.
“BP’s dropping!” a nurse calls.
“Breath sounds decreased on the left—”
You don’t hesitate. “Prep for a chest tube.”
“I’ll assist.”
The voice is close this time. Robby.
You glance up just enough to see him stepping into the chaos beside you, already gloved, focused, moving with the ease of someone who has done this hundreds of times.
“Let’s do this,” he adds.
Everything narrows after that. Hands steady, orders sharp. No wasted movement. You work around each other seamlessly, like a well-oiled machine. Friendly and familiar even amidst the chaos, the unspoken trust between you is clear.
“Tube in.”
“Great. Watch his pressure.” Robby calls.
“It’s coming up.”
A brief sigh of relief floats through the room when the patient's pressure stabilizes. For a moment, the chaos eases, and Robby’s gaze flicks towards you.
Down.
Your badge.
His eyes linger for a second.
Fucking knew it, he thinks, internally laughing at how obvious it is now that you and Abbot are together. Another glance, just to be sure, then he looks back towards the patient as if nothing happened.
“Nice call,” he murmurs, already refocusing.
And just like that, what he saw is buried, under the noise, under the urgency, under everything else.
It wasn’t until you finally stepped out into the hallway that the adrenaline started to wear off.
You tug your gloves, exhaling slowly, the snap of latex echoing faintly as you toss them into the garbage. The chaos of the trauma room still rings in your ears.
Besides you, Robby is also pulling his gloves off, a little slower but more deliberate.
“Nice work, Abbot,” he says.
You frown, confusion washing over your face. “...What?”
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he glances sideways at you before lifting his hand, gesturing towards your chest.
Your stomach drops before you even look down.
But you do.
And there it is.
Jack Abbot, Doctor.
Clipped neatly onto your scrubs as if it belongs there.
Shit
Your fingers brush the badge, hoping maybe a simple touch could make your own name reappear. It doesn't.
Your mind races, shifting through chaos, the adrenaline, the exhaustion. Of course, it had to be Robby who noticed. He isn’t the chief for nothing. Your chest tightens slightly, not from embarrassment but from the knowledge that Robby finally knows your secret.
Robby lets out a quiet breath, a mix of hum and a suppressed laugh.
“I noticed back there,” he mentions, glancing back at the trauma room you both just came from. “When you called for the chest tube.”
You freeze. If he noticed that in all of that chaos…who else did?
“Figured I’d wait,” he adds, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You exhale, tension creeping in now, sharper than before. “Robby—”
“Don’t ruin this.”
You blink. “Ruin what exactly?”
“This,” he says, finally looking at you properly now, the grin breaking through. “This is too good.”
You cross your arms, trying to pull yourself together, even as your pulse picks up. “It’s a simple mistake.”
“Mmm.” He hums, unconvinced. “You just somehow happened to grab his badge? In the dark? Maybe while trying to get dressed in a hurry.”
You don’t answer. The silence already tells Robby everything he needs. His expression shifts from amusement to quiet satisfaction, the kind of smug certainty that says I knew it. The subtle lift of his brow, the slight ease in his shoulders. He was right. Always.
Finally, you let out a laugh, letting the truth slip out. He’s going to find out eventually; might as well just tell him.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s what happened.”
Robby’s grin widened, triumphant and teasing but still completely warm. He’s not disappointed, god knows Jack needs someone steady in his life like you. He’s satisfied that his growing suspicion of you two has been proven right.
“I so knew it,” he murmurs mostly to himself, tilting his head, then adds, nudging you subtly, “Go find the actual Dr. Abbot and switch badges. Before anyone else notices your little secret.”
You shake your head, tired. “I hate you.”
“Mm,” he hums, clearly pleased. “That’s what everyone says when I’m right.”
For the first time since the trauma room, the tension in your chest eases, your shoulder loosening. A calm, settling feeling washes over you at the knowledge that Robby's approval and teasing bring, right in the middle of the chaos.
You don't have to look very far to find Jack. He’s just outside of Trauma Two, speaking with one of the nurses, his voice low and steady as he goes over updates. His sleeves are still rolled up from working; he looks the same as he always does after something like this, focused, grounded, like the chaos never affects him in the way it does for everyone else.
You watch the way he nods, the way his hand rests on his hip, the way his weight settles more firmly on his left side.
The memory of how close you were just an hour ago, warm sheets, quiet breaths, his arms wrapped around you, rushes back. And now this.
Your chest feels full, content.
His eyes flick up and find you immediately. No confusion, just recognition, like he's been aware of you the entire time, even when he wasn't looking.
“Give me a second,” he says to the nurse, already stepping away and heading towards you.
You meet him halfway. The ED noise fades into the background.
You don’t say anything right away, but neither does he. Enjoying the little moment.
Then his gaze drops towards your badge.
He lets out a soft laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly as he tips his head down.
“No way,” he murmurs, tapping the badge lightly. “You’re kidding me.”
“We didn't notice when we got paged in,” you murmur back, a mixture of groan and smile.
“I can tell,” he says easily, still smiling. “Still funny, though.”
“Robby knows,” you whisper.
Jack pauses. Then a small, knowing smile tugs at his lips.
“I’m guessing that’s how you found out,” he says, glancing at you, “He noticed before you did?”
“Of course he did,” you admit.
Jack shakes his head lightly. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”
A quiet pause settles between you.
“We should probably switch them back.”
“Probably,” he agrees.
But neither of you moves right away, as if stepping back means breaking something.
Jack unclips his badge from your scrubs. Your breath catches, both simple and profound. You do the same, removing his from your chest. The trade is quick, charged, fingers brushing softly, lingering longer than necessary.
You feel the warmth of him through the contact, the rise and fall of his breathing steady and grounding. Neither pulls away.
