Untitled

[dsireland86]

MASKED

Part 1 {Chapter 1} Folio's POV

Part 2 {Chapter 2} Noah's POV

Part 3 {Chapter 3} Noah's POV (continued)

Part 4 {Chapter 4} Noah's POV (The Ending)

[deerfawnn]

Athena!!!! I am so happy you’re writing for Jack!

Could I please request a Jack x reader fic where they’re in an established relationship and reader doesn’t work at the hospital but she gets hurt in some way and she’s trying to be very brave when Jack treats her but he knows medically it is very painful so he tells her she doesn’t have to be brave and she can cry it out and there’s lots of comforting and Jack is a sweetheart 😭

injured

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, blood, glass cut, reader cries a/n: hi my lovely!! i hope you like this <3 i'm not entirely sure if mateo actually moved to the night shift, but for the sake of this fic we'll pretend like he did. also, once again a warning that i'm not a doctor whatsoever, so i apologize for any mistakes wc: 3.7k

The Uber was warm. Too warm. But you didn't have the heart to ask to turn it down. Not when the elderly man behind the wheel had been so kind to you and kept glancing back at you with that worried grandfather look.

You were glad it was him, glad it wasn't some impatient driver who would make small talk or blast music or sigh when you asked to be taken to a hospital instead of home.

Your palm was wrapped in paper towels you'd grabbed from your kitchen, the white fabric blooming crimson faster than you expected. There was a small spot of red blooming on your jeans where you'd rested your hand without thinking. Every bump in the road sent a fresh pulse of pain up your arm.

You were trying to be brave. You really were.

You kept your gaze fixed on the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and red, watching the familiar streets roll by that led to the one place you'd hoped to avoid tonight.

You hated hospitals, hated the smell of them, hated the waiting rooms with their hard plastic chairs and the tired people and the understanding that everyone here was having a terrible day.

And the worst part was that your boyfriend worked at this one. You'd see the worry in his eyes that he'd try so hard to hide and you'd feel guilty for being here.

You'd almost told the Uber driver to take you to a different hospital instead. Almost. But the blood kept coming, and your vision had gone a little spotty in the kitchen, and you knew that this needed more than a band aid and some gauze.

The Uber driver pulled up to the curb and put the car in park. He turned in his seat. "Should I help you inside?"

You shook your head, forcing a smile that felt wobbly on your lips. "No sir. Thank you so much." He held your gaze for a moment, checking to make sure you meant it, then he nodded as you opened the door.

The driver gave you one last smile through the rear window and then he was gone. You stood on the curb for a moment, watching the Uber's taillights disappear down the street.

You turned toward the entrance as you clutched your palm tighter, the bloodied paper towels making a wet sound against your skin. You were trying not to look at it, trying not to think about how much it hurt, how the pain seemed to radiate up your arm and into your shoulder.

You were near tears. You could feel them building behind your eyes and you hated it.

You started walking toward the entrance, when someone called out your name.

Mateo was holding the door for an elderly woman, his other hand steady on her elbow as she shuffled through with her walker. His smile was wide until he registered what exactly he was looking at.

"Hey!" he said again, but this time it was different, more concerned.

You gave him a weak smile, the best you could manage, and watched his gaze drop down from your face to the small drops of blood on your jeans.

"Oh damn," Mateo muttered.

He guided the elderly woman the rest of the way through the door, murmured something to her about having a good night, and then his full attention was on you.

"Glass cut," you said softly. The words came out smaller than you intended, and you hated that too.

Mateo tilted his head, taking a better look. His eyes narrowed. "Looks bad."

"I guess so."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at your hand, then at your face, then back at your hand. Then he stepped forward, one hand already reaching for the door behind him. "Come on," he said softly. "You can skip the line."

He pushed the door open, but you shook your head as the wind outside whipped around you, catching your hair, pulling it across your face.

"No, no," you said, taking a step back. "I don't want special treatment."

The waiting room was full of people who had been waiting longer than you, people who looked worse than you, people who probably needed a doctor more than you did.

You didn't want to be the girlfriend who got pulled to the front of the line just because she knew people. But Mateo was already shaking his head, already reaching for your elbow, already pulling you gently toward the door.

"This won't take long," he said. "Plus, Abbot will rip me a new one if he finds out I let you wait."

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that Jack wouldn't do that, that Jack understood boundaries, that Jack was a professional and then you stopped.

Because yeah, Jack would.

So you let Mateo pull you into the waiting room. You tried not to feel horrible about the looks you were getting from the patients in the hallway who turned to watch you pass or the family member who muttered something under their breath.

Mateo had to stop twice, because people called out to him and asked him questions. And twice, he held up a hand, gave them a quick smile, said, "I'll be right back, I promise," before continuing to guide you down the hall.

All because of you.

You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, watching the scuffed linoleum pass beneath your feet, counting the tiles to keep yourself from thinking too hard about any of it.

Mateo, then, stopped in front of a closed door. A private room.

He tricked you. He said it wouldn't take long, and he brought you to a room anyway. A room with a bed and a curtain and a small sink in the corner. A room that was meant for more than a quick glance and a bandage.

You should have argued, but you were tired and your hand hurt. And Mateo was already holding the door open, already gesturing you inside with the kind of gentle insistence that made it clear he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"I'll let Abbot know you're here," he said softly.

You stepped past him into the room. The bed was low, covered in that crinkly paper they always used, and you sat down. Your legs swung over the edge, your feet dangling, your bloodied hand resting in your lap.

"Thank you, Mateo," you said softly, looking back at him.

He gave you a smile and then the door clicked shut behind him, and you were alone.

You didn't have to wait long.

It didn't take long. Not at all, actually which you were glad for, because the blood was starting to drip down onto the floor now. You stared at it in guilt, biting your lip hard enough to taste copper. The floor was clean and you were making a mess of it, leaving little red spots that someone would have to clean up later, someone who already had a hundred other things to do.

You tried to think about anything but the pain. You thought about what you were going to make for dinner tomorrow, about the book you'd been reading, about anything that wasn't the throbbing in your palm that seemed to pulse in time with your heartbeat.

But then the door opened and Jack stepped into the room. And for a moment, you forgot about the blood and the pain and the guilt.

"Jack," his name came out with the most relieved tone you'd ever heard from yourself.

"Hi, sweetheart."

His voice was already concerned as he stepped closer, his eyes moving from your face to your hands to the floor.

You watched him glance down at the blood on the linoleum, saw the flicker of concern that crossed his features before he smoothed it away. He was good at that, smoothing things away.

He looked back at your hand. "What have we got here?" he asked softly.

You shrugged your shoulders. "Uh. Glass cut."

You scooted closer on the edge of the bed, the paper crinkling beneath you, because you needed him closer. He nodded slowly and you knew he was noting the way your eyes were too bright, the way your lip was still caught between your teeth.

"We'll get you all fixed up quickly, yeah?" he said softly.

He reached out, his fingers brushing your hair away from your face. His hand was warm and he let it linger for a moment, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone.

You nodded. "Mhm," you mumbled, because you didn't trust your voice to say anything more. He turned away to grab some gloves as you started explaining.

"I was trying to fix the light bulb and it fell."

You sounded mad. You could hear it in your own voice. It was a stupid thing to be mad about. It was a cut that would heal in a week or two. But you were mad anyway, mad at yourself for being clumsy, mad at the whole ridiculous situation that had landed you here in your boyfriend's ER, dripping blood on his clean floor.

Jack slipped on his gloves, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch, just enough to tell you he was amused by your pissed tone, even if he was too smart to say anything about it.

"Sliced my palm open," you mumbled.

He turned back to you, finally reaching for the tissue wrapped around your hand. His fingers were careful as he started to unwrap it, peeling back the layers of paper towel.

You hissed in pain. The sound escaped before you could stop it and you watched Jack's hands still for just a moment. He looked up at you.

"Hurt a lot?" he asked despite already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," you whispered and your voice cracked on the word. "But I'm fine."

You weren't, not really. Your hand was throbbing, your head was spinning a little, and you were pretty sure you were going to cry as soon as you were alone. But you said it anyway, because that's what you did. You said you were fine even when you weren't, because admitting otherwise felt like failure, and you were already sitting in an ER with blood on your jeans and tears in your eyes and you didn't want to add anything else to the list.

Jack looked at you for a long moment. His fingers were still wrapped gently around your wrist, his thumb resting against the inside of your palm. He didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at you with those eyes that always seemed to know exactly what you were feeling.

"I know you are," he muttered.

It took you a second to realize what he just said. He was straight up flirting with you, while holding your bloody hand.

"Jack!" you said, and your voice came out somewhere between exasperated and relieved, because of course he was. Of course this was how he reminded you that you were more than a patient in a bed and that everything was going to be okay even when it didn't feel like it.

"Just trying to lighten the mood, honey," he chuckled.

"Not working," you mumbled back, but there was no heat in it.

He didn't respond to that, just shook his head slightly and turned to grab things for your palm. You watched him move around the small room, collecting supplies, laying them out on a tray.

He pulled a stool closer with his foot, the wheels squeaking softly against the floor, and settled in front of you.

"It might hurt," he said softly, picking up one of the supplies.

He was looking at you now and you could see that he was bracing himself for what he had to do. He didn't want to hurt you, but he had to. And he hated it.

"It's fine," you whispered.

Jack held your palm in his hand as he stared at you for a moment."It's okay if it hurts," he said softly.

"I'm okay," you whispered back.

Jack stared at you for a while after that. His eyes moved over your face, your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, making sure you meant it. Finally, he seemed satisfied. He gave a small nod, almost to himself, and his gaze dropped back to your hand. Then he applied whatever he was doing.

The saline hit the wound and you bit your lip so hard you were sure you drew blood. Your hand jerked in his grip and you heard yourself make a sound. Jack's hands didn't waver, but you felt his fingers tighten just slightly around your wrist, his thumb brushing softly as if comforting you.

You bit down harder on your lip and you were so focused on not crying, on not being a burden, that you didn't notice Jack looking at you.

"Need a break?" he spoke softly.

You shook your head immediately, probably too quickly. You couldn't look at him, couldn't look at those pretty hazel eyes that always seemed to see right through you.

You were about to burst into tears. You could feel them building behind your eyes and you were so close to keeping them inside. If you could just hold on for a few more minutes, if you could just get through this, if you could just stop being so stupidly, embarrassingly dramatic about a cut that was already being taken care of.

"Okay, I'll hurry," he whispered and then he leaned in, and his lips pressed against your cheek.

It was quick, but it was enough to make you smile. You couldn't help it.

"There you are," he whispered.

His voice was tender and you looked at his smiling expression.

You smiled softly back at him, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease just a fraction and then your eyes shot back down to your hand.

The blood was worse than you remembered. The cut was deeper than you'd let yourself think about and there was so much blood pooling in your palm, dripping onto the paper beneath you. You felt the world tilt slightly.

"Sweetheart," Jack mumbled. His voice was closer and you glanced back at him. "Keep your eyes on me, yeah?" he asked softly.

It wasn't a question and you found yourself nodding.

He worked like that. Somehow, impossibly, he managed to clean your wound while holding your gaze. His hands moved beneath your line of sight and you could feel what he was doing, but you didn't see any of it.

He glanced down only once or twice to make sure he was doing everything correctly. But he managed to do it by only staring at you.

"What were you doing fixing the light bulb?" he asked softly as he worked.

His voice was casual and you realized that he was distracting you from whatever he was doing which you appreciated a lot.

"There was no light," you said quietly. "And I didn't want you to come home to no light in the bathroom." You paused, feeling slightly embarassed. "So I figured I'd fix it. And I also couldn't sleep."

You mumbled the last part, embarrassed somehow by the admission. You hadn't wanted him to know you'd been lying awake again, staring at the ceiling, your mind too full to rest. You hadn't wanted him to worry about that on top of everything else.

But Jack just nodded, his expression unchanged, his hands still working and then he hit a spot that made you almost yelp in pain. You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the pain to continue, but Jack stopped.

"All done."

You opened your eyes to see him setting aside the last of the instruments, already pulling his gloves off, snapping them away.

He glanced at your palm, checking his work one last time, and then his eyes found yours. You were smiling weakly at him and you meant it when you whispered, "Thank you."

"Don't have to thank me for that," he mumbled. He turned your palm gently in his hands, positioning it so you wouldn't have to glance at it the entire time.

It was a small thing, but you felt your throat tighten at the thoughtfulness of it.

"You know," Jack spoke then, "you had a glass piece in your hand."

You glanced at him, your eyes widening. "What?" The word came out terrified and you felt your stomach drop. A piece of glass. In your hand.

He nodded, his expression serious. "Must've hurt like crazy," he said softly.

You shrugged again, the motion automatic. "Yeah, I guess so."

Jack tilted his head, studying you with those eyes that missed nothing. "I'm sure it's still hurting," he said. "It doesn't go away that easily, sweetheart."

"Guess so," you whispered.

"I know so," he said softly. He reached up then, brushing your hair out of your face. His fingers were gentle, tracing along your cheekbone, pushing the stray strands behind your ear. "If it hurts, that's okay," he added softly. "You can tell me."

His thumb pressed against your cheek and suddenly you felt the tears you'd been holding back finally break free.

"Sorry," you whispered as tears kept streaming, but he was already pulling you in for a hug.

You couldn't even hug him back properly. Your injured hand was pressed awkwardly against his chest, the bandaged palm throbbing with each heartbeat, and your other hand was trapped somewhere between his shoulder and your side. All you could do was sit there, trembling, your face buried against his neck, and let the tears fall.

They were hot against your skin, then cold as they dripped down onto his scrubs. You could feel the fabric getting wet beneath your cheek and the guilt of it made you cry harder because now he was going to have to change, and he was probably busy, and there were other people who needed him, and you were taking up his time and making a mess of his clothes and—

"Stop apologizing," he mumbled. His hand moved against your back in circles while his other hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

"Your scrubs are wet," you whispered as more tears spilled over.

Your voice was muffled against his shoulder, and you felt his chest move beneath you in something that might have been a laugh.

"I've had worse on me," Jack muttered. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your temple, and you felt yourself smile despite everything.

You finally pulled back after a while, but the tears kept streaming down your face. You couldn't seem to stop them. They just kept coming, silent now, tracking down your cheeks in wet lines that Jack immediately reached up to brush away.

"I'm sorry I'm being dramatic," you whispered, your voice cracking on the last word.

His thumb swept across your cheekbone, catching a tear before it could fall. "You're not," he replied gently.

You bit your lip, trying to calm down a bit. Your breath was still hitching, still catching in your chest, and you could feel the aftershocks of the crying run through you in small tremors. But Jack was still staring at you with that look that you'd come to know so well over the months.

You'd gotten used to his staring problem. At first, it had unnerved you, but over time, you started liking it.

Mostly, it felt nice. Because there was always a lovey dovey look in his eyes. Even now, with your eyes red and your face wet, he was looking at you like you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Which you were to him.

"Next time you wait for me, okay?" Jack muttered.

He stepped closer then, moving into the space between your legs, his hips pressing against the edge of the bed. You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him, and he used the angle to lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"Don't try to do any experiments without me," he mumbled against your skin.

"Experiments?" You pulled back, almost offended. "Jack, I was just trying to change the light bulb."

You put your non injured hand in his hair, fingers threading through the short grey strands at the nape of his neck. The touch grounded you and reminded you that the worst was over.

"My point stands," he said.

You just sighed, agreeing to whatever stupid rule he'd just made up. You didn't have the energy to argue, and honestly, you didn't want to. "You know," you said, your voice still a little rough from crying, "I'm glad I'm here."

Jack raised his eyebrow, questioning how you'd like being in a hospital.

"I really missed you," you admitted. "Couldn't sleep."

It was funny, really. Your boyfriend lived on night shifts. You'd had months to get used to sleeping without him. Most nights, you managed. But some nights, like tonight, it bothered you more than you wanted to admit. Maybe it was fate that you decided to fix your light bulb at 3 am.

Jack's expression softened. His thumb stilled on your cheek and his face turned a little sad, understanding exactly what you meant because he felt it too.

"I missed you much more, sweetheart," Jack sighed as he leaned in and finally gave you a proper kiss.

His lips met yours with a warmth that spread through your chest. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pressing you closer against him and you felt yourself melt into him.

You smiled softly against him, the expression tugging at your lips even as he kissed you. You felt him smile too, felt the curve of it against your mouth.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your nose nudging against his. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your lips, and you stayed there for a moment.

"Doesn't hurt that much anymore," you whispered.

Jack made a small sound of question, and you felt his hand tighten slightly on the back of your neck.

"Think your kisses are healing me," you said, a smile tugging at your lips. "Wanna give me more?"

You felt rather than saw his laugh and the sound of it was so nice that you wanted to bottle it up and keep it somewhere safe.