Jack takes hold of your badge, glancing down at your name, your title, before looking back up at you. Something in his expression shifts. Softer. Loving. He leans closer in just enough to share the warmth in the bright hallway.
“One day,” he adds, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “that badge might say Abbot anyway.”
Your breath catches. Not from surprise. From the way he says it. As if these few months together meant everything to him. Something warm spreads through you, grounding you in a way the adrenaline never could.
“…Yeah?” you ask quietly.
Jack holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” he says, certain. In that single word, you feel the weight of everything he feels for you, how much he trusts you, how much he loves you.
He finally steps back, just enough to break the tension, but his gaze never wavers, carrying all of it without a single word.
Then, almost casually, he says, “Let’s get back to work.”
The words are ordinary, but the look that comes with them is anything but. It lingers in your mind, steady and warm, as you turn and step back into the rush of the hospital together, badges finally switched, side by side, knowing you’ll be back in bed together soon.
Retired!Simon
Smut 18+ part two to this, filthy smut, pwp, filthy filthy filthy, age gap, overstim, FILTHY, pussy slapping, throat fucking, oral (both)
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
You text the number the moment you come home. Fuck seeming desperate or so, you'd be damned if you let the best fuck of your life get away. Fingers a bit trembly from excitement, just a simple 'hey'. You stare at the screen for a minute before putting your phone away. Like he'd reply that fast.
He must have been like forty or so, good chunk older than you. Crows feet around his eyes when he smiled - whatever one would could call the expression similiar to a semblance of a friendly intent he gave you before leaving you wrecked in the bathroom. Didn't even catch his name before he had your skirt pulled off, hand grabbing into the fat of your ass, roughly.
His touch still phantoms your body. Handling you like he's known you all his life, pushing, prodding, around the curves of a girl young enough to get questioning stares if seen together outside. Maybe you even would be desperate enough to just call him. Maybe that's excatly what he wanted, making you beg for it, knowing how those fifteen minutes were more than a quick fuck for something so young and inexperienced as you. Mean. But you like it in some way. The game of cat and mouse had long begun before you knew you were part of it.
No answer for three days and you're jumpy. Always looking at your phone, biting your lips, ignoring the achy pain in your cunt that was begging for relief. But your vibrator wasn't cutting it anymore, barely able to push you over the edge and no gratification with it. You just can see those honeyed brown eyes of his, nursing a drink in the evening while reading over your simple text, asking when you'd break.
You hope he would show up on the golf course again, maybe you'd recognise his friends and ask them a few things. Anything to give you a sense of control in whatever you had entered. It doesn't get as far, because on the fourth night your thumb has its own plans and before you know the phone rings. Once, twice, thrice. Then finally the thick, accented voice comes through, your thighs clenching, a burst of joy rushing through your body.
"Already missin' me, doll?"
He was enjoying it way too much.
"H-hey."
Butterflies in your stomach and you lightly slap yourself to get yourself together.
"Didn't reply to my text, so thought I'd call."
"Yeah? What can I do for ya?"
Smug bastard. Like he didn't know.
"Hoped I could see you again."
Your hand laid open.
"Hm. A straightforward one, aren't you, doll. Atta girl."
You hear glass clanking on the other side of the line. He did seem like a whiskey type of man.
"Whenever you want to."
Of course he'd say that.
"Right now?"
Maybe your pussy was doing the talking for you.
"That desperate f'me?"
A soft chuckle on his side.
"Alright, get your pretty ass here."
Didn't expect that to work. Maybe you weren't the only one needing this.
"Where do you live?"
"I'll send you a cab."
"T-thanks."
"One more thing."
You pause in your movement, already scurrying to get changed into something more presentable.
"Simon's the name. Remember it. Gonna be screaming it a lot tonight."
"S-simon..."
You cry out, hips trembling as his thick cock slides out slowly. A gush of slick pools around your ass but you don't nearly have enough braincells to care about the ruined bed, tears streaming down down your cheeks.
"p-please..."
His bulbous tip smacks your clit and your eyes roll back.
"Please what?"
"L-let me cum."
Of course he had been edging you all night, eating you out only to pull away once your back arched up and you were babbling his name like a prayer. His thick cock had sank in, wrecking your cunt, a thumb on your clit only giving you light strokes every now and then. Your folds were sticky, glistening, the amount of juices he had forced out of you made you want to cry. You had been so frustrated the past days, nothing feeling good and now that you were so close, he only bullied your poor cunt until she was swollen, crying all over him.
"Why should I?"
"P-please..."
His cock sinks back in and your lip wobbles. God it felt so good but it wasn't enough. Not when he was moving so slowly, hands sunk into the fat of your chest almost painfully. Your clit was throbbing from the onslaught of feelings, clenching, begging for more. You must look pathetic, lying there in that mating press, soaking through everything, your panties lying somwhere, ripped apart.
"Gotta work for it, doll."
It was burning between your legs. You were going crazy, fat drops of slick hitting the expensive rug unter your knees while he was feeling his fat cock down your tiny throat. Your eyes weren't focused anymore and you don't know if you were even breathing, dizzy enough that your head felt empty, static.
"Look at your poor throat. 's all stretched out, eh? Body too small for my cock?"
He gives you a mean thrust and you gag around him, more tears rolling out your eyes. Your hands were gripped into his muscular thighs, not knowing if to push away or endure so maybe he'd give you what you needed. Not like you'd manage to actually pull away, his hand on the back of your head, making you move up and down his length.
"Like taking older men's cock into your mouth? Making good use of every hole you got."
His words were gasoline to the fire inside you. Every time your cunt clenched, you could hear, hear the squelching that came with it, like his cock had gaped you enough over the hour he had just sat inside you and played with your body.