He happily obliged.

[deerfawnn]

drunk

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: in which you get drunk, and jack abbot takes it upon himself to take care of you. content warnings: implied age gap, sort of a size difference?, reader's drunk so she's veryyyy dizzy, they are kind of aware of the fact that they like each other but also they're doing nothing about it, i think that's it? lmk if i missed something a/n: hii!! this is my first jack fic ever, so i'm quite nervous!! but i hope you like this <3

The bar was loud enough to be comfortable, quiet enough to pretend you were having actual conversations. You'd stopped trying to follow conversations along about an hour ago.

Your finger traced the condensation on your glass.Under the table, your foot found Jack's. You'd started this maybe thirty minutes ago, toying with his foot idly while he talked to Robby about whatever. You weren't listening anymore.

Jack let you.

He didn't pause his conversation or acknowledge it at all, except he also didn't move his foot away. So you kept going, brushing against him, hooking your foot around his, pulling back, finding him again. A lazy game only you were playing.

After a while, your foot got tired. You stopped toying and just settled your foot over his, letting it rest there and he held it.

You'd been careful, obviously. You knew which leg was his prosthetic. But honestly? You were pretty sure he'd have let you do it anyway. Jack was like that with you. Let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try.

Jack kept talking and holding your foot. But when you stopped moving, he turned.

You were slumped slightly in your seat, one hand against your cheek, finger still tracing the glass mindlessly. The position made your lips pucker slightly, your focus entirely on the nothing you were drawing on the condensation. Bored. Tired. Drunk enough that you'd forgotten to pretend otherwise.

Jack had to suppress a smile at that. He lifted your foot gently, then set it back down and slowly untangled his from yours.

"You okay?" he mumbled, low enough that Robby wouldn't hear over the bar noise.

"Yeah." You kept tracing the glass.

Jack turned his body fully toward you now. His hand came up, barely touching, just fingertips as he brushed your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear from the side he was seeing.

"I'm not sure you are, sweetheart."

He let his hand drop from your hair, and for the first time all night, got a proper look at your side profile.

You finally lifted your head off your hand and turned to him. "No, I am. I promise." You rubbed your eye softly.

Jack shot you a look, that look, the one that said he didn't believe you but wasn't going to argue.

He turned back to Robby, to whatever conversation they'd been having. But he stayed close. And as he did, his hands found the scarf you'd been wearing all night. He started to work it loose, realizing exactly how overheated you must have been.

You let him.

Because it's Jack. And Jack takes care of you. Always has. Always will.

Even Robby didn't budge, kept talking like nothing was happening, because honestly? This was just how Jack was with you. How he'd always been and Robby had stopped mentioning it months ago.

At some point, Jack finished with the scarf and spoke without looking at you. "You should stop wearing that so much." He folded it carefully. "It's May."

You were slumped against the back of your seat now, warm and loose and not really tracking much. "It's really pretty, though." You sounded like a child. But that was a given. You were drunk off your ass.

"Yeah. It is." Jack glanced at you and shook his head fondly.

While you slouched and let the bar noise wash over you, he reached for your bag and opened it. He carefully tucked the folded scarf inside, then set your purse back down within your reach.

Usually you'd hang out with Trinity at the bar, but she'd gone God knows where with Victoria at some point, leaving you stranded at the table with Jack and Robby and their never ending medical talk. Not that you minded, necessarily. Jack was here.

Plus you were tired. You hadn't slept well, hadn't slept well in days, honestly, though you'd never admit it. So you had no idea why you'd even come in the first place. Maybe it was because this was the first day off you'd had in ages. And sitting at home alone, watching baking competitions while you ate chocolate straight from the wrapper, had sounded kind of sad. So you'd come out.

Maybe it was also your chance to see Jack in outside clothes. Not that you didn't enjoy seeing him in his scrubs, you did, obviously, you weren't blind, but there was something about him in regular clothes that hit different. The way his jeans fit. The shirt he’d worn tonight was dark grey, the sleeves tight against his biceps.

Too bad you were too drunk to really appreciate it tonight.

The bar seemed louder now. You weren't sure if that was your drunkenness perceiving it that way or if the crowd had actually picked up. Either way, the noise was starting to press against your skull in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant.

You noticed a little drip of beer left in your glass, just a swallow, really, and you picked it up and drank it, plopping the glass back down satisfied that the little yellow was fully gone now.

Your not quite existent thoughts were interrupted by Jack’s hand brushing up and down your back. "How are you feeling?" He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.

Ah. The bar had gotten louder. You weren't imagining it.

You turned your head, slightly caught off guard by how close he was, close enough to count his eyelashes, but you didn't pull back.

"Okay." You mumbled it, then turned your head away again, facing forward. Jack stared at you anyway. You could feel it.

"Jack."

"Hm?"

"Stop staring. I'm fine."

He chuckled, a sound you felt more than heard. "You're not fine."

His hand stopped moving, resting flat against the middle of your back. "Come on. I'm taking you home." His thumb started moving again, just brushing back and forth.

You sighed loudly, turning your head back to him. "Will you carry me home?" You were joking. Obviously. Being ridiculous. Drunk and warm and not wanting to move.

"Sure." Jack said it like it was nothing. Like carrying you home was the most natural thing in the world. He was already scooting off his seat.

"Jack!" You smiled despite yourself, rubbing your eyes tiredly again.

He smiled back, softly. And you knew, even drunk, even with your head spinning slightly, that he would have carried you either way. Joking or not.

That was just Jack.

The bar swayed slightly as you scooted out of the booth. Or maybe that was just you. Hard to tell at this point.

Jack was already standing, waiting at the edge of the seat with his hands.

You stared at his hands. Not on purpose.

Okay, maybe a little on purpose. But in your defense, they were right there, in front of you, and you were drunk enough that staring felt justified. His fingers, the way his knuckles looked, the silver band on his ring finger.

You stared anyway. Your drunk brain had apparently decided this was fine. Normal and acceptable behavior.

Luckily for you, Jack was good at reading the room. Or, more accurately, good at pretending he hadn't noticed whatever embarrassing thing you were currently doing. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes. "Come on, sweetheart."

You finally glanced up, shaking whatever expression was on your face into something less obvious, and took his hands. He pulled you gently off the seat, and then the world decided to keep moving even though you'd stopped.

You stood there for a moment. Then another moment. Then a moment too long. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Jack didn't move, instead he stood there, watching you with something soft in his expression that you couldn't see because your eyes were still closed.

After a beat too long, he got worried. "Hey." His voice was quiet. "Don't sleep on me." He let go of one of your hands and touched your cheek. Barely.

Your eyes opened immediately. "'M not asleep." The words came out mushier than you intended. "Just dizzy. Really dizzy." You blinked at him, trying to focus. "Please don't let go."

"I won't." He dropped his hand from your cheek but kept the other one firmly wrapped around yours. "You okay with me just holding your hand, or do you need more support?"

"Waist." You didn't even hesitate. Didn't even have it in you to be embarrassed about how quickly that came out.

Jack smiled. "Okay."

He didn't say anything about how that was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Didn't let on that his heart did something dumb when you said it. Just gently grabbed your arm, draped it over his shoulder, and slid his own arm around your waist. "You good?" He turned his head to look at you, close enough that you could see how hazel his eyes were.

"Good." You smiled up at him.

The walk to his car was long. Way too long, honestly. Jack had parked outside and every step felt like three. You stumbled twice. He just tightened his arm around your waist and kept going.

At some point you realized you hadn't said goodbye to Trinity or Victoria. You mumbled something about it, half panicked and Jack just shook his head. "It's okay. Robby will let them know."

Eventually, finally, you reached his car. And then he had to let go of you to get the door open. You groaned loudly. The kind of groan that belonged in a teenager having a tantrum, except you were a grown adult who was simply too drunk and too tired to care about dignity.

Jack started chuckling.

"You find all of this too funny." You leaned heavily against his car, glaring at him with zero actual heat. "I don't like it." He was still chuckling as he opened the door. Soft chuckles that made him shake his head slightly. "Stop making fun of me." You tried to sound stern. It came out sleepy.

"I'm not." He was smiling. "I promise." His hand found your waist again and you felt yourself relax into the touch before you could stop it. "Watch your head."

He guided you down into the seat carefully, one hand on your waist, the other hovering near the top of the door frame like he'd catch you if you forgot to duck. Which, honestly? You might have. The night was fuzzy.

You plopped down into the seat, your head lulling against the headrest like it was too heavy to hold up on its own. The leather was cool against your warm cheek. Nice. You might just stay here forever.

"There you go." He said it quietly.

Jack pushed the door wider, so he could bend down to your level. The interior light spilled over both of you as he leaned in, reaching across you for the seatbelt.

"You smell nice," you mumbled.

He clicked the belt into place. "I smell like a bar."

"You smell nice." You said it again, correcting him.

Jack paused, looking at you properly now. The kind of look that missed nothing. He realized then that you were much drunker than he'd thought.

He smiled anyway, shook his head slightly. He reached up and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear like it was muscle memory now, so you could see him better.

Not that you were looking. Your eyes were closed again.

But then his fingers brushed your skin, and your eyes fluttered open, startled by the closeness. He didn't mention your staring, didn't comment on how your breath caught slightly. Just held your gaze for a moment, before speaking quietly.

"You want to go to your place or mine?"

Your eyes went wide. Wide enough that if you'd been sober, you'd have been mortified. "Is your place an option?" The excitement in your voice was impossible to miss.

Jack's eyebrows lifted slightly and he pulled back a fraction. His hand rested on the side of the door, steadying himself.

"Yeah." His voice was measured. "I'm concerned about you. You've had way too much alcohol. I'd rather not have you out of my sight."

You tilted your head, processing this. "I can take care of myself."

His arm traveled up to the top of the door frame now, leaning in slightly as he looked down at you. The position made him seem bigger somehow. "I know you can." He reached down, catching your hand just as you were about to rub your eyes again. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, stopping you. "But I'd still like to help."

You stared at him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand holding yours. "Okay." It came out small. Nothing like your usual self.

Jack smiled. Then he let go and straightened up, pulling the door closed.

You watched him through the window as he walked around the front of the car, the night dark behind him. He opened his door, slid into the driver's seat, and glanced over at you. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah."

He nodded back, satisfied with that, and started the engine.

The ride was quiet. Your eyes were closed, just letting the movement of the car rock you gently while the warmth from the seat seeped into your tired body.

"I can't wait to see your home." The words came out before you fully realized you'd spoken them.

Jack glanced at you briefly, then back at the road. A red light was coming up, and he slowed the car to a stop. "Why's that?"

You tilted your head against the seat, turning to look at him properly. The streetlight above cast warm orange light through the windshield, catching the lines of his face.

"'Cause I just wanna know more about you." The words hung in the air between you, and you watched the slight shift in his eyes, the way he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.

Then he nodded. "Guess you will in a couple of minutes."

You smiled. "Do you have a cat?"

"No, I don't have a cat." He paused, glancing at you again as the light turned green and he started moving. "You think I'm capable of taking care of a cat?"

You raised your eyebrow at him, still smiling. "You're doing a great job with me right now." He'd been taking care of you all night. All the time, really, if you thought about it. Which you tried not to. Usually.

Jack turned his head toward you for a second, but long enough for you to catch the look on his face. He was surprised, maybe, like he hadn't expected you to say that. "You're comparing yourself to a cat?"

You shrugged. "Cats are nice. I'm nice."

He smiled. "Yeah. You are nice."

You felt your face warm, shy in a way you hadn't been a moment ago. "Yeah?" you asked, voice smaller now.

"Very nice." He said it like he meant it.

You made a happy sound. The kind of sound you couldn't have stopped if you tried, because Jack Abbot just called you very nice, and he was your boss, and also your crush, and also currently driving you to his apartment, and none of that made sense but all of it felt right.

"You're nice too," you said softly.

Jack didn't respond. Just kept driving, eyes on the road, but you caught the barely there smile at that.

You stared out the window for a while, watching streetlights blur past. But your brain was still turning, still willing to say things you'd never say sober. "Ellis said you're nicer to me than to everyone else."

There. You'd said it. Put it out in the world.

Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. Ah. He got it now. Drunk you was honest. Vulnerable. The kind of vulnerable that usually hid behind jokes and deflection and pretending not to care.

"Would that be a problem?" he asked, testing the ground.

You shook your head, still looking out the window. "No." you paused. "I just wonder why."

The car slowed. You heard the engine cut out, felt the sudden stillness settle around you. You glanced outside but you didn't really look. Pretended to, though.

"Seriously?" he asked.

You met his eyes. And suddenly you weren't just drunk anymore, you were aware of how the car felt smaller now.

"You're asking too many questions tonight, Jack." You grumbled it, but it came out nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you ask something you weren't sure you wanted the answer to. "Just answer the question."

He chuckled. Almost nervous, if Jack Abbot even got nervous. And you realized, dimly, that you'd never heard him nervous before.

"I'm not answering this one." Your heart dropped, but he kept going. "Because you know the answer already."

He was staring at you and you stared back, frozen, because yes. Yes, you did know. You'd known for a while, probably. Known in the way he looked at you, the way he found you in a crowded room, the way he let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try. Known in the foot under the table, the scarf folded into your bag, known in the way he was driving you to his place.

But hearing it straight up like this while drunk off your mind was something you hadn't expected.

You looked away first. Your heart was too loud, your face too warm, your brain too fuzzy to process the weight of what just happened.

The silence stretched.

Then, softly Jack spoke again. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

You bit your lip, watching as Jack got out of the car. The door closed with a solid thunk, and then he was walking around the front, headlights catching him briefly before he disappeared into shadow, then reappearing at your door. He opened it softly, the night air rushing in cool against your warm skin, and leaned down to undo your seatbelt.

"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He said quietly. "I'm sorry."

You shook your head immediately. "Not uncomfortable." You reached for his hands without thinking. "Just…" You searched for the word. It floated somewhere in your fuzzy brain, just out of reach. "Shy?" You smiled up at him, hoping that was the right one.

He smiled back. "Shy is good."

You smiled back, warmth spreading through your chest. Then he was helping you out of the car, guiding you up and out until you were standing, leaning against the doorframe for balance. He shut your door and the car beeped twice as it locked.

You stayed leaned against the car for a moment, looking at him. He stood in front of you now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you.

"I know your answer." You said softly, barely meeting his eyes. "You know. Before. I know it."

He uncrossed his arms, let them hang at his sides. "Good."

You smiled at him and he smiled right back. "I hope you say it properly one day."

"I plan to, sweetheart." He promised. "Trust me."

You watched him for a long moment. "Soon?"

The word came out smaller than you meant it to. You reached for his hand, not as dizzy anymore or maybe just not noticing it, and he took it immediately. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

"Soon." He smiled softly.

You smiled back, heart full to bursting, before finally letting him guide you away from the car. He kept looking at you as you walked, making sure you weren't about to fall. You weren't. You were mostly dizzy on love, if that made any sense at all. It probably didn't. You didn't care.

He helped you up the steps to his building, one hand firm on your waist, the other ready to catch you if you stumbled. You managed just fine, though, even found yourself grinning at the ordinary miracle of walking and of his hand warm through your shirt.

At his door, he fumbled with keys for a second before finding the right one. The lock clicked open.

"You're rich," you mumbled as you stepped inside.

He chuckled behind you. "Well, I'd hope so after twenty years of being a doctor."

You giggled at that and you heard him smile even before you turned to see it. He pushed the door open wider, and you managed to walk in on your own, looking around as the space opened up in front of you.

"Woah." yeah, he was most definitely rich.

Jack locked the door behind you, and then he stepped closer, hands coming up to brush softly at your waist, steadying you as you took it all in.

"You like it?" His breath warm against the back of your neck as he helped you out of your jacket.

"You're not messy!" you said, maybe too loudly. "Everything's organized."

You pulled off your shoes and tried your best to put them away neatly by the door. They ended up slightly crooked but together, which felt like a win.

Jack sighed behind you, worried more than anything. You heard him hang your jacket and bag up.

When you turned around, he was watching you with that look. The one that probably meant that he was calculating your blood alcohol content, probably whether you needed water or food or just to be sat down before you fell over.

"You're worrying," you said.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm always worrying."

"About me?"

He held your gaze for a long moment. "Yeah. About you."

You smiled and then you stepped further into the apartment, still taking everything in, when Jack glanced down at your feet. His eyes caught on two different socks and he grinned to himself.

"Jack, you have a really nice house," you mumbled, wandering toward a shelf against the wall. It was covered in random things. A dusty trophy from some old sports thing. A couple of framed photos, faces you didn't recognize. Some diplomas. A stack of books with worn spines.

"Thanks, sweetheart." His voice came from somewhere behind you. "But we should really get you to sober up."

You turned your head toward him. He was standing there watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a small smile playing at his mouth.

"Am I sleeping here?" You weren't on your tiptoes anymore, trying to see the top shelf. Instead you turned to him, meeting his eyes.

"Would you like to sleep here?" He asked it gently, giiving you the choice.

"Would you like me to sleep here?"

He didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."

"Okay." You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy again. "If I'm not a bother, I'd like to stay."

He crossed the distance between you, hand finding your lower back as he led you down a short hallway. "You're never a bother."

He stopped at a door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. His bathroom was clean, just like the rest of his place. He motioned you inside. "Wait here."

He pulled the toilet seat down and you plopped down gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you actually were.

Jack disappeared. You heard him in the kitchen, water running, a cabinet opening and closing. You let your head rest against the wall behind you and your eyes drifted to his shower.

There was a small collection of bottles lined up along the ledge. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Nothing fancy. Just regular guy stuff. But you found yourself staring anyway, head tilted, squinting slightly as you tried to read the labels. Trying to figure out what kind of shampoo Jack Abbot used.

You were still squinting when he appeared in front of you, holding a glass of water. You startled just slightly.

"Drink up." He held the cup out, waiting. You mumbled a small "thank you" before reaching for it, but your hands were less coordinated than you'd realized, and instead of taking it properly you just covered his hand with yours.

He let you. His other hand came up to brush your hair gently away from your face. You felt his fingers graze your temple, your cheek, tucking strands behind your ear the way he always did.

When you lowered the glass, he caught the corner of your mouth with his thumb, brushing away a stray drop of water.

You sighed, content and suddenly so much less thirsty. "Thank you."

Jack took the glass from your hands and set it on the counter, out of the way. Then he crouched down in front of you. "How you feeling, sweetheart?"

You considered the question. Actually considered it, instead of just saying fine like you always did. "Tired," you admitted. "But good. Really good."

He nodded slowly. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"

You shook your head. "Just tired. And warm. And happy." The last part slipped out before you could stop it. You felt your cheeks warm, but you didn't take it back.

He smiled. "Happy's good."

He reached up to softly remove the hair clip from your hair. You felt the tension release as your hair fell loose around your shoulders.

"I look like a mess. I'm sorry." You mumbled it, eyes dropping to your lap. "I got all dressed up for you, and now I'm drunk sitting on your toilet, and I'm going to regret this so terribly tomorrow."

Something flickered in Jack's eyes. Something that he didn't let himself say out loud, like how at least you'd wake up in his bed, at least he'd be there when you did. He stopped himself. But he couldn't help latching onto the other part.

"You got dressed up for me?"

His voice was soft as he reached up again, finding another clip, then another. Little ones now scattered on his sink. He sank back to his knees in front of you, winced slightly, because kneeling on a prosthetic leg wasn't comfortable. But he stayed there anyway. His hands found your knees as he brushed back and forth slowly.

"Yeah. I wanted to look pretty for you."

The words landed somewhere in his chest. He smiled gently, thumb tracing a small circle on your knee. "You always look pretty."

You shook your head immediately, already sighing. "No I don't. Not right now."

Jack shook his head right back at you. "Yeah you do."

You opened your mouth to argue and he just shook his head again. You stopped immediately.

"Uh uh. Enough of that." He shook his head again. "I'm your boss. I'm the one who has the last word here."

You stared at him for a second, then you grinned. "Okay."

He smiled back and started to push himself up. You caugh his reaction this time, the slight grimace, the way he braced himself on the sink, the small groan he tried to hide.

"Are you okay?" you asked concerned.

He waved it off. "Fine. Old man stuff." He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, then looked down at you. "You want to sleep in these clothes?"

You considered it, chewing on your lip for a second. Then you shrugged. "Actually, I wanna wear your clothes."

That stopped him cold. He halted mid step, turning to look back at you. You were smiling up at him with that huge grin. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were aware, on some level, what those words did something to him.

"You're terrible, you know that?" he mumbled, but there was no heat in it. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently up from the toilet seat.

You took his hand, steadying yourself against him, and grinned even wider. "You like me. That means I can't be that terrible."

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. He led you out of the bathroom and down the hall.

His bedroom was nice. A dresser with a few things on top. A lamp on the nightstand. A window with the blinds half drawn, letting in slivers of streetlight

"Nice bed," you mumbled softly, taking in the way he'd properly made it, sheets tucked in, pillows fluffed, a blanket folded at the foot.

"It's good enough," he replied, already moving toward his closet.

You stood there watching him, not even trying to hide it. He was choosing something for you and your drunk brain found that unbearably sweet.

He turned around holding sweatpants and a t-shirt and tilted his head slightly. A question. Okay?

You nodded, reaching out to take them from his hands. The fabric was warm and you hugged them without thinking.

"I'll be in the bathroom. Just call for me when you're done."

You nodded again, suddenly more tired now that you were in his room with his lamp casting warm light and his bed right there looking so comfortable. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

In the bathroom, Jack leaned against the sink for a moment. He turned on the cold water, splashed some on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. You were here. In his home. Sleepy and honest and practically admitting you liked him. Dressed up for him. He pressed his palms against the counter and exhaled slowly, aware of his heart beating faster than it had any right to.

He changed quickly. Sweatpants, a clean shirt. Brushed his teeth. Tried to look normal, tried to calm down, tried to remember how to be just Jack instead of Jack who had you in his bedroom wearing his clothes.

Then you called his name.

He opened the door and walked down the hall. And yeah, the sight didn't help his heart at all.

You were standing by his bed, well, standing was generous. More like swaying gently, having clearly tried to fold your clothes and put them on the chair in the corner. The folding hadn't gone well. Your shirt was half draped over the chair back, your jeans in a heap on the floor next to it. But you were wearing his clothes. His shirt swallowed you whole, the hem falling to your thighs. His sweatpants were rolled at the waist and still too big, pooling slightly at your feet.

He smiled to himself, trying to get his heart to calm down as he reached for the bed, pushing back the sheets, getting it ready for you.

The silence behind him lasted just a little too long.

Ah. You wanted a compliment. "You look as pretty as ever." he said over his shoulder, smiling at you.

"I like your clothes," you giggled, happy over receiving the compliment you'd been waiting for. You shuffled closer until you were standing next to him.

He turned to look at you fondly. "Like them on you, too."

His hand gently found your waist and he guided you backward, lowering you onto the bed until you were sitting, then lying down, your head meeting the pillow he'd just fluffed. You went easily. He thought about how different this was from your usual shyness, how you'd normally get flustered and look away if he got too close. But here, now, you were more than happy to jump into his bed.

But, who was he to judge? He loved having you here.

"God, I'm so tired." You mumbled it, hand coming up to rub your eyes again. "And drunk. So drunk."

Jack still stood above you, watching. He loved the way you curled slightly toward the warmth of his pillow and the way you looked so perfect in his bed.

"I know, sweetheart." He said softly "Just rest now." He reached down and pulled the blanket up over you.

He, then, reached for your shoulder and turned you onto your side. "That's better," he mumbled softly, fingers brushing your hair away from your face. His hand lingered for just a second on the curve of your cheek.

"Sleep well," he whispered. "I'll get you some ibuprofen for your headache and some water tomorrow, yeah?" He gestured vaguely toward the nightstand, even though you couldn't see it. "They'll be right here. On the night table."

You just hummed in response, already slipping under, already gone. You burrowed deeper into his pillow.

He started to pull away, to move toward the door, when your hand shot out. "Don't leave." He looked down at you, at your hand wrapped around his wrist. "What do I get out of being in your bed if you're not here?" you murmured, turning onto your back to look up at him properly.

His heart stopped. He was sure he didn't hear you right.

"Please?" you added, softer now.

"Yeah. Okay." he replied quietly as he rounded the bed slowly, walked to the other side, and laid down at a distance. So much distance you could have fit another person between you. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach.

You propped yourself on your forearms behind you, head tilted, staring at him with an open mouth. And then you started giggling.

"Jack Abbot." His name in your mouth was so wonderful, he wanted to close his eyes for a second to cherish it. "Are you nervous? Do I make you nervous?" You seemed genuinely delighted by this discovery. Thrilled, even.

He shot you a look. And yeah. Okay. He was laying very far away from you. The kind of distance a teenager would put between themselves and a date on the first night. He was old enough to not be nervous about this.

But here, now, with you in his bed wearing his clothes and looking at him like that? Of course he was nervous.

"Sweetheart." His voice came out quieter than he meant. "You're in my bed. What do you expect?" Honesty. He'd decided on honesty. "Of course I'm nervous."

You tilted your head, and then you were moving closer, until you were leaning on one elbow, looking down at him from above. Your hair fell forward, brushing against his shoulder. You'd brushed your teeth earlier, used his toothpaste, and you smelled like mint and him. It did something to him. "That's cute."

He huffed out a laugh, reacting the only way he knew when feeling this seen. "Sure."

You giggled again, that wonderful sound that seemed to live somewhere in his chest now, and then your hand found its way up to his chest. And that's when his heart stopped.

Not really. Obviously not really. But it felt like it stopped. Felt like everything stopped.

Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, circles, lines, nothing recognizable. Then they drifted lower, tracing random shapes on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.

"I am really drunk," you murmured, "but I still know that I'm going to regret this tomorrow." You were watching your hand. "But being drunk also gives me an excuse to touch you. So I'm using it."

"You don't need an excuse to touch me." He watched you, enjoying the view of seeing your pretty face so close. "I promise you, sweetheart."

You tilted your head, looking at him, processing his words slowly, the way drunk people do.

"I'll take you up on that." You said softly. "A lot."

Jack Abbot had never ever felt more thrilled. "You do that, baby."

His hand found the back of your shoulder, gently guiding you down until your head was resting fully on his chest, right over his heart, letting you feel what you did to him.

His hand came up to the back of your head. His big hand engulfed it completely, fingers spreading through your hair, brushing through it slowly. His thumb moved gently against your scalp.

He felt you startle slightly at first and then relax. Your hand finally stopped moving on his stomach. He reached down with his other hand, grabbed the sheets, and pulled them up over you both.

Then he felt your ankle hooking gently over his, just like at the bar. And he smiled to himself in the dark.

He kept brushing through your hair. He remembered watching you once. You'd been stressed about something, pacing the break room, and you'd done this thing where you ran your own fingers through your hair, over and over, until you calmed down.

He hoped this helped.

He could feel it in the way you relaxed further, the way your breathing evened out, the way your body went heavy against his.

You were quiet for a long moment, so long he thought you'd fallen asleep, but then you spoke quietly. "I hope I remember this tomorrow."

He smiled before whispering, “I’ll make sure you do.”

[deerfawnn]

sweet as vanilla

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: in which jack abbot gives you your first kiss. content warnings: age gap ( reader is a resident ) kissing, use of petnames, shy!reader, reader is sort of a high achiever a/n: hai guys. i miss jack abbot a lot, which i guess is obvious considering this fic is wayyyyy too long. i hope you like it regardless!! gif credits to the lovely @wesandresons !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3 wc : 6.5k

The date was nice. Of course it was. It was always nice with him, and you were beginning to suspect that had less to do with the activity itself and more to do with Jack.

It wasn't the usual normal date. Not that you had a vast catalogue of dating experience to draw from, but you'd consumed enough media and heard enough stories from your fellow residents to know what dating typically looked like.

Dinner and a movie. Drinks at a bar. Maybe coffee if you were keeping it casual.

You'd had exactly three official dates with Jack so far, stacked on top of years of friendship and working alongside each other and none of them had been particularly typical. The fourth date, the one you were currently on, was a tad silly for both of you.

He wanted to make pizzas with you.

It was fun and very unusual for a resident and her boss.

You always expected Jack Abbot to be the mundane normal guy. He had all the external markers of it. Military man, doctor, older white man. You'd assumed, when you first started entertaining the idea of him as something more than your attending, that he would be typical in his dating approach too. Restaurant dates. Wine tastings if he was feeling adventurous. That was what old men usually did, wasn't it?

And he did that at first.

The first date was a restaurant. It was lovely and exactly what you'd expected. You'd gone home that night with a warm feeling in your chest and the taste of pasta, thinking that this was nice and exactly what dating Jack Abbot would be like.

The second date, he took you to the fair, like you were teenagers. He took you on the Ferris wheel and everything. You'd looked out over the lights spread and felt like you were fifteen again.

You'd accidentally let it slip during that first restaurant date that the restaurant date had been your first date ever. You'd spent your entire adolescence and young adulthood with your nose buried in books, skipping parties to study, missing social milestones because there was always another exam.

He hadn't reacted much at the time, while you'd been mortified, certain you'd just revealed yourself to be hopelessly inexperienced and naive, but he'd simply talked about his first very awkward date and the moment had passed.

But the fair came next and you wondered, watching him win you a stuffed animal, if he was deliberately giving you the experiences you'd missed.

On your third date he took you to play Mini golf. You were approximately ninety percent sure he only chose it so he could get close to you. He'd asked you a couple days beforehand if you'd ever golfed before, and you'd shaken your head no, and he'd seemed delighted.

And he did teach you. Oh, he taught you thoroughly. He got all close to you, standing behind you to adjust your grip on the club, his chest pressing against your back, his hands warm over yours as he guided your swing. You were approximately ninety percent sure he knew exactly what he was doing. The other ten percent was just you being generous.

After the golf, he'd gotten you ice cream from a little stand near the park, and you'd walked together. Your shoulder kept bumping against his arm as you walked, and neither of you made any effort to create more space between you. It made you feel giddy to see him.

Giddy. A word you hadn't used to describe your emotional state since you were a child.

And you couldn't help but appreciate him and his thoughtfulness so much.

You'd been in a lull for so long. Years and years of studying, studying, studying, all your life really, missing out on everything and now you were finally a resident.

And you still had nothing.

Well, not nothing. You had your job and your career, but in terms of relationships and romance there was nothing until Jack.

You'd flirted with him, then and there, but you hadn't thought much of it at first. You didn't think much of the instances where he'd complimented your hairstyles or your glittery pens. Really anything that made you you, he seemed to notice and appreciate.

And now here you were in his apartment standing in his kitchen with flour dusted across your forearms and dough in front of you.

"I can't get the dough flat," you complained, looking down at your sad lump of flour and water. He grinned, but made absolutely no move to help you. You looked at his perfect dough and you sighed. "Why are you good at everything?"

His grin widened, a comment ready on the tip of his tongue and you got flustered immediately. "Oh, shut up," you mumbled, turning your attention very deliberately back to your dough so you wouldn't have to look at his smug face anymore.

"Didn't say anything," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice even without seeing it.

Before you knew it, he'd left his pizza abandoned, coming around to help you with yours. You moved aside and he took your place in front of your sad little lump of dough.

"You have to add lots of flour so it won't stick to the counter," he explained, sounding like the teacher he usually was in the ER.

You were absolutely not listening to a single word he said.

You were straight up staring at his face watching him with so much fondness that would have been embarrassing if you'd had any self awareness left to be embarrassed. His silver hair flopped a bit as he pressed the dough back onto the counter and it looked so endlessly soft. You really, really wanted to touch it and find out if it was as soft as it looked or if it was coarser than you expected.

It was so curly too. You liked curly hair or maybe you just liked his curly hair. You weren't entirely sure anymore where the general preference ended and the Jack specific obsession began.

And his stubble. You wondered how scratchy it was. If you ran your fingers across it, would it hurt you? Would it be rough and abrasive against your skin? And if it was, if it left your fingertips tingling and sensitive, would he kiss it better?

You were officially going insane. You needed to be studied. You needed to be written up in a medical journal as a case study in acute romantic fixation.

There were light freckles across his face too. They had probably been darker when he was younger and had faded over the years.

You wanted to lean in and count every single freckle. You wondered where else he had freckles. If his shoulders were dusted with them. If his back was full of them. You wondered if any of them were traceable, if you could drag your fingertip from one to the next connecting them like stars in the sky. Orion on his shoulder blade. The Big Dipper across his collarbone. Cassiopeia scattered down his spine.

Would he like that? If you traced his freckles like constellations? Would he lie still for you? Would he hum gently if you did it and lean into your hands?

You wondered a lot of things, frankly an alarming number of things for someone who was supposed to be learning how to flatten pizza dough from their date ( slash boss ).

And you didn't hear anything. Your auditory processing had apparently been completely hijacked by your visual processing, which was currently fully occupied with memorizing every single detail of Jack's face.

His head tilted gently as he looked at you. "Sweetheart?"

He looked concerned and you figured you hadn't given him lots of opportunities to see what you looked like lovesick.

You weren't like Shen, who had a date every other weekend and always came back to the hospital on Monday morning bragging about how amazing his girlfriend was. Everyone knew lovesick Shen. It was practically his default setting at this point. The other residents teased him about it relentlessly, and he took it with good humor because he was too happy to be embarrassed.