"Oh yeah, you love it. Dirty cunt's ruined for any other man, eh? Might as well get my name tattooed on there."
He finally pulls out, the relief of being able to properly breathe again barely important compared to finally have his cock stretching out your wall again. He makes you crawl back onto the bed and spread your legs so he could inspect the damage he's done, sinking in three fingers with no resistance.
"You'd really do anythin' for me to fuck you properly, eh?"
All you can do is whimper weakly, clenching your cunt.
His palm comes flat down, delivering a light slap onto your folds and you cry out. Again, he starts slapping your pussy, making loud plapping squelches echo off his room while you try to scurry away from the pain, screaming out his name in hopes he's stop.
"Ah, no, no running away, doll."
A hand on each leg pulling you back down.
"You want to cum?"
"Y-y-yes..."
You gargle out, feeling the knot building, hot embarrassment washing over you, knowing what was coming. He spit onto your cunt, glob of saliva running down, feeling cool against your reddened folds. Then he started again, sharp slaps against your cunt, grazing your poor clit, making you flinch every time the sharp pain burned so good against you. And the coil built up again, growing and growing, vining up your torso until you were crying out his name every time his hand made contact with your poor body.
“Here we go.”
A strong gush of liquid drenches him, your body shaking, lips opened in an attempt to scream and he starts fucking his fingers into you. A second gush comes right after, your thighs wet and slippery, your body engulfed in blazing bliss, your eyes rolling so far back, you swear you were seeing the back of your skull.
“Atta girl. C’mon, do it again.”
Another slap and more liquid just explodes out your wrecked body. He’s got you on your tummy moments later, cock slipping in and his pace picks up. Quick, brutal, like he did in the bathroom, he pummels your pink hole until you were sure she would never ever want another man inside. Strokes that hit your cervix, punched the air out of your lungs, the slickness your clit was pressed into every time his body weight slammed into you bordering on painful.
“Getting your cunt ruined by some old man. You ought to respect yourself some more, eh?”
Your thighs starts to tremble again. You let out a strained moan, fingers holding onto his wrist like he’d slow down if you did. A few more strokes and you feel him nestling his load right under your womb.
“Fuckin’ good pussy. Best one so far.”
You think he’d let you stay like that, tummy down on his dirty bed, finally giving you rest. But the moment he pulls out, he puts your limp body onto his lap, hand on your chest, groping and occasionally sinking a finger or so into you to push his seed back into you.
“You still want to cum? Still want my fingers in that dirty hole o’yours?”
You whine weakly, trying to shake your head no.
“Yeah? Alright.”
And he starts back at zero, three fingers in your cunt, brutal pace, until you were emptied all over again, his seed now spread across your lower half as all you manage is gargle out pleas of his name and some incoherently strung together syllables. The next orgasm makes you question if you were still alive. There was a constant dribble of slick running out your cunt, your clit swollen two twice its size, the firm slap of his palm felt in your entire nervous system.
The has the audacity to press a kiss against your soft lips, once he’s done. A hot towel cleaned you up and his arms carried you over to another room. You were out of it and the moment you smelled fresh sheets and a blanket was pulled over you, you enter the deepest slumber of your life.
Just Retired!Simon fucking the breath out of you, one of the young golf cart girls trying to sell him beer, in the bathroom stall. Hand over your mouth, skirt pooling at your ankles.
his thick cock has you stretched obscenely wide, the door shaking with every of his brutal thrusts. His buddies were waiting outside, asking themselves why he was taking so long, never imagining he was plowing into the girl half his age with the vigour of a twenty year old.
His fingers are on your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub with ease, driving you crazy, all while sushing you, telling you to stop being so loud. Like he wasn't the one wrecking you.
Leaves you with a thick load in your panties, messy hair and his number scribbled on a piece of paper while you try to explain your boss why your bathroom break took so long.
hello….yes hello…what if you wrote abbott and reader….dry humping but like him slipping under her underwear….like something like that….
Dry humping and the illuminati will save us
Jack loves dry humping something something because it reminds him of his youth and makes you all needy and submissive.
The Tv's turned down low, long forgotten as Jack rolls his sweatpants-clad hips into the fleshy plush of your ass.
He pulled your pj shorts down to rest under the fleshy curve of your ass a while ago, tracing the bulging outline of his cock between your asscheeks with breathy groans.
His forehead is pressed into the back of your hair, mind turning heady with the scent of your shampoo.
You try to turn to him, whimpering when the girthy length of him presses just right against the dip of your flesh.
"Yeah, y'like that sweetie? Like daddy in your ass?"
A roll of your hips into his has him slipping a hand under your thigh, bringing your leg up to rest over his, readjusting to press the hardened bulge against the outline of your pussy — the fabric of your panties soaked through, seeping into the grey of his sweatpants.
"Need t'feel you," you practically sob, digging your nails into the tanned skin of his bicep.
Jack hums from behind you and runs two fingers down the front of your pussy through the fabric of your panties, rubbing your slick upwards to your clit and pressing into your soaked folds before pulling the fabric to the side. He circles your clit with his middle digit, rubbing his cock up against your folds.
You swear you could cum just like this and you nearly sob with relief when you feel him fumble around the band of his sweatpants, the warm fat head of his cock presses up against your entrance, teasing you before he slips it halfway in, spreading the lips of your cunt open as his cock fills you.
The thought of reader bragging about Jack doing everything to her in front of the others at The Pitt but nobody knows that they're dating. So he's just overhearing like 😊😊😊😊😊 as they're praising him for being a good boyfriend without knowing who it fr is ehehehehheehee
YESSSSS ! omg and he’d be sooooooo smug too.
Jack watched as you gushed to your coworkers about your “mystery man” and the date he took you on last night. His chest felt tight and warm as a blush crept up his cheeks but he tried to shake it off, as to not draw attention to himself. He switched to days so your schedules could align and spend more time with one another, and he’s so glad he did because otherwise he would’ve missed this interaction.