But you'd never ever been in love. The only thing you dreamed about on a regular basis was your bed and tiramisu sometimes.

It felt like you were falling, just as long as Alice did in Alice in Wonderland when she went down the rabbit hole. And People did say you had an Alice in Wonderland quality about you, a different way of thinking when it came to approaching patients. It was sweet when they said it and it made you feel special.

"Yeah?" you asked, as if you hadn't just taken an extended mental vacation to a fantasy land where you were tracing constellations on his bare skin.

"Kinda just spaced out there," he said softly. His eyes swept over your face, checking to see if you were okay. "Everything good?" he asked, and you watched him resist the urge to touch you because his hands were covered in dough and flour.

"Yeah," your voice coming out a bit shaky despite your best efforts. "Sorry. I think I kinda just suck at this."

You attributed your mental absence to disappointment in yourself rather than the actual cause. It was believable. Jack knew you were the type of person who sometimes fell apart whenever she was disappointed in herself. He'd seen you pick apart everything you'd done wrong while ignoring everything you'd done right at work.

"You don't suck at this," he said gently. He moved away then, stepping back to give you space to work again. "I've done this a hundred times and it's your first time," he said, wiping his flour covered hands on a kitchen towel. "It's okay to not be good on your first try," he added softly, and there was something in the way he said it that made you think he wasn't just talking about pizza dough anymore.

"And," he continued, and his voice took on a lighter tone, " it gives us a chance to do this many, many times."

Your lips lifted into a smile. "Guess so," you said softly, and you couldn't quite keep the pleased little lilt out of your voice.

Jack smiled back at you, seemingly relieved that you were excited about spending time together as much as he was.

The date continued with lots of giggles and chattering. You got so caught up in talking that you completely forgot about the pizzas. They were just laying out on the counter, instead of being in the oven where they belonged.

You were leaning on one side of the counter, your elbows propped on the surface in a way that would have made your mother tell you to stand up straight, and he was on the other side. You sipped on your drink, the glass cool against your fingers. Both of you had chosen not to drink any alcoholic beverages.

You'd never had this before and you wanted to feel every single nerve wracking and heart pounding feeling about being in the same kitchen as the guy you liked. You wanted to remember every single detail.

And so did he. He wanted to remember everything about you and your sweet and shy demeanor.

You giggled as he recounted what had happened in his math class once, your hand came up to cover your mouth and he wanted to hear that sound for the rest of his life.

After a while, you glanced at the pizzas. "I think we were supposed to put those in the oven," you smiled as you set your soda aside on the counter. The condensation from the glass left a wet ring on the surface, and you wiped it away with your sleeve.

Jack glanced at the pizzas, following your gaze to the forgotten food, and smiled. He'd hoped it would take you longer to notice that you hadn't put them in the oven. The longer you didn't notice, the longer he got to spend time with you.

He grabbed them and slid them into the oven. He set the timer because you'd both probably forget about them again if he didn't.

Once he did, he led you to his couch. You settled down shyly at the edge. Your posture was stiff, your hands folded in your lap, your feet planted firmly on the floor.

"So," Jack murmured, settling down next to you on the couch but keeping his distance. "D'you have any embarrassing high school memories?" he angled his body slightly toward you, one arm draped across the back of the couch.

"All of it?" you smiled at him. Your socked feet moved restlessly on his carpet.

"Anything specific?" he pressed gently. He wanted to know everything and anything about you.

He could never get enough of you. Every day he looked forward to seeing you, excited to discover something new about you. It was one of the great pleasures of his life now. Whether it was a small detail about how you'd treat an injured child or how you'd hold your pen. Everything about you was interesting to him.

You thought about his question, sifting through your memories of high school, trying to find something worth sharing. You'd been so focused on your studies that moments that seemed to define other people's teenage years had mostly passed you by or maybe they'd happened and you just hadn't noticed, too buried in textbooks to realize you were supposed to be mortified.

"Don't think so," you said, embarrassment flickering across your face before you looked down at your hands in your lap. You felt guilty for not being interesting enough for him.

But he shook his head. "Lucky you."

And just like that, he made you comfortable immediately again. It was a gift he had, this ability to smooth over your awkwardness without making you feel self conscious about having been awkward in the first place.

You knew this sucked. You knew, on some level, that you were being quiet and not at all the kind of fun date that someone like Jack deserved. You were young, but wasn't this supposed to be the time to have a bunch of things to tell? Weren't you supposed to have stories? Weren't you supposed to rave about the things you planned on doing and the crazy things you'd experienced?

It felt weird to tell Jack how boring you'd been all your life. How you'd spent your weekends in libraries. How your biggest adventure in college had been pulling an all nighter to finish a research paper. It made you feel inadequate, like you were letting him down by being exactly who you were.

And it was hard to make up for it in the moment. You couldn't suddenly become interesting just because you wanted to be.

You wanted to apologize for it, but then again, you thought you might just make it worse if you pointed out how shy you were being. Maybe it was better to pretend you were totally relaxed and not at all spiraling about whether you were interesting enough for him.

You couldn't possibly know how much he was adoring your shy demeanor. You couldn't see inside his head, couldn't witness the way his heart swelled every time you ducked your head or stumbled over your words or smiled that embarrassed little smile. You had no idea that he was sitting there thanking the universe that he was able to provoke a reaction from you, that your shyness wasn't indifference but the exact opposite, proof that you cared enough to be nervous.

But then he got something. He asked you about your favorite class and your eyes lit up. You started talking about your English teacher and you went on and on.

You wouldn't stop raving about her. It was so endearing and he didn't see that happen often. At the ER, you were careful. Every word that came out of your mouth always seemed so thoughtfully considered.

He enjoyed it so much that he took the chance to scoot closer on the couch until his knee was almost touching yours.

And you barely noticed. Instead, you turned more toward him, your knees lifting onto the couch cushion and then your knee was pressing against his thigh. His eyelashes fluttered slightly at that, delighted to finally receive your sweet touch.

He admired you with a smile, asking a couple questions here and there that kept you talking without interrupting your flow. He was so gentle about it so careful to not interrupt you.

After a while, you stopped rambling and smiled at him and it seemed like you'd finally relaxed.

Every day it always took him a bit to open you up again. It was like an eggshell that you built around yourself every week and he always had to break it again. You'd arrive at work slightly distant, and he'd spend the first part of the shift chipping away at your shell with small talk and gentle teasing. To his luck, the shell got thinner every week. What used to take an entire shift now took an hour. What used to take an hour now took minutes.

And now, tonight, it seemed he had it all open. Shell pieces scattered across the floor of his living room.

You smiled at him, and he smiled back, and for a moment neither of you said anything at all.

He saw your eyes flicker down to his lips and he saw the way you seemed almost embarrassed for doing it in the first place and he knew that you knew that he'd noticed.

He figured he'd help out. He'd kiss you and spare you the agonizing decision of whether or not to kiss him. His eyes flickered down to your lips. Your lips were still glossy despite having drunk your soda. He'd noticed your lip gloss earlier and had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about it during work. It made your lips look soft. It made him wonder what they'd feel like against his.

His eyes flickered back up, meeting yours, and he held your gaze for a long moment and then he leaned in. One arm braced against the side of the couch as he closed the space between you inch by inch. You could probably feel his breath on your face now.

It was a testament to your shyness truly that it took you ages to do anything.

Jack had his nose touch yours before you pulled back, your eyes going wide with something that looked an awful lot like panic. He pulled back as well. His hands came up and he created as much distance as he could without actually leaving the couch.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said softly, letting you know he wasn't upset, because he knew it would be your first thought. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He felt a sensation in his chest he hadn't felt in decades, not since he was oh so young and still learning that love sometimes meant getting hurt.

God, he'd been so certain that you wanted this too, but maybe he'd misread everything. Maybe he was just an old man making a fool of himself over a girl who was too polite to tell him she wasn't interested.

"No, you're fine," you said quietly.

"I'm sorry," he said again, because he didn't know what else to say. "You don't have to stay if I made you uncomfortable." He tried to catch your gaze as you looked away, tried to find some sign in your expression that would tell him what you were feeling.

But you shook your head, biting your lip, your teeth pressing into the soft flesh until it hurt. "No, it's fine," you whispered.

Jack stared at you and the way you avoided his eyes. He watched the way your gaze skittered around the room. You were pulling back into yourself, the shell reconstructing itself around you.

"Sweetheart," he said softly, his voice carrying all the tenderness he felt and all the regret he couldn't quite express, "it really would be fine if you left. I won't be upset."

He was worried your shyness was preventing you from telling him the truth, that you were too polite to admit that he'd made you uncomfortable in his home.

You met his eyes finally and it just came out of you. "Please don't judge me."

"I'm not judging you for anything, sweetheart," Jack said softly. "If you want, we'll just ignore everything that happened in the last five minutes."

As he spoke, he reached out very carefully. His fingers found your hand, where you had been biting your nails and guided it away from your mouth. You dropped your hand into your lap, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment and then you blurted it out.

"I've never kissed anyone before."

And Jack didn't say "it's fine" as if your inexperience was some mistake that needed forgiving. Instead he just smiled softly.

"Makes me crowding you like this a bit worse," he grinned, gesturing vaguely at the space between you.

You stared at him for a second, startled by his casual reaction, but then you smiled . "No, you're fine," you said absolutely delighted.

You traced a finger across your thigh for a second, back and forth, back and forth and then you looked up again. You couldn't imagine the last time he'd been told by his date that she had no experience dating whatsoever, but his reaction was perfect. He was watching you with a careful expression, clearly still concerned for you.

You finally made the decision to speak and he smiled gently as if saying go ahead.

"I'm fine with you kissing me," you said quietly. "I just wanted to let you know in case—" you stuttered for a second. "In case I'm not as good. But I don't mind if you want to kiss me," you added softly, and even as the words left your mouth you felt regret creeping into your voice.

You were terrified that this would erase his entire urge to ever want to press his lips against your pretty ones.

You were dead wrong.

He still wanted you like before. He didn't think anything of your confession besides maybe that he should be gentler with you when approaching everything touching.

"I want to kiss you," he said softly. "But I won't do that until you're ready."

And then he reached out, fingers brushing against your temple, and he pushed your hair behind your ear which made you smile. He let his thumb rest on your cheekbone for a second, then he dropped his hand, letting it fall back to his lap.

"I am ready. I want it to be you." And then, because you knew him you added, "I've thought about it before." You knew he'd want to make absolutely certain that this wasn't a spur of the moment decision and that you weren't just saying what you thought he wanted to hear, because you felt bad.

"You've thought about it?" he asked and a grin spread across his face.

"Very funny," you mumbled, looking down at your lap, but you couldn't keep the smile off your face.

"No, no, I'm flattered," he grinned, clearly happy to finally be teasing you gently again.

You shot him a look. "Don't act like you haven't either."

His eyebrows shot up, surprised at your bold reply, but it made him laugh. "No, you're right. I have."

Once you both stopped smiling like two lovesick idiots you asked the question. "So? Will you?"

He stared at you for a while, his head tilted slightly to one side. And you let him, in fact, you appreciated it a lot. It was nice to know that he wasn't just rushing to it and that your first kiss was just as important to him as it was to you.

"You're sure?" he asked once again, eyes scanning your face for any sign of hesitation.

You shot him a look, that said you'd made your decision and you needed him to trust that you knew your own mind.

"Okay, okay," he smiled, a lopsided smile that tugged up one corner of his mouth more than the other.

You saw his eyes flicker away for a second and it was a sweet realization to recognize what it meant. He was nervous about kissing you.

"You'll have to guide me through it." you said softly.

"I can do that," he said. He had guided you through so many procedures and so many difficult conversations with patients. You knew his teaching would be the best and you knew he would take care of you through this too.

"Can I sit in your lap? I think that's most ideal for me."

Your eyebrows were furrowed slightly as you spoke as if this was a medical procedure you were planning out. He assumed that's why you weren't as shy about asking. To you this was like the ER, something that needed to happen in the most perfect way possible.

Jack stared at you. He wanted to say something about how you were supposed to relax and how you shouldn't approach it the way you were right now, but he figured that if this way of thinking relaxed you, who was he to stop it?

"Make yourself comfortable," he said instead, and he laid back against the couch back, his shoulders settling against the cushions, his arms resting loosely at his sides.

You swung one leg over his body and then the other, settling down with your thighs on either side of his hips, your knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of him.

"Okay?" you asked quietly.

"More than okay," he said, and the absolute happiness in his voice made you laugh.

He sat up a bit, careful not to have you fall off. His hands hovered near your hips and he looked at you for a second, and you could see the effort it took for him to focus on your face and not on the fact that you were in his lap.

"First," he said softly, and his voice took on that teacher tone you knew so well. "If you feel uncomfortable at any point, you just get off my lap and stop everything." His eyes were serious now. "No matter what's happening, you're allowed to push me off." He paused, making sure you understood. "Got it?"

You nodded, but he didn't accept it.

"I prefer words, sweetheart," he said softly.

You shot him a look, a little flash of exasperation mixed with affection, but he was serious. He knew you were a shy person and he wasn't going to just take your expression for an answer. He needed to know that you could use your voice and that your shyness wouldn't prevent you from speaking up if something felt wrong.

"Got it," you added, once you realized why he wanted words.

"Okay, good," he said gently. "Second," he continued, and his voice lightened, took on a gentler quality that made your shoulders drop slightly from where they'd been tensed up near your ears, "this is supposed to be fun."

He allowed himself to touch you now, finally. He reached up and brushed hair out of your face. His fingers were warm against your temple and you tilted your head further down, silently asking for more. And he happily complied, both hands coming up to your face now, his fingers threading through your hair, brushing it back completely from your face.

You got closer to him on his lap as he worked. You smelled nice. Vanilla perfume and it made him want to lean in closer and breathe deeper. He wondered if your lip gloss was vanilla too. Guess he was about to find out.

"Is it fun?" you whispered quietly. Your heart was pounding and your palms were sweating and fun felt like a very distant concept. "I'm scared."

"That's okay. I was too." he said gently.

But you shook your head as you glanced down at his lap, and your fingers found his button up shirt. You started picking at one of the buttons, flicking it open and closed open and closed.

"You were a kid then, probably," your eyes still fixed on the button. "I'm an adult. I'm not supposed to be this nervous. I'm not even supposed to be in this position." There they were. Your insecurities all out in the open.

He shook his head, his hands wandering up to your waist, and he brushed up and down your sides. "You're allowed to be nervous and so what?" He shrugged. "So you've never kissed anyone before. No big deal."

He said it with such a convincing tone that you couldn't help but smile. He made it sound so simple and you really really liked that.

"No big deal," you repeated and he squeezed your waist in agreement.

"Now what?" you asked softly, and despite the nerves still fluttering in your stomach, there was eagerness in your voice now too.

"The big moment," he said, sitting up more properly, straightening his spine against the couch back. He emphasized the words in such a silly tone that it made you giggle. Exactly his goal.

He lifted his hand and tilted your head lightly, his palm warm against your jaw as his thumb came to rest on your cheekbone. "So we don't bump noses," he mumbled. You smiled nervously, your lips curving up despite the butterflies doing acrobatics in your stomach.

He stared at you gently, his hazel eyes searching your face one last time, giving you one final chance to change your mind. "You're sure?" he whispered. You nodded, and this time he accepted it because he'd already established that you could use your words if you needed to.

"Very," you said softly, and your eyes glanced down at his lips.

"You want me to lean in, or d'you wanna take the first step?" he asked softly, his thumb still resting gently against your cheekbone.

He'd never had to guide anyone through a kiss before. He wasn't sure how much exactly to guide, how much instruction was helpful versus overwhelming or how much space to give you versus how much to lead.

"Can you?" you whispered.

"Yeah, of course," his voice coming out a little rougher. "You can put your hands on my neck," he said quietly. He reached forward gently, his fingers encircling your wrists with the lightest touch, and guided your hands up to the sides of his neck. He placed them there himself, positioning your palms against the warm skin just above his collar. His heart was racing and you felt it.

"You're warm," you blurted out. It was such a random thing to say, of course he was warm, he was a living breathing human being with blood circulating through his body.

He laughed and it made his shoulders shake slightly beneath your hands. "Not warm, just blushing, honey," he mumbled and the butterflies in your stomach multiplied.

You let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh, because the idea of Jack Abbot blushing because of you was both ridiculous and wonderful.

"I've got the prettiest girl in my lap and she wants to kiss me," he said, aware you didn't believe he was flustered. "I've got more than enough reasons to be blushing."

The words made you smile again. It was like your body was incapable of not being full of joy when you were near him.

You brushed gently under his jaw and his eyelashes fluttered at the touch and then your hand wandered to the back of his head, your fingers threading into his hair. His hair was just as soft as you thought it would be.

"Soft," you whispered.