He had just asked you to be his girlfriend, so both of you were trying to keep it quiet at the Pitt so there wouldn’t be any added pressure, but when Princess had caught you quickly doing your makeup for a date in the bathroom after a day shift, word spread like wildfire.
You were seeing someone.
And once word was out, you couldn’t help but brag.
Javadi, Santos, Mohan and McKay all crowded around you, letting out “awe’s” and “ooh’s” with every new detail you gave them. Bragging about how he opened doors for you, pulled out your chair for you, didn’t let you look at the check and gave you a piggy back ride back to the car while your uncomfortable heels dangled from his fingertips.
“Bare minimum.” Santos commented, feigning boredom but the look in her eyes said otherwise.
You rolled your eyes, making eye contact with Jack for just a heartbeat, quickly enough to go unnoticed. He was trying so hard to fight the grin wanting to take over his face, his lips twitching as he pushed them to the side in an effort to keep control.
He was giddy.
“Bare minimum, Santos? He pays my rent and sometimes cleans my apartment while I’m at work.”
You raised an eyebrow at her and her jaw dropped.
Jack felt a swell of pride in his chest, gaining validation not only from you, but from your coworkers that he was not just a good boyfriend, he was a rare gem. His heart soared as he listened to the girls tell you you were so lucky to have him.
“I rest my case.” You smiled and the other girls went wild, jumping up and down and giggling, over the moon for their friend who had been so unlucky in love, unbeknownst to them that her Prince Charming was only a few feet away, hanging onto every word.
“When do we get to meet him?” Mohan asked, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands, eyes gleaming as she looked at you.
“Soon.” You promised as you let your eyes float to Jack, the girls distracted by their own side conversations about how they get to meet him (they’re already senior attending) soon.
Jack allowed just the smallest slip of a smile as his eyes met yours.
He’d tease you when you got back to your apartment later that night, his hands around your waist as he’d squeeze your soft skin there.
“Lucky girl, huh?” He said as you squealed, faking trying to get away from his grip but not actually doing anything to try and get away.
Would do anything rn to be Jack’s lucky girl BYEWEEE this was so fun to write thank u for sending this in 💘💘
author's note: wrote this one in response to this lovely ask i received earlier today:
"Omg but like, the reader being so flirty with jack all the time (secretly is in love with him) amd he just smiles and shakes his head but he loves the attention from her then one day she sees him ask dr al hashimi for beers and she assumes he asked her out on a date and she backs off and stops flirting and barely even looks him in the eye because if she does she'll fall apart and abbot doesn't understand why she stopped flirting and tries to give her openings for her usual flirty lines but she doesn't bite anymore and just the she fell first, he fell harder stuff it's soooooogood😭😭"
thanks so so much to the lovely @stuffingbuttsandshit for this message (i fw your username sm) and i hope i did it justice. please never be afraid to send me a request, and thank you for all the support, it means the world !!! also, i'm back into my teaching job tomorrow, so this will be the last of what you'll hear from me for a couple days <3
pairing: jack abbot x resident! reader
word count: 4.1k
warnings: miscommunication/misunderstanding trope! medical inaccuracies, reader is a resident but no mention of age, no specific phsyical attributes to certain gender mentioned, also not proofread!
songs i listened to while writing this: so easy (to fall in love) by olivia dean, easy by the commodores, purple by wunderhorse, when we are together by the 1975
description: You flirt with jack every shift like that's what you spent years in med school studying for. When you overhear a conversation between him and another attending, you decide to pull yourself together and face the music - no amount of one sided love would ever change your relationship. At least, that's what you think.
It started out as a joke at first.
It wasn't a calculated one. Not even a particularly brave one. It was a way to find a bit of fun in the middle of a 12-hour shift that tested every line of the Hippocratic oath that you had taken against your better judgement. It was the kind of dumb thing that slipped out of your mouth during a long shift that should have died an embarrassing death right then and there.
It was harmless flirting. Something to take the edge off. Maybe you should have taken a less, well, serious victim.
"Careful, Dr Abbot," you'd said lightly, half leaning against the nurses station while he was in the middle of catching up on charting. "If you keep looking that good under fluroescent lighting, people are gonna start accusing you of witchcraft."
Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.
Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.
"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."
That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.
So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.
And then again.
And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."
You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.
You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.
You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.
You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.
The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.
He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.
But Jack was Jack.
Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.
And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.
It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.
It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"
Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.
Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.
"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."
And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.
Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.
So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.
Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.
"There you are," he said.
You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.
Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.
Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.
"Dana needs your signature on this."
Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine-
You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.
The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he said, "You sick or something?"
You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."
"Then why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not acting weird?"
Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.
Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."
But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.
At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.
You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.
You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.
Instead, you said, "Thanks."
Jack stared at you.
"Thanks?"
You blinked at him. "What?"
"That's all I get?"
You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."
"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."
You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."
He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.
Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.
"This is sooo much worse than I thought."
Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"
"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."
Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."
Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."
You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.
Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.
Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.
By the end of the week, Dana got involved.
She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.
"What'd you do to him, hon?"
You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"
Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."
"He doesn't sulk"
"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."
You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.
"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.
"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"
Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.
You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"
"You are a total idiot."
"Dana."
"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."
Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.
"Sorry, what?"
Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."
Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.
Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"
You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.
Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."
You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.
"What?!"
That made everything worse. So, so much worse.
Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.
That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.
He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.
"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"
You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.
"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.
"Try again."
"Shouldn't you be working?"
"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."
Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.
Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.
"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.
"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"
The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!
You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."
Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.
"That's why?"
You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."
"That wasn't a date."
"It wasn't a date."
"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Jack said.
He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"
You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.
You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"
Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.
Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."
Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.
"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.
Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?
"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"
"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.
Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.
“You thought that was one-sided?”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”
Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.
“I never stopped you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I wait for it.”
You blinked.
His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.
“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”
Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.
Jack took one more step closer.
“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”
That did it.
That cracked the whole thing open.
You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.
You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”
You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.
“You are a disaster,” you said.
“So are you.”
You smiled despite yourself.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.
Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”
“What?”
“One of your lines.”
You stared at him.
Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.
“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”
A laugh caught in your chest.
Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”
Jack shut his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.
It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.
You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”
“Good.”
You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t start.”
“You do.”
He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.
“You realised it first” he said.
You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”
Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.
“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”
Something in your chest melted completely.
You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.
When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.
“Are they in there?”
Damn it Trinity.
You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.
“You coming back down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
You smiled. “Very romantic.”
“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”
“Wow.”
“You started it.”
You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.
As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.
Her eyes went wide.
Then narrowed. Then widened again.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”
Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”
Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”
Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”
She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”
Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that you felt it.
And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.
You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.
summary: you were raised to always get what you wanted. then you married baelor targaryen, who says no to you with the patience of a saint and the immovability of a wall. it was funny, once. it isn't funny now. (5k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
content: canon divergent, reader is from house rowan, grief, fear of loss, stubborn baelor and reader (yikes), protective!baelor, angst with a resolved ending, hurt/comfort, arguing, fluff, and unedited work cause i wasn’t bothered with editing.
Your father had never said no to you. Not in any way that actually stuck.
There had been nos, technically, over the years–the soft kind, the ones that came with a but and a maybe and a let me think on it, the one that always, without fail, ended with you getting exactly what you had asked for. The horse you’d spotted at the marked when you were nine and pointed at until your mother told you to stop pointing. The third puppy from the hunting dog’s litter when your mother had already said two was plenty. The yellow dress with the embroidered hem that your father jad bought you the day before your wedding, because you’d said quite reasonably that you couldn’t possibly get married without something new to wear.
Lord Aldric Rowan of Goldengrove had three sons before you came along, and he loved them well enough. But you were his daughter, and that had always been a different thing entirely, and everyone in the household had understood it without it ever needing to be said out loud. You weren't spoiled in a mean way. You'd never been cruel about it. You simply had a very poor relationship with the word no and a father who had never seen much reason to improve it.
You hadn't known any of this was unusual until you married Baelor.
Baelor Targaryen says no to you like it's the simplest thing in the world. Not coldly, he's never cold about it. He just says it the same way he says most things, quietly and without any indication that he expects it to go differently, and then he waits for you to finish responding to it with the patience of a man who has genuinely nowhere else to be.
In the beginning you didn't believe he meant it. You'd assumed, reasonably enough, that his nos were like anyone else's nos, a starting position rather than a final answer. You'd tried waiting him out. You'd tried rephrasing. You'd tried the look, the one that had worked on your father without fail since you were old enough to know you had it, where you look up through your lashes and say nothing and let the silence do the work.
Baelor had looked back at you with those mismatched eyes of his and said, "No, my love," and that had been that.
It took you most of the first year to truly believe he meant it every time. A few months after that to stop trying anyway, mostly because the habit was so deeply set you did it without thinking. You still try sometimes. It's less about winning now and more about the shape of the thing, the back and forth of it, and somewhere along the way you'd stopped minding as much as you thought you would–because Baelor's nos always come with something else. He listens. He takes you seriously. And then he finds another way, always, and he delivers on it, and there is something in that you hadn't been expecting and have never quite gotten over.
This particular morning you’d found him in his solar after breakfast, sitting at his writing table with the focused stillness of a man who had a great deal to do and intended to do all of it. He looked up when you came in, giving you a small smile.
“I want a thing,” you say, because the preamble with Baelor is pointless. He sees through it before you’ve finished building it.
“Of course you do,” he says, and sets his quill down.
You come and sit on the edge of his writing table, which he allows from you and nobody else, and he looks up at you with a patient expression, knowing something is coming.
“There’s a market in the lower city today,”
“Is there?”
“A travelling one. From the Reach.” You fold your hands in your lap. “One of the kitchen girls said they’ve brought silks.”
"Mm," he says, which is not a yes but is not yet a no either, and you take it as encouragement.
"I want to go."
He sets his quill down. "Alone."
"With a guard."
"One guard is not a proper escort."
"Two guards, then."
"No."
"Baelor, it's a silk market—"
"Two guards is still no." He says it the same way he always does, no particular weight on it, just the word sitting there. "You're not going into the lower city today."
"Other women go into the lower city all the time."
"Other women aren't you."
"That isn't a reason."
"It's my reason," he says, with the perfect untroubled calm that you find both deeply reassuring and deeply maddening depending entirely on the day. "When the market comes through the city again I'll take you myself."
You kiss your teeth, rolling your eyes. "You say that every time."
"I took you to a market three months ago."
"That was three months ago." You look at him. He looks back at you. This is the part where your father would start to soften — you could always see it happening, the way his shoulders would drop a little, the way he'd look away first and when he looked back his face would have changed. Baelor doesn't soften. He just sits there. "The silks will be gone by the time you find a free afternoon," you say.
"Then I'll send someone down to buy them for you."
"It isn't the same."
"No," he agrees, pleasantly. "It isn't."
You make a sound that's somewhere between a sigh and a groan and slide off the table. He watches you with what you're fairly certain is amusement, though he keeps it mostly off his face. "Fine," you say.
"Thank you," he says, and picks his quill back up.
You stop at the door. "You'll actually send someone today. Not next week."
"Today," he says. "Tell me what you're looking for."