He gave you a shy smile. "Reminds me of someone," he mumbled, and the comparison was so random that it made you smile again.

"I'm going to kiss you now, yeah?" he whispered, and it wasn't really a question anymore.

You nodded, your hands still tangled in his hair, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. His breath hit your lips first and he waited, pausing with his lips just a breath away from yours, looking at you with those hazel eyes. Do you still want this?

He saw you nod softly and then he pressed his lips against yours. It was softer than you'd imagined. His mouth was really warm and gentle. You immediately tightened your hands in his locks, because the feeling of his mouth on yours was making your head spin and your thoughts scatter. He squeezed your waist gently in response.

You weren't sure what to do. The mechanics of kissing had always seemed straightforward in theory, but now that you were actually doing it, you found yourself second guessing everything. Were you supposed to move your lips? How much pressure was too much? You decided to just press back a bit, because you were supposed to do that, right?

And based on his hum, it seemed you were right.

His hands traveled up from your waist, sliding slowly up your back until they reached your neck. His fingers pressed against the back of it, pulling you closer.

It didn't last long and then he pulled back, just far enough to look at you, his nose still almost brushing yours.

His hand came up to brush the hair that had fallen down back in your face away from your face. His fingers were gentle as they swept across your forehead, tucking strands behind your ear.

"How was that?" he asked softly, and his voice was a little rougher around the edges. He seemed nervous and worried. He was hoping he'd made it good for you.

Your eyes, which had been staring at his lips the entire time he was talking, finally lifted to meet his. It took effort to drag your gaze away from his mouth that had just been pressed against yours.

"Nice," you whispered, and the word felt inadequate for what you were actually feeling. "Really nice." You paused, and then a disbelieving sound escaped your lips. "I just had my first kiss."

You pressed your fingers to your own lips and a smile spread across your face.

He smiled back, and the relief that flooded his veins was visible. He'd given you your first kiss and he hadn't somehow ruined it or made it weird or disappointed you.

"Yeah, you did," he said and he watched you press your fingers to your lips with an expression of pure adoration. "Did you like it?"

You nodded, your fingers still resting against your mouth. "Yeah."

And then you looked at him, hesitating for just a moment. "Did you?" you asked nervously.

"Very much so, sweetheart," he mumbled, and the words came out slightly slurred with affection. He was already staring back at your lips. He couldn't help it. One kiss had not been nearly enough for him.

You were already thinking the same thing.

"Can we kiss more?" you asked, and your fingers were brushing through the curls at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft silver strands, making his eyelids droop with pleasure.

"Please," he mumbled, and he didn't bother to hide his desperation whatsoever.

He kissed you again, but this time when his mouth met yours, his lips captured your bottom one, drawing it gently between his own in a way that was decidedly more than the soft press of lips you'd experienced the first time. It was a proper kiss.

You pulled back, your eyes going wide. You stared at him, and he stared back at you with heavy lidded eyes, his lips still slightly parted from where they'd just been pressed against yours.

"You can do the same," he mumbled quietly, almost too lovesick to explain it further in detail.

You leaned back in, pressing your mouth to his, and this time you were the one who captured his bottom lip. It was a little clumsy, your inexperience showing in the way you fumbled slightly with the angle. But it was easy once you started doing it and nice. His lip was soft between yours and the way he responded to your effort made your stomach flip.

He hummed again. It was sweet to know that Jack Abbot hummed during kisses.

That went on for ages or maybe it just felt like ages. What you knew for certain was that you spent a long time in his lap, exchanging kisses that ranged from soft and sweet to something a little deeper. He tried to stop you for a second, pulling back just far enough to check in, but you shook your head.

You were having fun. He was right. He'd told you this was supposed to be fun, and he'd been right all along. Kissing Jack Abbot was the most fun you'd ever had in your entire life.

You pulled back after a while, absolutely shining. Your eyes were bright and your lips slightly swollen. You were undeniably happy and that made Jack's heart squeeze with happiness.

Jack was more dazed as he stared at you. His breathing was uneven and his hair was chaotic from where your fingers had been tangling in it, but he looked just as happy as you.

"You taste like vanilla," he mumbled as he licked his lips.

"My lip gloss is vanilla," you smiled, confirming the suspicion he'd had earlier when he'd first caught the scent of your perfume. Vanilla perfume and vanilla lip gloss. You were vanilla all the way through, sweet and warm and comforting, and he couldn't get enough of it.

"Tasty," he mumbled and that made you laugh. He looked pleased with himself at the sound.

Your hands let the soft strands of his hair slip through your fingers one more time, before moving around to the front. Your fingertips traced along his jawline, feeling his stubble. You brushed across his cheeks softly that was as soothing for you as it was for him.

Jack simply adored you with his big hazel eyes. His eyes tracked your face with love. Being adored by you was the best feeling he'd experienced in longer than he could remember.

You kept going for ages, but eventually he wrapped his fingers around yours and pulled them away from his face. "Careful," he mumbled. "You're about to get beard burn."

He glanced down at your fingertips, and sure enough, they were slightly red from all the attention you'd been giving his stubble. He shot you a disappointed look, as if it was your fault his beard was razor sharp.

But then he pressed a kiss to your fingers anyway. The gesture was so romantic, that it made you want to cry. He kissed each fingertip and you smiled the entire time.

It didn't stop you, though. The moment he dropped your fingers, you reached up again. You found his light freckles and started connecting them like constellations.

He let his eyes fall shut as your fingertips connected the dots on his skin, the vanilla from your kiss still lingering on his lips and he never wanted this moment to end.

[darksigns-exe]

a gentle kind of beast .✦ ݁˖ werewolf!nick folio x reader

warnings: werewolf au, mentions of injuries

word count: 3k

You’d been told time and time again that you shouldn’t venture too far outside the boundaries of your small town. That the woods that surrounded it were dangerous, that something terrible lingered between the trees. The caution that had been ingrained in your head from a young age on had kept you out of the woods.

What it didn’t do was keep the woods out of your life.

The first time you’d seen him was the day after a full moon. You’d been nursing your morning coffee when he had stumbled out of one of your blackberry bushes looking all sorts of messed up. For a moment, you thought that you had imagined it. Surely there hadn’t been a man sleeping in your bush.

A month later, you had seen him again. Except this time he hadn’t stumbled out of your bushes. No — instead you had found him leaning against the wall of your garden shed, bleeding heavily from his forehead.

You had learned that his name is Nick. Initially, he had told you that he’d simply gotten into a fight. You’d accepted the lie, not feeling like it was your place to question what this stranger told you. You had patched him up and made him a sandwich, insisting that he needed to eat something. That day, Nick had slipped out of your kitchen while you’d been out of the room for just a few minutes.

He’d returned almost exactly a month later.

Funnily enough, he’d been almost in the same shape too.

Once again, you had patched him up. Cleaning up his wounds while he told you about the scrap he got into this time. This time, he didn’t sneak out behind your back. Instead, he stayed for a little while, reluctantly eating the breakfast you presented him with. Watching him trying to keep his restraint up had been impossibly entertaining.

After that day, he had come around more frequently instead of just once every month. No matter how well you get to know him, you still don’t feel closer to figuring out why he keeps showing up all beaten up once a month. You’re sure that the injuries he shows up with keep getting worse. The fights he gets into seem to be getting worse, and you don’t know how this will end.

You have your suspicions of course. You’re not dumb. Him showing up like this after a full moon feels like a very obvious hint at his nature. Unless there’s secret fight club that only meets once a full moon, you’re inclined to believe that he’s one of them. You’ve heard the rumours about the lycanthropes that supposedly roam the forests around your town. You've always put them of as nothing more than rumours and folktales, but now that you're actually faced it, you’re forced to come to the realisation that perhaps it’s all true after all.

After almost a year you have the moon cycle marked in your calendar. And when the full moon rolls around you’re prepared to tend to his wounds. By now, Nick is a lot more relaxed. He’ll have his breakfast with you and on some days he’ll even have a nap in front of your fireplace.

To his disappointment the fireplace will be cold when he shows up this time. It’s the middle of July and summer has truly hit now. You’ll make sure that he has a comfortable spot to nap in nevertheless. The of the full moon always feels like it draws out for longer than normally. You can’t help but worry about Nick. Your mind keeps wandering, trying to imagine what kind of injuries he’ll show up with this time. Regardless of how bad it gets, you just can’t bring yourself to tell him not to come anymore. You’d rather have him come to you than deal with the aftermath on your own. At least that way, his wounds will be tended to properly.

Your sleep is restless that night.

You never sleep well during the full moon, but it feels so much worse tonight. You toss and turn all night, never quite finding satisfying rest. And when you wake in the morning, it feels as if you’ve barely slept at all.

As a first order of business, you drag yourself into the kitchen to get the coffee pot started. God knows you’ll need a lot of that today. So far, there’s no sight of Nick. Usually, he’ll already be seated on the porch, waiting for you to join him with a cup of coffee. You hope that he’s just late and that it’s nothing worse.

Once your coffee is ready, you pour yourself a cup and step out onto the porch.

It takes you a moment to spot the mass of black fur that is curled up on the outdoor sofa. What’s even more surprising, is that you seem to instinctively know that you’re looking at Nick. You don’t know why you’re so sure that it’s him — something about the figure just feels so very familiar. He doesn’t seem to notice your arrival. And even when you take a seat in the armchair next to him, his form remains entirely unmoved.

You’re sure that it’s been almost thirty minutes of you silently nursing your coffee before the wolf like creature finally begins to shift. As it begins to stretch and shift, you come to realise that he looks more like an oversized wolf dog than an actual wolf. The wolf lets out a hearty yawn, before it plops over onto its side. It’s face twists in a curious kind of surprise — as much as its possibly for a wolf to look surprised at least. You’re caught in this stalemate for a long moment, with neither of you sure of how to proceed with this. After a few seconds, you decide to reach out your hand for him. You move slowly, as if your approaching a dog you haven’t properly met yet, giving him room to retreat if necessary. But he doesn’t — and so you carefully let your fingers drift across the soft fur on the wolfs head. He leans into your touch, pressing his head against your palm.

“Nick?” you ask cautiously.

The wolfs head cocks to the side in response, indicating recognition.

“I’ll be honest this is a bit of a surprise.” You continue, “Probably should have known after you took a shower here and did that little shake dogs do when they’re wet.”

He lets out a little huff of protest and you can't help but laugh a little.

“Looks like this is really comfy for you, hm?”

Nick makes an affirmative noise.

“I planned breakfast for a guy not — a pup.” you say then, giving the fur on the top of his head a little ruffle, “I don’t know how this all works.”

You’re pretty sure that he frowns at you.

He lets out a little rumbling huff, before he leaps off the sofa. Nick trots off around the corner and out of your view. There’s an awful stretching sound from his direction. It almost sounds like something tearing and ripping. It only lasts for a few seconds, before you hear a deep sigh that sounds unmistakably like Nick.

“Could you hand me that blanket you have on that arm chair?” He calls from around the corner, “I’m a little — indecent at the moment.”

Your cheeks heat at his words. Your relationship has slowly moved into something beyond friendship but this is a leap forward you did not anticipate.

“Also I think your neighbour is looking at me.” He adds after a few seconds.

You shake yourself into action, before you can linger on the thought of him bare naked in your garden for too long. A moment later, Nick emerges from the little corner with the blanket wrapped around his waist. You’ve seen glimpses of the massive tattoo on his chest before. But this is the first time you can see it in all of its glory. The image of the eagle carrying what looks to be a trout covers almost his entire chest.

It’s gorgeous.

“I think I still have some stuff my brother left here. Should sort of fit you.” You say then, hoping that it’ll make your mind stop wandering.

“One of those weird ass raccoons dragged my stuff away while I was — usually they stay away from it but this one was looking for trouble.” He explains.

“Is that why you showed up like that?”

He nods, “Thought that would be less of a shock than naked guy on your porch without a warning.”

You have to give him that.

“I’ll explain everything. Trust me I didn’t want to jump this on you like that either.” He continues, “I was going to tell you eventually, but as you can imagine this isn’t something a lot of people take kindly to.”

Nick follows you into the kitchen, taking his now usual seat at your kitchen table.

“I had my suspicions to be honest.”

“What? Are you saying that a guy showing up all beat up after every full moon is suspicious?” He says with that little grin of his.

You feel the sudden urge to smack his shoulder.

“I never knew how to explain why I kept showing up like that. But you’ve always been so kind to me without any kind of judgement. Doesn’t happen very often.”

The idea that someone has met him with anything less than unconditional kindness makes your chest ache for him. Nick has been nothing but sweet and kind to you, and you can’t imagine treating him any differently.

“I couldn't imagine not helping someone in need like that. You were wounded, and it only made sense to help you.”

“And I’ll never forget that. You probably saved my life that day.” He says then, sounding somewhat solemn.

He lets out a sigh that says that he doesn’t want to go too much deeper into the topic. If it truly was as bad as he’d insinuated, you understand that he maybe doesn’t want to dwell on the memory.

Instead of digging deeper you make your way into your bedroom to dig out the clothes your brother had left behind during his last visit. You don’t know when he’ll make his way back here, so you’re not too concerned about it. As always, Nick asks you so sweetly if you’d mind it if he were to take a quick shower. And as ways, you tell him that he can take all the time he needs.

It’s a well practiced play by now.

Sometimes you wish that you could just break out of the lines you’ve rehearsed so diligently. But this feels safe — comfortable. You don’t know what you’d do if Nick would stop showing up one day, just because things had changed between you.

While Nick takes his shower, you start to work on the breakfast you’ll share. With how warm it’s been lately, you decide that it’d be nice to have breakfast out on the porch. Nick joins you just as you carry the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon outside. He doesn’t ask what needs to be done, instead he just picks up a couple of things and carries them outside alongside you.

Once you’ve set everything out, and you’ve poured both of you fresh cups of coffee you sit down next to Nick on the little outdoor sofa.

“I imagine you probably have a few questions?” He asks as you begin to dig in, “I don’t know how much I can actually answer but I’ll try.”

The list of questions in your head has grown spectacularly long within the last hour. Deciding where to start feels almost a little impossible.

“Just so we're both on the same side you’re a —”

“Werewolf.” He says with his mouth still full, “Lycanthrope. Whatever you wanna call it.”

The confirmation feels less daunting than you had imagined. Maybe you’ve always known somehow.

You nod, “Have you always been a — werewolf?”

Nick gives an affirmative hum.

“It’s a family thing. Big and complicated too. I don’t know which ancestor got himself into his pickle or how they managed it. All I know is that it's been in the family for a few generations. Back to my great grandfather for sure.” He explains.

“Are you close with your family?”

“Not really. I — haven’t seen them in a long time. I’m not too upset about it though. They left me behind because I didn’t grow fast enough for their liking. I was lucky enough to be found by a different pack before winter. They took me in and raised me. Wouldn’t want to imagine what things would be like if I had stayed with my family.”

“And the pack that raised you?” you ask.

“Greatest people I know. They went out of their way to take me in. They didn’t need to take care of me the way they did.” he continues to explain, “I’m glad that they were the ones who ended up raising me.”

“I think you turned out great.”

Nick gives you the brightest smile in response, “I think so too. I think I’d like you to meet them at some point — if that’s something you want.”

You feel caught for a moment, unsure where that particular step will lead you. Despite the insecurity that bubbles up in your chest you return his smile.

You’ve always felt safe around Nick. And even now that you know about his true nature you don’t feel scared or worried.

He puts down his cup of coffee, “Doesn’t have to happen soon and of course if you don’t want it that’s okay too.”

“I’d love to.” You finally reply, “Feels awfully like meeting the parents of your —”

His cheeks flush so brightly, “It does, doesn’t it?”

You sit in silence for a moment, the unspoken words simmering between you. The silence grows almost unbearably thick. Nick’s restless shifting is what finally gives you the push you needed to break it. It doesn’t take an expert in bodylanguage to know that there’s something he wants to say. One of you will have to take the plunge and it looks like it’ll have to be you.

“Would you want that?” you ask cautiously, ever worried that it’s all something you’ve imagined.

His eyes remain fixed on the edge of the table, forehead twisted into a frown you haven’t seen from him before.

“I don’t want to pull you into my mess. I’m already putting you into danger by spending so much time here.” he says quietly.

You feel a cold shiver running down your back, “What do you mean?”

“There are other things in these woods. Not nice things. Things that don’t like me and my kind and our pack. They’ve been trying to push us out and me being here has put a target on your back. I’m worried that they’ll try to do something to you to provoke me.”

"Do you really think that’s going to change something?”

He finally looks at you then, but his expression is still so very hard to read.

“That’s not going to stop me from helping you and it won’t change how I feel.” you say softly, “I’ve come to care a great deal for you and some woodland critter is not going to change that.”

He lets out a chortling laugh, “Don’t let the pixies hear that. They don’t love being grouped in with those things.”