So you tell him. In considerable detail. The colour, a specific dark green, not just any dark green, the weight of the fabric, roughly how much you'll need. He listens to all of it without looking like he finds it tedious, writes something down, and nods. You go back to your morning.
The silk arrives before supper. It's exactly right. You don't tell him it's exactly right–he'd only be unbearably calm about it, but it is.
The puppet show had been the talk of the keep for nearly a week.
It had started with the kitchen girls, then spread to the stable boys, then somehow made its way up through the household until even some of the younger knights had mentioned it in passing, the way people mentioned things they assumed you already knew about and could simply go and see if you wanted. A travelling group from Lys, apparently, setting up in the square just beyond the main gate every evening after dark. Elaborate puppets, someone said. A full retelling of the Tragedy of Florian and Jonquil, with music.
You had mentioned it to Baelor on the second day, at supper.
"There's a puppet company in the square," you'd said.
"Mm," he'd said, reading something.
"From Lys. They're doing Florian and Jonquil every evening after dark." You'd reached for your wine. "I'd like to go."
He'd looked up then. "Outside the gate."
"Just to the square."
"At night."
"It's just beyond the gate, Baelor, it isn't—"
"No," he'd said, and looked back down at whatever he was reading, and that had been the end of it. You'd sat across the table from him and finished your supper in silence and felt the frustration of it sit in your chest like a stone.
That had been four days ago.
That had been four days ago. The group was leaving at the end of the week.
You'd thought about it every day since.
The thing was, you weren't asking for anything unreasonable. It was a puppet show. It was just beyond the gate. Half the keep had already been, freely, without anyone telling them they couldn't, and you had sat inside the walls every single evening watching the candles burn down and listening to people talk about it the next morning and thought about how unbearably unfair it was to be the only person in all of King's Landing who wasn't allowed to simply go and see a thing.
Baelor was in council meetings all day. He was always in council meetings all day. You'd had breakfast alone, which you did most mornings, and then sat with your embroidery for two hours, which you did most mornings, and then walked the same stretch of garden you always walked, and then sat in your chambers and stared at the ceiling for a while, and then it was supper and Baelor came back tired and preoccupied and you had an hour together before he fell asleep.
That was most days. That was nearly every day. Yes he always did make time for you, but you always thought it was merely never enough time.
You'd put on a plain dark cloak, the one with the deep hood that you used in winter, and told yourself you'd be back before the last bell.
The square was everything everyone had said it was.
The puppets were extraordinary, large and intricate, moved by six puppeteers in dark clothing who seemed to disappear into the shadows behind them so that the figures appeared to move on their own. The music was live, a lutist and a woman with a small drum, and the crowd was thick and warm and pressed in close around the low stage, and you'd stood at the edge of it with your hood up and felt, for the first time in what felt like a very long time, like a person who was simply somewhere, watching something, with nobody expecting anything from her.
Florian was wonderful. Jonquil made you cry a little, which you would deny if anyone asked.
You were back at the keep gate before the last bell, which felt like a technicality worth holding onto. Your cheeks were cold and your slippers were damp from the cobblestones and you were in a better mood than you'd been in all week, and you were very nearly back to your chambers with your plan of a hot bath and immediate sleep fully intact when one of the younger serving girls appeared in the corridor looking deeply uncomfortable.
"My lady," she said, not quite meeting your eyes. "His Grace has asked for you in his study."
You stopped walking.
"Has he," you said.
"Yes, my lady." She was very pointedly not looking at the cloak or the damp slippers or your windswept hair. "He said–he said as soon as you returned."
As soon as you returned.
You stood in the corridor for a moment and thought about the very small possibility that this was about something else entirely and knew, with the deep certainty of someone who had been married long enough to know things, that it was not about something else entirely.
"Thank you," you said, and turned around.
His study was lit when you got there, many candles flickering in the room, and Baelor was standing with his back to the door looking out the window when you came in. He didn't turn around immediately. You came to a stop just inside the doorway and waited, which was not something you were naturally good at, and the silence sat there between you and stretched.
"Close the door," he said.
You closed it.
He turned then. His expression was not the one you were used to, the patient one, the one that waited you out with perfect equanimity. This was something else. His jaw was set. His eyes were very steady and very still in a way that made something small and cold settle in the pit of your stomach, because in all the time you'd been married you had never quite seen this particular version of his face before.
"Where have you been," he said.
"I went for a walk," you said, which was technically true in the way that most things you said were technically true.
Baelor looked at you.
"Outside the keep," you amended.
"To the square," he said.
You said nothing.
"Three separate people have told me they saw a woman in a dark cloak in the crowd tonight who looked very much like my wife," he said. "Would you like to tell me they were mistaken."
You looked at him. He looked back at you with that still face and those serious eyes and you thought very briefly about saying yes, they were mistaken, and decided against it because Baelor always knew and lying would only make it worse.
"No," you said. "They weren't mistaken."
He was quiet for a moment. "You walked out of the keep alone," he said, slowly, like he was making sure you understood each word. "At night. Into a crowd of strangers. Without telling anyone where you were going."
"I had my cloak."
"You had your cloak," he repeated, as if it were the stupidest thing he has ever heard.
"Nobody knew it was me."
"Three people knew it was you."
"Three people thought it might be me," you said, "which is different—"
"It is not different." His voice was still low but there was something in it now that you had not heard before, something tight underneath the surface of it. "Do you understand what could have happened? Do you understand—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. Looked away for a moment and then back at you. "You are the Princess of Dragonstone. You walked into a crowd of strangers at night, alone, and you didn't tell a single soul where you were going."
"I was back before the last bell," you said, which came out smaller than you intended.
"That is not the point."
"I know," you said, even smaller.
He looked at you for a long moment. You looked back at him and felt your eyes go wet, which you hadn't been expecting, the sting of it catching you off guard, and you blinked hard because you weren't going to cry about this, it was a puppet show, you were not going to stand here and cry about a puppet show.
"It was Florian and Jonquil," you said. Your voice came out very quiet. "Everyone in the keep has seen it except me and I just — I only wanted to see it. That's all. It was just a puppet show."
Baelor was still looking at you. The tight thing in his jaw hadn't entirely gone.
"I know that I'm not supposed to go outside without an escort," you say. "I know that. I've always known that. But Baelor—" You stop, and the words that come out next are not the ones you'd planned on saying, are not really about the puppet show at all. "You're in council from morning until supper every single day. I have breakfast alone and I sit with my embroidery alone and I walk the garden alone and then supper comes and I have an hour with you before you're asleep, and that's–that's every day. That is every day." Your voice is doing the thing again, tightening somewhere in the middle. "I'm not asking you to change everything. I know you have duties. I know the kingdom doesn't stop because your wife is bored. But I've asked you for things, small things, just to have somewhere to go or something to see, and the answer is always no, and I understand why, I do, but sometimes I just–" You stop. Press the back of your hand against your mouth for a second. "I just needed to go somewhere."
The study is very quiet.
Baelor looks at you for a long moment. Something has shifted in his expression, the tight thing in his jaw less rigid than it was a moment ago, and he crosses the room and stops in front of you and looks at your face in that way of his, reading all of it.
He's quiet for a moment, the anger in his face settling into something heavier. Then he reaches out and takes your face in his hands, tilts it up toward him. Your eyes are very wet and you're fairly certain at least one tear has escaped, which is embarrassing for reasons you can't entirely articulate. His thumb moves across your cheek.
"I didn't know," he says. "That it was like that for you."
"I didn't say," you admit.
"No," he says. "You didn't." He's quiet for a moment, his eyes on yours. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not angry about tonight. I am. What you did was dangerous and foolish and you know that."
"I know," you say.
"But I hear you," he says. "The rest of it. I hear it."
You look at him and feel the thing in your chest that had been tight since the corridor loosen, just slightly, not all the way, but enough. "Are you very angry," you say.
"Yes," he says, plainly.
"How angry."
He looks at you for a moment. His thumb is still against your cheek but his eyes are serious, no warmth in them yet, not the usual kind. "You had no reason to do what you did tonight," he says. "I understand that you're lonely. I hear that. But when I say no it is not a suggestion and it is not a starting point and you do not get to decide that it doesn't apply to you because you want something badly enough." His voice is low and even. "That is not how this works."
You look at him and say nothing.
"Go and have your bath," he says. He drops his hands from your face and steps back and the warmth of them goes with him. "We'll speak in the morning."
You nod and go.
In the morning he is up before you, which he always is, but he doesn't talk to you the way he usually does. He answers when you speak to him. He isn't cruel about it. But the easy back and forth of it, the morning stories, the complaints about Daeron, the small warm ordinary thing that is your favourite part of the day–none of that comes, and you sit across from him at breakfast and feel the absence of it like a bruise.
You don't push. For once in your life you don't push.
You take your embroidery to the garden instead and sit with it and say nothing and wait for it to pass.
You're in the garden some days later with some embroidery you're not making much progress on when one of the serving girls finds you, a letter in hand.
You see your father's seal before you take it. The rose of Rowan, pressed with the same signet ring he's worn your entire life. You break it and read it.
It's short. Much shorter than his letters usually are. His handwriting is shakier than you remember, the lines uneven in a way they never usually are, and you read it once and then read it again because the first time doesn't seem possible.
He's ill. He's been ill for some time, he says– in that careful way that means longer than some time but he's chosen not to say so. The maester is doing what he can. He wants to see you, if it can be arranged.
If it can be arranged.
Your father, who had rearranged the entire world on a regular basis to make sure you had whatever you wanted, is asking if it can be arranged.
You sit in the garden for a long time without moving. The sun moves. The letter stays in your hands. The embroidery sits forgotten beside you.
When you finally go inside you go straight to Baelor's solar. He's at the window with a cup of wine, a small frown creasing his brow, and he turns when the door opens. Whatever he sees in your face makes him set the cup down immediately.
"What's happened?"
You hold the letter out. He crosses the room and takes it from your hand and reads it, and you watch his face the whole time. The way his eyes move down the page slowly. The way his jaw tightens. The way a stillness settles over him, the particular controlled kind that means he's keeping something off his face on purpose.
He looks up and meets your eyes and you already know what he's going to say.
"I need to go to Goldengrove," you say.
"I know."
"Then I can go."
"No."
It lands differently than it ever has before. Every other no had been the silk, the market, the puppet show–small things, things you'd pushed back on out of habit more than anything. This is not that. This is your father's shaky handwriting on a short letter asking if it can be arranged, and Baelor is standing there saying no and looking at you like he's braced for what comes next.
"Baelor." Your voice is low and tight.
"No, my love."
"He is ill." You take a step toward him. "He is asking for me. Do you understand that? He has never in his life asked me to come home, not once, and he is asking now, and you are standing there–"
"I understand."
"Then act like it." Your voice cracks on the last word and you push past it. "He could be dying. He could be dying and you're telling me no like it's the same as everything else, like this is the silk market, like this is–"
"It isn't the same."
"Then why is the answer still no?" You're in front of him now, close, your eyes burning. "Give me a reason. A real one. Not the roads, not the timing, not whatever careful thing you're about to say–give me something real or get out of my way."
Something flickers across his face. His jaw is tight and his eyes are steady and he says, quietly, "The roads are not—"
"I don't care." The words come out before you've decided on them and you mean every one. "I don't care about the roads. Send fifty men with me, send a hundred, come yourself if you have to, I don't give a damn how it's arranged–but you do not get to tell me no on this." Your voice is rising and your hands have curled into fists at your sides and you're aware distantly that this is not how a woman of court is meant to speak to her husband and you cannot bring yourself to care about that either. "This isn't a silk market. This isn't a puppet show outside the gate. This is my father."