You place your hand on top of his and Nick quickly laces your fingers together.

“You’ll have to explain all of this to me at some point.” you say, fixing him with a serious look.

Nick gives a quick nod.

“I will. In time. I’ll try my best to explain everything.” he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before he speaks again, “But now I would like to enjoy this morning with you.”

You can’t say no to him when he looks at you with those warm and kind eyes.

The morning continues to meander along without any disturbances. Things with Nick have always felt easy, but now that you’ve crossed this hurdle you feel so much more uninhibited. You’d agreed to take it slow, but it’s so terribly hard to keep your hands off him. You’ll respect his wish to wait of course, but in the meantime Nick seems to be more than happy with how affectionate you are with him.

You spent a good chunk of the day lazing around in the sun, simply enjoying each other company and this new found connection you have.

After lunch, Nick finally lets him drive you back to his place. So far, he’s always insisted on walking the distance, always finding some kind of reason why you shouldn’t drive him.

His little cabin sits at what you learn is the edge of a larger plot of land that you assume is own by his pack. It’s a comfy little place, the perfect kind of rustic.

You don’t stay for long, sensing that he needs to have a little time for himself and probably a good nights sleep.

“I’ll come around tomorrow, okay?” he says as you walk back to your car, “I’ll try to have some better answers for you by then too.”

“Don’t rush it. Maybe instead of devulging folkore secrets we could go to the diner and get something to eat?”

Nicks face softens at your words before he breaks into that pretty smile of his, “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“And what if I am?”

“If you are, I’m gonna say yes.”

“Good.” You reply with a smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nick captures your hand before you can step away from him.

“I’m glad we figured this out.” He says with a low voice, “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, “I’m glad that you stumbled into my garden.”

taglist: @lacy1986 @worldofashton @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @theanarchymuse95 @fadingangelwisp @sorrowsofsilence @ladyveronikawrites @ami-gami @malice-ov-mercy @super-btstrash-posts @tosoundlessdarkistare @dominuslunae @ferduttini @pipidoll @collapsedglasshouses @concretejunglefm @sallyba3 @sleepycactus-offering @mid-omens @buttercupbabyyy @itsfarbettertolearn @nefugus @branika182 @sleepycactus-omens @r3prise

[blueberrylily18]

Infected Part Three

Read Part One here

Read Part Two here

Pairing: Jack Abbot x You

Summary: Part three of infected. In which you and Jack exchange stories while in quarantine. Lots of fun bantering ensues, and you find yourself falling for your attending.

Note: this fic is told in x reader fashion but you do have a backstory and a last name (Reid). So my reader is kind of an OC. Your backstory is that you were a sick child with a heart condition who spent a lot of time in hospital. You have a scar on your chest, and your dad left you as a child.

Word count: 6376

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, as you’d turned your back to the clock on the wall. You knew that if you watched it, the time would only go slower.

But it had been long enough for the room to settle into something quiet, an easy silence stretching between the two of you. Jack had turned the lights off long ago, waggling his eyebrows with an offhand remark about how he looked better in the dark. You’d only rolled your eyes, but appreciated that he’d noticed the light bothering you nonetheless.

The door blocked off the sounds of the hall, leaving you even calmer, no longer able to hear shouts and orders of the hospital staff.

You were now sitting cross legged on your bed, back against the wall, picking absent mindedly at a loose thread in your hospital blanket. Your head still ached, but it wasn’t so bad now, the quiet and dim room providing some relief.

The curtain between you and Jack was wide open. You hadn’t been able to come up with a good reason to close it, and Jack hadn’t seemed to want to close it. And it wasn’t like the curtain would provide much separation anyway. It was paper thin and short.

Across from you, Jack sat in his own bed, one of his legs stretched out, the other crossed over his ankle. It seemed like the lighting and quiet of the room had also done a number on him. He seemed different now. Quieter. You supposed he was tired.

You just watched him for a moment, admiring the lines and shadows on his handsome face. You noticed a slight bit of silver stubble on his jaw and smiled at the sight. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper in this lighting, and you could make out a slight dimple in his cheek.

Okay, so maybe you’d watched him for a second longer than was strictly necessary.

His green gaze flicked up to yours, and you looked away quickly, your face burning at being caught.

“You know you really should take a picture. It’ll last longer.” He smirked.

“I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You snarked, face flaming at being caught.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind posing for you. Though, I should warn you, I do photograph best nude. Really captures my essence.” He grinned, that dimple appearing.

You barked out a laugh at that, unable to help the noise.

“What?” He asked, suddenly sounding self conscious.

You continued to laugh, covering your face with your hands. “No- no- it’s nothing. It’s just-”

“It’s what?” You practically feel his confusion.

“It just-” you could barely get the words out, “it just reminds me of something Trinity told me. About you and-” you gestured vaguely at him, “Yoga.” You finished.

He furrowed his brows. “Yoga?”

A final giggle escaped you as you nodded.

You remembered a conversation you’d had with Trinity when she’d stayed over, drunk as a skunk, talking about how Robby had once made a joke to her about Abbot doing nude yoga. You didn’t know whether her heavily intoxicated mind had made that up, or if Robby had been joking, or if he’d been serious. Either way, you were now currently picturing Jack Abbot doing the downward dog, completely nude at sunrise.

Then a look of realization passed over his face. “Robby.” He breathed.

You bit your lip to hide your smile.

“So, is it true? Do you really do nude yoga at sunrise?” You asked with a shit eating grin.

“I guess you’ll just have to come over one day and see for yourself.” He murmured, and your stomach fluttered at his words.

You sputtered. “That’s not an answer!”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not.”

“Aren’t some things best left to the imagination?” He asked, grinning.

“Not what I’m imagining.” You pretended to shudder.

He chuckled softly, and the noise did things to your insides.

“You’re seriously not going to tell me?” You asked after a moment.

“Nope. What can I say? I’m a man of great mystery.” His grin was wide.

You shook your head softly. “Great annoyance maybe. Great arrogance definitely. Great pain in my-” you muttered under your breath.

“Hey! You weren’t exactly calling me a pain earlier.” He interjected.

You choked on a breath as the memory of his tongue between your legs hit you. He had a point.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, smirking.

You rolled your eyes at him once again, going back to picking at your blanket, heat creeping up your neck.

Silence settled over the two of you, and you could feel him watching you. Then you felt his gaze shift to your hands, to your restless fingertips as they plucked a loose thread.

“You always this bad at sitting still?” He asked.

“I am sitting still.” You answered, moving your leg up now to rest beneath you, proving his point.

“You keep picking at that blanket.” He noted.

“That’s because this blanket has loose threads. It’s horrible.”

“It’s a hospital bed.” He said, raising a brow at your tone.

“Yeah, and I hate it.” Your tone was firmer.

You weren’t lying. You did hate hospital beds. You’d hated every single one you’d had to ever be in with a burning passion. You’d hated the thin mattresses, the lumpy pillows, the horrible blankets. You hated all of it. You’d especially hated the feeling of being terrified and helpless. Feeling small and weak.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and it prompted you to look over at him, noting the way he was rubbing his right knee. His pant leg had ridden up, revealing a flash of silver on his shin. He was rubbing the leg with the prosthetic. It must be hurting him. He’d been on it all night, and probably hadn’t had a chance to rest since god knows when. You suddenly felt a pang of guilt.

He’d been hurting, and you’d been so worried about yourself you hadn’t even thought of him. You hadn’t been thinking about how he was feeling with all of this, only how terrified you were. You’d been so selfish. So worried about your immune system and how it could affect you. And then you let him get down on his knees. God, you were so awful. You’d let him.

You suddenly felt sick.

“Is your leg bothering you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Then you winced, thinking better of it. “Sorry. That’s- that’s none of my business.”

Jack didn’t respond at first, and you looked back over at him. He wasn’t looking at you, no, he was watching a faraway spot ahead of him. Like he wasn’t in the room anymore.

For a second, you thought he would make a joke, or brush it off, or even ignore you. But he startled you when he gave you an honest answer.

“The room’s kinda cold. The cold- it makes it worse sometimes.”

You blinked in shock. You hadn’t been expecting that.

You nodded, even though he wasn’t watching you.

A beat of tense silence passed.

Then his hand rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous way.

“Just an- an old injury.” He sounded almost self conscious, and your heart melted.

“I figured.” You said softly.

He glanced at you, and something flickered in his eyes.

“You know what happened?” He asked.

You hesitated. You didn’t, but you wanted to know, intrusive as that sounded. You sure as hell didn't like people asking about your own scars.

Would he- would he tell you?

“No. No one told me how it…happened.” You shook your head.

The silence stretched. You didn’t add anything, didn’t push, didn’t ask. You would let him tell you in his own time.

He let out a sigh after another moment, like he was gathering up the courage to tell you.

“It happened back in Kandahar. Field tent. Mass casualty.” He said eventually, his eyes becoming distant.

Your fingers stilled against the blanket.

“Someone set off an IED. some homemade bomb. Brought in ten guys all at once. It was a busy night.” He shrugged, like he was talking about a shift here, not a war tent in a foreign country.

Your heart stuttered, and you remained silent as he continued to speak.

“Big piece of shrapnel got caught in my leg. And it’s funny- I didn’t even feel it at first. Adrenaline's such a crazy thing.”

You swallowed. You didn’t think it was such a funny thing.

He still wasn’t looking at you, his eyes faraway.

“I should’ve left. Evac window was doable. I could have made it.” He added.

But he didn’t. You knew it. He didn’t need to say it.

You continued to listen in horror.

“Didn’t seem like the right call at the time.” A muscle ticked in his jaw as he spoke.

“But you stayed.” You whispered.

He heard you all the same. “Yeah.”

“I- I kept working. I couldn’t stop. Stopping would mean- would mean some of my men would die and I…” his voice trailed off.

Your chest felt tight.

He cleared his throat.

“Anyway. By the time I couldn’t ignore it anymore, the damage was done.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of Jack, his leg a bloody mess, attending to his patients in a war tent, ignoring his own pain. And suddenly, you felt something inside you flicker to life. It was more than desire. More than longing. But you pushed the thought deep down.

You glanced down at his leg, as if you could still see the blood, then back up to his face.

“They couldn’t do anything for it?” You asked.

He shook his head. “No. But I managed to save all of my patients that day. If I’d- if I’d left them when I could have, I would have saved my leg, but at least half of my men would have…” he trailed off again.

“Died?” You finished for him.

He nodded once.

You didn’t know what to say to that. To that courage. To that sacrifice.

You couldn’t believe he’d shared something like this with you. He was never this…vulnerable and open. He was always sarcastic and teasing, and to see him like this… It chipped away at something inside you.

“If you could, would you change it? Sacrifice your patients for your leg- I mean.” Your question was out before you could stop it.

He looked up at you, his burning gaze on you.

His response caught you off guard.

“If our patient turns out to have meningococcal, and we find out he gave it to us, will you regret saving his life and wish you got out of there sooner?” He asked, deflecting.

You hesitated for a moment. You knew that whatever you said next was important, and would change how he saw you forever. This moment felt fragile, like the wrong answer would break what little connection you had with him permanently and irrevocably.

The answer was simple though. There was only one answer in your heart.

“No.” You said simply. “I’ll never regret saving a life. No matter what it costs me.” You added, lifting your chin.

He nodded, something like approval in his eyes, and you knew you had passed whatever silent test he had given you.

He tapped his leg, knocking his knuckles on the steel.

“I don’t regret it. Never have. Not for one moment.” He told you.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I have other regrets though.” He said after a while, his expression once again far away.

You knew what he was talking about before he even spoke.

His wife.

“Lost her and my leg in the same year.” He added quietly.

Your breath hitched.

You looked at his bare left hand. He’d taken his ring off in front of you. It felt like years ago, when it had only been weeks since he’d taken that ring off on the rooftop.

He’d told you that you made it easier to forget her.

Your heart broke for the man. The sheer amount of pain he must carry…

You felt nauseous. Your fingers curled in the blanket.

You remembered what Robby had told you about her.

Car crash. Black ice. Jack had worked on her. She had been awake when she’d come in, but she’d also been a mess, and Jack hadn’t been able to save her. And he felt responsible for her death.

“Jack.” You breathed.

You didn’t know what else to say. You didn’t know how to comfort him, how to make this all better. You couldn’t. There was nothing you could do. All you could do was listen, and remind him it wasn’t his fault.

You reached a hand over, your beds close enough to, and rested a hand on top of his left one.

“I’m so sorry-” You whispered.

He shook his head, swallowing loudly, and cut you off.

“Don’t. Don’t do the whole sympathy thing. You hate it just as much as me.”

“I wasn’t-” you protested.

You squeezed his hand.

“I know you weren’t trying to. Just…don’t. Please.” You’d never heard him use that word, and it stunned you.

You blinked in shock.

You just nodded, and forced your mouth into a thin line.

A longer silence settled between you then. You felt off balance now. He’d shared something so incredibly personal and intimate, and you felt like it was your turn to share. The only thing is, you didn’t know how. You knew that if you opened up, you would stutter, your voice would do that little thing it always did right before you were about to cry, and you knew you would be exposing yourself to him.

You drew your hand back, going back to fidgeting.

But hadn’t he done the same for you? Cracked himself open, letting you see his soft underbelly by baring his deepest vulnerabilities.

You looked over, noting that now he was twisting his own blanket uncomfortably, as if he too, felt awkward and unbalanced.

You knew it would be messy, and hard, but you also knew you had to try.

That was all he could ask of you. To try.

That was why you said what you did.

“I hate hospitals.” You said, shifting so that you were now sitting upright, your back against the wall.

That got his attention, and he turned to you. “They’re no six flags.” He forced a half grin.

A small half smile graced your face for a moment too, but it was gone when you spoke again. “I mean it though. I really hate them.”

“And yet, you chose to work in one.” He gestured vaguely around the room with a hand.

“I know.” You breathed.

A beat of silence passed before you continued.

“I grew up in them.”

His expression shifted slightly.

“You did?”

You nodded, your eyes dropping back to your hand where it picked at your blanket.

“Spent more time in hospital beds than my own for a while.” You admitted quietly.

Your tone was light as you forced it to stay steady. “I got used to it after a while. The loneliness.” You forced another smile onto your face.

That was the one recurring theme that had stuck with you your whole life. Loneliness. You’d never been able to shake it. Even when you were surrounded by people, you still felt alone. Even when you were in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses, by your sister and your mom, by therapists and school friends alike, you felt like no one had ever really seen you. And everyone had always left before they got the chance to ever really know you.

Like your dad.

You were smiling, but Jack was not.

“Reid.”

You shrugged.

“I was seven when I was diagnosed.” You murmured. Your fingers continued to toy with your blanket, not meeting his eyes.

“I had surgery after surgery. Then there was infection after infection. My dad… he couldn’t take it anymore. He left a few months after I was diagnosed. Haven't seen him since. No matter what I did, there was always some complication. Always seemed to end up back in the hospital for some reason or another.” You added. “Nearly killed me.”

His face changed again, something akin to horror gracing his beautiful features. His face was pale and bloodless.

“You almost died?” He asked, his voice low.

You hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“Twice. One time I actually flatlined. I was nine.”

Silence.

Absolute deafening, awful, silence fell over the two of you.

You finally looked back at him, finding that his eyes were on you.

“I hated it. Being the patient. Not knowing what was happening. Having everyone look at you like…” your words trailed off.

“Like you might not make it?” He finished for you.

You nodded, swallowing, so glad that he wasn’t making you finish that sentence. And suddenly, you felt so relieved to get this off your chest. You had exposed yourself to him, and he wasn’t judging you, wasn’t pitying you. He just…let you get it out.

You continued.

“So I figured, if I was going to be stuck in hospitals anyway, I might as well be on the other side of it. Be the healer, not the one who needs healing. It’s less scary that way.”

Your throat tightened.

“Lot of good that’s done me.” You joked, making fun of your current predicament, but it fell flat as you looked around the room.

“Look at me, back in the one place I tried my whole life to escape.” You added to fill the crushing silence.

Jack just watched you, his gaze heavy.

“Cardio?” He asked simply.

“What?”

“You’re aiming for cardio, aren’t you?”

You nodded. “I would love to specialize in paediatric cardiothoracics, but I feel like that’s a little ambitious.” Your tone was more even now as you thought about the future instead of the past.

“You could do it.” He whispered.

“You think so?”

“I know so. You’ll be amazing at it. You’re smart, you’re caring, you’re calming. And you’re easy to talk to. The kids will love you. Parents will too.” Your heart swelled ten times its size at his complements.

You didn’t know how to take them. It was too much. Too many.

You were quiet for a moment.

“Just take the compliment, Reid.” He said, sensing your hesitation.

“Thank you.” You nodded once, not meeting his eyes as you felt your eyes fill with tears.