Baelor looks at you for a long moment. He doesn't flinch at the volume of it, doesn't step back, just stands there and takes it with that infuriating stillness of his, and the muscle in his jaw works once.
"I know," he says. His voice is very quiet. "I know what it is."
"Then tell me why." Your eyes are filling now and you hate it, hate standing here crying when you're trying to be furious, but you can't stop it and you're not going to look away. "Because I have trusted you every time. Every single time you've said no I have found a way to accept it because I trust you and I love you and I know you don't do things without reason. But you have to give me something, Baelor. You have to give me something to hold onto right now or I swear to you I will walk out of this keep tonight and you will not stop me."
A beat of silence.
Baelor's eyes move over your face. He's reading you the way he always reads you, carefully and completely, and whatever he finds there makes something shift in his expression. The tight set of it loosens, just slightly. He exhales through his nose.
"Sit down," he says.
"I don't want to sit down."
"Please." The word comes out differently than his usual pleases, less patient, more like it costs him something. "Sit down and let me tell you."
You look at him. Your chest is heaving and your eyes are wet and you're still furious but there's something in his face now that wasn't there before, something heavy and careful, and it makes you go still.
You sit.
He pulls a chair across and sits facing you, close, his elbows on his knees, and is quiet for a moment like he's deciding where to begin.
"Your father has debts," he says. "Significant ones. He has been carrying them for years, managing them carefully, and then about eighteen months ago he stopped being able to manage them."
You look at him. "What does that mean?"
"It means he borrowed from men who are not patient about repayment." He holds your gaze. "When the payments slowed, they started taking an interest in Goldengrove itself."
Something cold moves through you. "What kind of interest?"
"The kind that comes with threats." His voice is even, giving you the facts without wrapping them in anything softer. "Specific ones. Against the estate, against your brothers." A pause. "I became aware of it some months ago. I have had men watching the roads to Goldengrove since. That is why I cannot send you there alone–not because of the roads themselves, but because of who is on them."
The room is very quiet.
"Months ago," you say slowly.
"Yes."
"You've known for months."
"Yes."
You stare at him. "And you didn't tell me."
"Your father asked me not to." He says it plainly, without apology, but his eyes don't leave yours. "He came to me himself. He asked me to handle it quietly and to keep it from you. He didn't want you to know he was in difficulty." A beat. "He was very clear about that."
You open your mouth and close it again.
"I should have told you regardless," Baelor says. "That is on me. But I want you to understand that he asked me not to, and I thought I was honouring that." His jaw tightens slightly. "I was wrong to keep it from you this long."
You sit there and let it all settle into shape. The cheerful letters. The shaky handwriting on this one. Your father at the door when you left, holding on a beat too long.
"He's been carrying all of this," you say quietly. "This whole time."
"Yes."
"Alone."
"He had me," Baelor says. "For what that's worth."
You look at him and feel something complicated move through your chest that isn't quite anger anymore and isn't quite grief and sits somewhere between the two.
"The debts," you say. "Are they–can they be–"
"They're already being settled." He says it without any weight on it, like it's already done, which it nearly is. "Within the fortnight Goldengrove will be safe. The men watching the roads will be gone." His eyes are steady on yours. "And then I will take you there myself."
You look at your hands in your lap.
The room is very quiet when he finishes.
You look at your hands in your lap. You think about your father's letters, the cheerful ones, the ones about the estate and your brothers and whatever small ordinary thing had happened at Goldengrove that week. You think about the shaky handwriting on the letter in your hands. You think about how long he must have been carrying all of it alone, smiling in ink across the distance, not wanting you to worry.
"He didn't want me to know," you say. Your voice comes out very small.
"No." Baelor's mouth presses together briefly. "He didn't want you to worry."
You look up at him. "Is he dying?"
"I don't know." He holds your gaze and doesn't look away from it. "I think he's more ill than the letter says. I think he wanted to see you and didn't know how to ask for it plainly." A pause. "The debts are already being settled. Within the fortnight Goldengrove will be safe. When it is, I will take you there myself and we will stay as long as you need to stay."
"The fortnight," you say.
"The fortnight." He holds your gaze. "I give you my word."
You look at him for a long time. This man with the grey in his beard and the careful eyes and the particular way he says I give you my word, like it is the most serious thing a person can say.
"I'm angry at you," you say quietly. "For not telling me sooner."
"I know."
"And at him."
"That's fair."
"I'm angrier at you."
"Also fair," he says, without moving.
You look away, at the wall, at your hands. Your eyes are still wet and the anger has gone somewhere quieter now, turned into something heavier that sits low in your chest and doesn't have a clean name.
"I said I would walk out tonight," you say. "I meant it."
"I know you did."
"I still might."
"I know that too." He reaches out and covers your hands with one of his, warm and unhurried. "But you won't."
You look down at his hand over yours. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of you," he says simply.
You sit there with his hand over yours in the quiet of the solar and feel the last of the fight go out of you, not cleanly, not all at once, but slowly, like something that had been held at full stretch finally being allowed to rest.
"The fortnight," you say again, more quietly.
"The fortnight," he says. "I promise."
You lean forward and press your face into his shoulder and his arms come around you and he holds you there, and you cry properly, the slow exhausted kind, and he says nothing and lets you.
You believe him. You always believe him eventually, even when you'd rather not, even when it would feel better not to. He has never once said something he didn't mean.
Your father had given you everything you ever asked for and you had loved him for every bit of it. But sitting there with Baelor's arms around you, you think there's something to be said for a man who knew when not to.