He hadn’t pitied you. He hadn’t apologized. He hadn’t felt sorry for you or given you sympathy.

You were just two souls sharing your pain with one another.

Then another silence settled between the two of you. But this time it was much more comfortable. Like you were both exhausted after revealing these vulnerabilities to each other. It had taken it out of you, and you now felt raw and exposed.

You shifted in your bed, this time laying on your back. You stopped fidgeting, stopped moving, just rolling over to lay on your side so that you were now facing Jack. He did the same in his own bed. Now you were both opposite each other. Both facing each other. Both watching.

You didn't say anything. There was nothing either of you could say to make it better. All you could do was just see each other. To be in each other's company.

And for once- for once- you didn’t feel so crushingly alone.

Because you’d found someone who truly saw you.

And didn’t run.

————

Time continued to pass in a strange way. Here, in the room with Jack, it felt like you were disconnected from reality. It was like you were in this little bubble with him, where there were no screaming patients, no gossiping nurses, and no one else. It was just you and him.

Neither of you moved for a long while, just content to watch each other.

Jack had curled slightly as he laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head.

You didn’t know whether it was the bed, your position, your lack of sleep this past week, or the dim lighting, but you felt your eyelids growing heavy.

For the first time today, you finally felt tired. Maybe a part of you felt safe enough to entertain the idea of sleeping in here, where it was cool and dark.

Your headache was fading slowly, the sharpness of the pain alleviating, and you fought the droop of your eyelids. You didn’t want to sleep. Robby could be back anytime with new information, and you wanted to be awake to hear it the second your results were back, and you just knew Jack wouldn’t wake you, so you had to keep yourself awake.

So, instead of sleeping, you began to recite the fifty states of America, along with their capitals, in alphabetical order in an attempt to stay awake. You’d made it to Nebraska, and was struggling to remember the capital, when Jack interrupted your train of thought.

“Why are you thinking so hard?” He asked, his thin mattress squeaking as he shifted.

“Am I not allowed to think?” You raised a brow.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Besides, what are you thinking so hard about anyway?” He sounded genuinely curious now, moving to now rest his head on his elbow.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” You said childishly.

“Ouch.”

You let out a slight giggle.

“C’mon, you’re seriously not going to tell me?” He prompted.

You considered him a moment, feeling slightly embarrassed at your trailing thoughts.

“What’s the capital of Nebraska?” You asked.

He blinked in shock. “What?”

“That’s what I was thinking about.” You told him.

“You’re alone in a small room with me, we’re in the dark, we could have a deadly disease and are waiting on possibly life changing test results, and you’re seriously worried about the capital of Nebraska?” He didn’t sound judgemental, just curious.

Your face flushed, and you prayed the light was dim enough that he didn’t see it.

“Yeah?” You answered shyly.

He huffed a laugh, covering his face with a hand. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Do you know the capital or not? It’s really bugging me.” Your tone was deadly serious, and that made him laugh harder.

He laughed for another moment, his belly moving with the sound, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him happy.

He was a man who had experienced such loss and suffering in his life, with losing both his wife and his leg, but he still managed to smile and laugh. You admired him for it. It took strength to continue to choose happiness and to have hope even after such unimaginable loss.

After his chuckles subsided, he finally put you out of your misery. “I think it's Lincoln. Why?”

“Ah hah!” You slapped your palm against your forehead. “Lincoln! How could I forget!”

He furrowed his brows. “Do I get to know why you desperately needed to know that? Are you planning a getaway as soon as we get discharged from here, or do you just enjoy random bits of trivia?”

“Can’t it be both?” You deflected.

He grinned, picking up on your need for more banter, more distraction and teasing. And you knew he needed it just as much as you did if the look in his eye was any indication.

“Oh? Do I get to join you on your impromptu getaway to Lincoln?” He asked, grinning.

“Why would you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that we’re in this whole mess together, and I also could use some time away?” He shot back.

“And? Don’t you think we’ve had enough time together?” You teased.

“Never.” His one word answer had butterflies erupting in your stomach.

A beat of silence passed.

“Come on, you’re seriously not sick of me yet?” You asked, propping your own head on your hand.

“Nope.” He popped the p.

“Give it time.” Your tone was light, but you were serious. Everyone left you eventually, growing tired of your company sooner or later.

“Not enough time in the world.” He said just as lightly, and your heart stuttered. “Don’t tell me you’re already sick of me, Reid?” He added playfully.

The retort came quickly to your tongue, and you stopped yourself the second before it came out. Usually, you would give some sharp retort, some snappy and rude remark that was pure sarcasm, but after what you’d shared and how he’d treated you, after his kind words and gentle hands, you found yourself wanting to be honest. You hesitated before you answered, biting your lip nervously.

“No. No, I’m not sick of you, Jack. I don’t think I could ever be sick of you.” You said quietly, flicking your eyes back to your hands.

He was silent for a second, clearly not expecting your response. Like he was taken aback by your honesty.

“Maybe my trip to Lincoln could be for two. That is- if we ever get out of this place.” You added, sighing as you looked around the room.

“We’ll get out of here. Trust me.” He said, drawing your eyes back to his face.

You just nodded, a tight lipped smile crossing your face. You went back to reciting the states and capitals, needing to take your mind off your reason for being in here.

The room fell quiet again before he finally glanced towards the clock on the wall behind you.

“You wanna place bets on how long bloodwork’s gonna take? When the lab’s backed up like this it could be hours. Could be fun.” He suggested after a while.

You groaned. You’d just made it to Texas, momentarily distracting yourself. “I had just forgotten about what we were in here for! How dare you break my concentration! Now you’re never going to come with me to Lincoln.” You yelled in joking seriousness.

“Dang it! And I’ve always wanted to go to Nebraska too.” He teased, his eyes dancing.

You snorted softly at his sarcasm, shaking your head. “You’re such an idiot.”

“And yet, you’re still inviting me on your Nebraska road trip.” He pointed at you, smirking.

“I never said you specifically could come! I said my trip might be for two.”

“Can I come on your trip?” He asked with a grin.

“Are you serious?” You retorted.

“Well, you didn’t say no.” He smiled like a cat toying with his meal.

“Okay, well I’m saying no now. How’s that?” You narrowed your eyes as you spoke.

“Too late. I already booked the time off work and got a house sitter. We’re going.” He quipped.

“You’re ridiculous.” You rolled your eyes, smiling the whole time.

“Hey, missy, that kind of talk will not slide when we’re on our road trip.” He said, pointing a joking finger at you and using a fake stern tone that made you giggle.

“I’m so leaving you in Iowa.” You sighed.

“So you admit I’m joining you on this road trip!”

“Only you would take me telling you that I’m going to abandon you on the side of the road in Iowa as a good thing.” You were both grinning ear to ear now as you teased each other.

“I gotta take the wins where I can get them, sweetheart. Besides, I’m sure the trip to Iowa will be lovely.” He winked at you. He fucking winked, and you felt your face warm.

You shook your head, rolling yourself onto your back, covering your face with a hand. You split your fingers slightly, glancing at Jack through your slitted fingers. He wasn’t glancing at you, but at the clock behind you.

“Hey! Don’t watch the clock! It’ll only make the time go slower!” You shouted, pointing at him accusingly.

“What? It’s not like me looking is going to affect your own perception of time.” He defended.

“Yes it will!” You shot back.

“Please, Reid, tell me how me looking at a clock is going to make your time go slower- time, which quite famously cannot slow.” He arched a silver brow.

“I- I-” you sputtered, and he waited for you expectantly.

“Well?” He asked.

“You’re- you’re not even making it to Iowa. I’m ditching you before we even leave Pittsburgh!” You stammered indignantly.

He just chuckled in response.

You couldn’t help but join in, a small chuckle escaping you too.

His eyes flicked towards you at the sound, something in his expression softening slightly.

The room once again quieted as your giggles subsided.

“You look less pale.” He said after a moment.

“Oh. That’s…good.” You didn’t know what to say to that.

He opened his mouth, presumably to make another stupid comment, when a knock sounded on the door.

Your chest tightened, and you looked at Jack, to see his expression had shifted too.

“Come in.” You called, forcing your voice to steady, needing to get this over with.

The door opened a second later, and Robby stepped inside. He had on a gown and gloves, and a mask covered the bottom half of his face.

From what you could see of his face, he looked tired. There were dark circles around his eyes and his hair was slightly on end. His eyes flicked to you, assessing you. You quickly sat up in bed, Jack doing the same.

“Good afternoon you two.” He greeted.

“It’s afternoon?" You said, gaze flicking to Jack, dumbfounded.

“Doesn’t hurt to check the clock every once in a while now, does it?” Jack threw you a shit eating grin.

You just flipped him off.

Robby just looked between the two of you, slightly confused.

“How are you feeling?” Robby asked you first, moving closer to you.

“Much better.” You admitted.

“The dizziness?” He asked, rolling a chair over to sit in front of you.

“I was barely even dizzy in the first place. I don’t know why you guys are making such a big deal out of this. Jack was exposed too, you know.”

Robby just gave you a flat look, and Jack made a quiet sound from the other bed.

Jack gave a very pointed look to your pants. Your face flamed.

You immediately narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t.” you warned him.

Robby looked back and forth between the two of you. “Don’t what?”

“Nothing.” You answered quickly.

Jack tried and failed to suppress a smile.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing something?” Robby asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Because you missed something.” Jack answered him.

“Don’t you dare start.” You warned seriously.

“I’m not starting anything,” he replied coolly.

“You absolutely are.” You snapped.

“I’ve just had a three vehicle pile up this morning. I do not have the energy for whatever this is. Reid, how dizzy were you earlier? We need to know so we can compare it to now to monitor improvement. We need to know if your symptoms are advancing.” Robby said, sighing as he rubbed his tired eyes.

You hesitated.

“She got really dizzy changing back into her scrubs earlier.” Jack reported.

Your head whipped towards him. “Jack!”

“What? You did!”

“You promised you would say anything!”

“I promised I wouldn’t explain how your pants mysteriously reappeared. Very different promise.” He stated calmly.

“I’m going to snap your pinky like a twig!” You yelled, now fuming.

He quickly hid his hands behind his back as you stood.

“Hey now, let’s not get hasty-” he began.

“You sneaky little-” you cut him off, yelling as Robby put a hand on your shoulder.

Robby’s hand on your shoulder pushed you down slightly, forcing you to sit back on the bed. The hand was gentle but firm.

“There’s so much to unpack here that I’m not even going to start. Jack, how dizzy was she?” Robby turned to the other man now.

“She got lightheaded I think. She nearly fell flat on her face multiple times.” Jack reported diligently.

“I did not nearly fall over.” You lied.

“She also walked into a wall on the way here.” He added.

“That wall came out of nowhere!”

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Jack, I’m getting the picture. Reid, how are you now?”

You stood again, steady on your feet. The wave of dizziness you were expecting never came.

“Never better.” You said simply, shooting a look in Jack's direction, telling him you were not done with him and he was going to pay for snitching.

Robby gave you a disbelieving look but nodded.

“So I would say you’ve had a significant improvement in your symptoms then.” Robby said, moving to your chart to jot down his observations.

While he wrote, you glared at Jack. He only smirked right back, his handsome face contorted by the lines around his eyes.

“Jack, any symptoms to report? Robby asked without even a glance in his direction.

“None yet, boss. I'll keep you updated though.”

“Im sure you will.” Robby replied dryly, his pen scribbling.

‘I’m going to kill you’ you mouthed silently to Jack. He only waved his fingers at you in response, his pinkies in particular.

“Okay. I should give you guys an update before the two of you derail me completely.” Robby said, drawing your attention back to him.

And just like that, it felt like a bucket of ice water poured over you. It was like the humor that had been in the room, the banter and joking, was suddenly leeched away. Jack stilled as your heartbeat sped up.

“The preliminary results came back on your patient.” Robby told you, looking between the two of you.

You straightened your spine, taking in a breath.

“And?” Jack asked.

“It’s not meningococcal.”

Robby's words repeated themselves in your head, over and over, and your breath whooshed out of you. Your entire body went weak with relief, and you suddenly felt lightheaded.

“Thank fuck.” Jack breathed.

Robby nodded, then continued. “Looks viral. Most likely viral meningitis or another infection. The rash threw everyone initially, but cultures aren’t indicating bacterial.”

Not meningococcal.

Not bacterial.

Not the one thing that had been weighing heavy on you all day.

It wasn’t the worst case scenario.

You weren't out of the woods yet- a viral infection could still debilitate you- but it might not be as lethal. It could still make you horribly ill, but your chances of surviving were a lot higher.

You pressed a hand against your chest, trying to calm your breathing.

Jack noticed immediately, and his hand reached across the small gap between your beds before you even realized he was moving. His warm fingers wrapped around your hand. The touch was grounding, yet also comforting.

“You okay?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah. I just-” you nodded, your voice cracking, “I just really thought we were screwed.” You laughed in a nervous way.

Jack’s thumb gently rubbed the back of your hand. “Hey. It’s going to be okay.” His words were soft, like Robby wasn’t sitting right beside him.

But your eyes were on Jack, even though you could feel Robby's gaze on you, on your face, your hands, Jack's face. Like he was puzzling it out.

Robby cleared his throat after a moment. “You both have to stay here overnight though. Viral meningitis can still become serious if your symptoms progress.” Robby's tone was sharp. Clinical.

You gaped, and Jack nodded.

“Overnight?” You asked slowly, drawing the word out.

“Yeah. Is that a problem?” Robby looked you over.

“Not for me.” Jack interjected.

“You mean, I have to stay here all night…with him?” You indicated to Jack, only looking at Robby now.

“Yeah, that's what I meant, but if you have a problem, I'm sure we can organize other sleeping arrangements?” Robby pointedly looked at your small beds.

You looked at Robby, then the beds, then Jack. Arrogant, annoying, snarky Jack Abbot. His lips were set in a firm line, and his green eyes were confident, but you could see beneath that confidence. He was trying to play it cool, and you knew your answer would either boost his ego or kill him. You could see the man beneath the false bravado, beneath the mask of arrogance. You could see the man that hid behind sarcastic remarks and flirty comments.

Because beneath it all, this was the same man who had saved a dozen men in a tent in Kandahar while he was bleeding out. This was the man who had worked on his dying wife, who felt responsible for her death. The very same man who had given you his own car keys to escape a bad date, who had comforted you and held your hand when you were frozen with terror at the idea that you could be infected, who had helped you put your pants on without judgement. You couldn’t imagine going to another room, with a cold bed and an even colder atmosphere. You didn’t want to be alone. Not again.

It seemed like the room was silent for a moment, the two men waiting patiently for your answer of where you would be staying for the night.

You knew your answer before you spoke the words. You sucked in a breath, then spoke, trying to shake off the urge to make a snarky comment. No. Now was not the time for wit or sarcasm. Now was the time for honesty, and if you had to be honest with yourself, then you also had to be honest with them.

“No.” You answered. “No, that's okay. I don’t mind staying here for the night. With-with Jack.”

————————-

Tags (people who commented on part two wanting more! <3) @abbotslefttit @emma8895eb @bluelemonbirdie @branika182 @wandamaxim0f

[utterlyvanya]

Barbie Doll

Paring: Jack abbott x nurse!reader

Wc: 2.7k

Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.

Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)

Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics — the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.

“I kind of want to get shitfaced.”

Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.

His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone. 

“What about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?” Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.

Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating — and pining for a lot longer than that — he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.

You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. “Uh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake ‘your computer is down’ screen on Shen's laptop,” you tell proudly. 

“Dear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from your…prank?” Jack's voice caught on the word “prank” as if it deeply amused him.

You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front — a tiny whine left your lips.

Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. “You know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?”

His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. “Okay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.”

You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. “I want to know what it's like. It makes everyone so…” your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself. 

“Joyful,” you finished.

“Okay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,” he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.

“I would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.”

He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, “Brat.”

You grin widely, “You'll be there, right?”

“With a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,” he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.

Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. “What did I tell you before leaving?” His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.

You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets — you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.

You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, “Mine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.” And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were. 

“That Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-”

“The other one, honey.”

You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.

“That I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?” you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.

Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.

“But I had my ID and pepper spray in there,” you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.

Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, “ID,” his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. “And you don't need pepper spray. You have me.”

But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.

His fingers snap in front of you, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.

“Why haven't we fucked?” You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesn’t make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.

Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. “Wow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.”

You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. “Answer me.”

As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. “I'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,”

You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. “Like hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.”

Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.

“Because we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. And…it's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And me…well, I'm not what I used to be.”

Your eyes soften, “But do you want me?” Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.

Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, “What do you think, baby?” his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.

You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.

“I see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.” His throat catches at the ‘doctor’. Oh, you are not a fair player.

“Well, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.” His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.

A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. “But-”

“No buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.” The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.

The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, “Louder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.”

Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.

“Kids and their hormones,” he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.

“Is that so, grandpa?” Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.

His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, “Careful, brat.” His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.

Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.

Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft “uh-uh” leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.

“You're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.”

“You are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,” it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.

His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.

“I am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.”

You look at him, as if to say “so?” and hearing the adoration — despite the choice of words — in your voice completely decentres him. “Glad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.”

He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.

A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.

“Let me help you, doctor. Please” you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.

A pause.

He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.

“You are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.”

“Speaking of horny and my ass-”

He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. “Nope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, “together?”

“No, you pervert.” Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.

Show-off.

So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Rey's mind.

Jack doesn’t stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.

He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.

“How am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?”

“Jesus,” he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.

He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, “Shower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?”

Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?

“Sir, yes, sir.” You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.

Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.

You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.

He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.

He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur.

“One second, honey.” Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.

“There you are,” he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.

“You didn't like the freaky me?” You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after. 

“I like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.” His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.

You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. “Can we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?”

Your boyfriend murmurs a “yes, baby,” against your forehead. 

“Okay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.”

“Shut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.”

If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?

[utterlyvanya]

Barbie Doll

Paring: Jack abbott x nurse!reader

Wc: 2.7k

Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.

Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)

Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics — the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.

“I kind of want to get shitfaced.”

Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.

His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone. 

“What about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?” Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.

Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating — and pining for a lot longer than that — he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.

You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. “Uh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake ‘your computer is down’ screen on Shen's laptop,” you tell proudly. 

“Dear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from your…prank?” Jack's voice caught on the word “prank” as if it deeply amused him.

You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front — a tiny whine left your lips.

Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. “You know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?”

His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. “Okay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.”

You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. “I want to know what it's like. It makes everyone so…” your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself. 

“Joyful,” you finished.

“Okay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,” he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.

“I would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.”

He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, “Brat.”

You grin widely, “You'll be there, right?”

“With a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,” he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.

Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. “What did I tell you before leaving?” His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.

You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets — you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.

You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, “Mine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.” And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were. 

“That Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-”

“The other one, honey.”

You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.

“That I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?” you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.

Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.

“But I had my ID and pepper spray in there,” you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.

Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, “ID,” his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. “And you don't need pepper spray. You have me.”

But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.

His fingers snap in front of you, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.

“Why haven't we fucked?” You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesn’t make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.

Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. “Wow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.”

You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. “Answer me.”

As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. “I'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,”

You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. “Like hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.”

Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.

“Because we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. And…it's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And me…well, I'm not what I used to be.”

Your eyes soften, “But do you want me?” Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.

Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, “What do you think, baby?” his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.

You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.

“I see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.” His throat catches at the ‘doctor’. Oh, you are not a fair player.

“Well, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.” His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.

A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. “But-”

“No buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.” The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.

The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, “Louder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.”

Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.

“Kids and their hormones,” he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.

“Is that so, grandpa?” Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.

His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, “Careful, brat.” His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.

Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.

Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft “uh-uh” leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.

“You're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.”

“You are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,” it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.

His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.

“I am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.”

You look at him, as if to say “so?” and hearing the adoration — despite the choice of words — in your voice completely decentres him. “Glad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.”

He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.

A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.

“Let me help you, doctor. Please” you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.

A pause.

He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.

“You are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.”

“Speaking of horny and my ass-”

He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. “Nope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, “together?”

“No, you pervert.” Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.

Show-off.

So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Rey's mind.

Jack doesn’t stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.

He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.

“How am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?”

“Jesus,” he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.

He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, “Shower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?”

Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?

“Sir, yes, sir.” You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.

Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.

You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.

He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.

He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur.

“One second, honey.” Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.

“There you are,” he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.

“You didn't like the freaky me?” You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after. 

“I like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.” His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.

You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. “Can we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?”

Your boyfriend murmurs a “yes, baby,” against your forehead. 

“Okay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.”

“Shut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.”

If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?

[carefulwhatyouwish4]

𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜

Noah Sebastian x F!Sound engineer!Reader

Part two. Part one

Wc: 4.3k

Chapter Warnings:  Reader is overqualified and doesn’t know it, noah glazes her a lil lmao. A little suggestive, age gap (early/mid twenties and 30), davis is a sweetheart. Fan!reader I’m bad at writing dialogue. Possible some inaccuracies (its fanfic what do we expect) I’m not sure if they still live in the house they used to stream in (i honestly doubt it) but it's my only point of reference so... deal with it :)  

A/n: Part two is here! Thank you guys so much for the support for this series! I hope you enjoy as things ramp up a little wink wink <3

“Besides, business proposals best done over dinner, no?”  Noah smirks, and you’re too enamored to process his words.  

“Alright... Wait- business proposals?” 

You don’t have any time to question him further before he’s practically dragging you towards a van where the other bandmates stand. They greet you with an energy that seems too high for it being almost midnight. Before you can process anything, you’re shoved into the backseat, sandwiched between Noah and Folio. Your heart hammers, questioning what the hell is happening and if you’re about to be murdered by the band you look up to the most.  

Noah nudges you out of your thoughts, clearly sensing your spiraling brain as the van drives off.  

“Relax. It’s just food, hm?” He says, barely above a whisper before looking back out the heavily tinted windows.  

You take a moment to observe your surroundings, a weak attempt at grounding yourself. Davis is driving, you recognize the silver strips of hair even as he faces away from you. Bryan is in the passenger seat, scrolling through tonight’s picture on his laptop. The bright screen lights up half the van. The band members, and you, are in the back. Folio taps his knees along to the drums of whatever’s playing on the aux, Jolly and Nick are scrolling through their phones, occasionally laughing quietly when something funny comes up. You know all these faces, and yet now it feels strange to be in a somewhat casual situation with them. If this was a dream, you didn’t want to wake up.  

The ride is quiet but smooth and after about 15 minutes, the van parks. Eeryone files out like a clown car into the parking lot a cheap fast-food place, probably the only thing open at this hour. You look up at the flickering red “24 hours” sign atop the small restaurant.  

“Business dinner, huh?” you tease. 

“Shut up. Tour life isn’t easy.” Noah snorts, smiling as he places a large hand on your shoulder and guides you towards the entrance. One by one you all order, and true to his word, Noah pays for everyone. After acquiring food and replenishing the energy today drained, Noah looks at you across the table. His face turns serious for the first time tonight.  

“So, I looked you up.” He starts, “Your boss had some high praises for you, even gave me your portfolio from college.” 

“I- wait what?” 

Noah doesn’t let you finish, continuing, “Your mixes sound amazing. You know your shit. And you know you’re way around a studio.” 

You try to speak, but he interrupts again. “Valedictorian too. That’s not an easy thing to do. Your instructors practically sang your praises over the phone.” 

“I’m confused. What- what's going on right now?” Your heart pounds as you look around at everyone in the booth. 

Davis interjects before Noah can interrogate you anymore, “Can you please stop scaring the poor girl and tell her? Before she has a heart attack.”  

Noah sighs dramatically, scanning your clearly nervous figure across from him. “We need an extra hand in the studios, and, with your experience in audio post, you could help with tour videos and music videos. You’re a good stagehand too.” 

“Wait, wait. You... wanna hire me?” You barely recognize your own voice as the blood thrums through your ears.  

Noah nods, and his eyes flicker down to meet your fidgeting, shaky hands. “You’re talented. You know this stuff, probably more than I did at your age. You have a good ear.” 

Your face burns from the praise. Even with your high education, you weren’t ready for this. Were you? “I-I’ve never even worked in a proper studio-” You try to argue. 

“There were studios in your school. You aced those classes.” He says with a smirk, and it makes you pause.  

“How...” You take a breath, head spinning. “Why do you know that?”  

Noah smiles, sitting up a little in the booth. “We did our research on you.” 

“In the, what, four hours since you’ve met me?” You argue, looking at him incredulously. 

“No. In the 6 weeks since the venue change.” Nick interjects you freeze, looking like a deer in headlights. They knew you before today? 

Jolly sighs next to him, deciding to take over. “We needed someone who could do lots of different things. Mixing, recording, live work, stuff like that. We visited your university before, a while ago. We knew that they were good. So, we asked around and found you. We also found out you worked at the venue we were going to, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity.”  

“To... recruit me?” You ask, swallowing thickly as everyone's eyes seem to be on you.  

Noah cuts back in, “You’re incredibly talented. And what you may lack in experience, you make up for in hard work. I know that this is sudden, but I also know that you can do this.” 

“Why me...? Why not someone more experienced, someone who lives in LA, someone who can do this better?”  

Noah holds on up one finger, “First of all, we’ll discuss the living thing in a minute.” Another finger, “Second, we wanted someone younger. Someone with a fresh perspective and fresh ears.”  

You take a breath, nodding along slowly. They’re serious about this...  

“and the living thing? I can’t exactly get a Los Angeles apartment right now. Not with this student debt.” You say.  

“Theres the tricky part.” He starts, “Two options. The first is that the label gets you an apartment and pays for it. The second, and better option... is that you live with us.” He says, nodding to Jolly. “You won’t pay rent, and you’d be more involved in production this way.”   

Your heart sinks. Living with them?! You couldn’t. However... this is probably the biggest job offer you’ll ever get. In your life. Are you really gonna do this? You have to. Right...? 

Theres a beat of silence as you think. Your professors’ constant lectures about missed opportunities ring in your head. You have to do this.  

“Okay. I’ll do it.” Your voice is shaky, but you know if you contemplate this for too long you’ll chicken out. Noah smiles and pulls an ipad out of his bag, the contract already written up on the screen.  

“Take as long as you need.” Nick says, his bright blue eyes meet yours. Light eyes and dark hair... that’s a lethal combination. You shake the thoughts away, taking the electronic pen and beginning to read. 

Your eyes scan every line, mentally recalling the classes that taught you about these kinds of contracts. Thankfully, nothing looks suspicious and jesus, the pay is good. Finally, after about 10 minutes of reading and signing, your pen hovers over the final signature line. You look up to see Noah’s gaze fixated on you. He’s not pushing or coercing, just watching your next move. Taking a breath, you sign and date the final page, turning the ipad back to him. He smiles, saving the document and shoving the device into his bag again. Everyone at the table claps, cheering at a respectful loudness as you officially join the crew. 

“Welcome to the team, Y/N.” Davis says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. You laugh softly in disbelief, letting out a shaky breath.  

Across the table, Noah smiles at you with a softness that makes your heart clench, and you can’t help but return the gesture. 

Noah stands first, ever the leader as the rest of the guys follow. “You need rest. Let’s get you back to your car so you can get home. We’ll be in town for a few days to help you prepare. I’ll text you the flight information.”  

The ride back to the venue is quiet, everyone tired now that they’re fed and the adrenaline has worn off. You however, are wired, nerves alight and heart pounding. They drop you off at your car, and Noah goes over last few things before parting ways. Something about packing essentials and a guest room. You can barely register anything as his hair halos around his head from the parking lot’s lights. This was going to be hard.  

divider 

The next three days are a blur of packing, phone calls, and mental preparation. You recall Noah saying that his guest room was already set up, and that all I needed was essentials and any gear. Somehow you manage to fit it all in two suitcases and a carry-on. Luckily, your roommate agreed to take on the full lease of your small apartment, so that was handled. Noah helped you arrange to get your car shipped across the country, which was easier than you expected. After a grueling three days, you’re loading your luggage into the same van as before. Well, more like watching them load it. You watch anxiously as the tow truck hauls your brand-new car, a graduation present, onto its bed. Thankfully, nothing goes awry.  

The ride to the airport is fast, and once you’re there, the guys practically refuse to let you carry any of your luggage, so you walk through the terminal with just your computer bag as everyone else lugs around large suitcases. Check-in goes smoothly and security is fast. Before you know it, you’re boarding the plane to your new life. It’s nothing fancy, a nice commercial flight in business seating. The plane is almost empty, and still, Noah sits next to you, his warm thigh brushing yours for a fleeting moment. He doesn’t say much, throwing on his headphones and openin his computer once you get to altitude. 

The flight is long, and your hips and legs ache by the final hour. When you step out into the gate, the familiar sight of LAX greets you. You’d been to California before, but this was different. You live here now. And whether you like it or not, you didn’t exactly have a means of escape.  

Once again, you’re back in a van. Except now, it’s only with Jolly and Noah. The Nicks went their separate ways after the flight, to their respective homes. By the time you reach the house, your head hurts from jetlag and your eyes are heavy with impending sleep. The driver parks, and the three of you make your way out. Still not carrying any luggage, thanks to Noah, you stare at the large house in front of you. It's nothing crazy, not grossly modern or insanely expensive, just a nice sized family house.  

The guys carry the luggage inside, and your heart stops once you take a look around. The walls are immediately familiar. The staircase, the living room, even the stupid custom painting above them the stairs. They still live here? It feels nostalgic in a way, having seen this house plenty of times from streams and posts before Noah ghosted the world.  

“C’mon. I’ll show you to your room.” Noah’s voice snaps you out of your haze, a gentle hand on your back guiding you towards the stairs. As you make your way up, you’re hyper aware of Noah’s presence.  

“Orie moved out a little while ago, the master’s all yours.” He opens the door, showing off the nice sized master bedroom.  

Your eyebrows raise, “The master? Are you sure?”  

“Yeah. We’ve all got our own setups in our rooms that we’re too lazy to move. Besides, it's got an en suite, so you get more privacy.” Noah's voice is quieter now, clearly tired and coming down from an exciting tour. “Make yourself at home, take a nap if you need to. I know I need one. Don’t worry about work right now. We’ll talk about that stuff later.” 

You nod, “Thank you. For everything... I really appreciate you trusting me with this.”  

“Don’t thank me. You deserve it.” Noah’s words don’t make it easy to hide your infatuation. You cheeks are flushed before you can stop it. Noah just smiles and dips out of the room, leaving you alone. The room smelt like clean laundry, and when you sat down on the bed, you knew you were a goner. The jetlag had caught up to you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re passing out on the plush king-sized bed.  

Divider   

You wake up a few hours later to a soft thrumming at the door. Your brain takes a moment to orient itself in the unfamiliar surroundings of your new room. You pinch yourself awake, blinking hard just in case you were still dreaming. But no, this was real. You were here.  

Noah’s voice pulls you out of your own thoughts, “Y/N? You awake? We’re ordering some pizza for dinner if you want some.” 

“Coming!” You say, fixing your twisted hoodie and sweatpants that had climbed up to your knees in your sleep. You smooth down your hair in the mirror and do one last look over before opening one of the double doors.  

You have to physically stop your knees from giving out at the sight in front of you. Noah's slightly grown out hair is messy from sleep, standing in a couple different directions. He’s in just a thin wife beater and sweatpants, his tattoos on full display. As well as his arms that you swear have gotten bigger since you last saw him just a few hours ago.  

“You with me? You must’ve slept pretty hard.” Noah chuckles, breaking your still sleepy haze as you admire him. He doesn’t pry when you blush slightly, simply motioning to the stairs. You follow him a few paces behind as he shows you around.  

“The studios through there, feel free to go in whenever you want.” You peak into the room, quickly glancing at the array of instruments and gear. You’re not terribly interested in working at the moment, running on an empty stomach and incoming jet lag headache.  

Noah guides you around the rest of the downstairs, showing you where things are in the kitchen and going through regular routines. “I usually wake up early. I like to go running before everyone gets up.” He says, pouring you and himself some water. “We typically have a few weeks after tours before we start officially working on things. But it’s hard for me to stay stagnant for too long.” He says sheepishly, you nod along silently. 

“Your work will start more once the production period starts again in a few weeks. We’re still working through the tail end of the album, so you’ll have plenty of work.” 

You nod wordlessly; hands folded politely behind you.  

“So, for now just uhm, get settled, learn the area and whatnot. Your car should be here in two days, so then you can go out whenever. In the meantime, you can join me in the studio if you want, or do some freelance, whatever.”  

Once again, you nod, smiling at the idea of working with him.  

Noah laughs softly, “I guess they weren’t lying when they said you were quiet when you’re not working.”  

Your cheeks flush, realizing you haven’t said anything since you came downstairs. “Sorry, heh.”  

“Don’t be. It's much better than someone asking a million questions and screaming in my face.” He teases, smiling.  

Jolly and Michael come downstairs at the same time, talking about the pizzas they want and how many drinks to get.  

Jolly looks up from his phone, nodding to you with a gentle smile, “Look who’s finally awake! This is Michael; he helps with songwriting and producing. Michael, this is our newest engineer and tour hand, Y/n.”  

“It's nice to meet you.” You say, shaking his hand. Your heart flutters as he introduces you, pride bubbling inside at the titles. 

Once introductions are out of the way, everyone’s focus shifts towards the pizza about to be ordered, arguing about which place to order fromm how many to get, and who’s gonna pick it up. You step back and Noah catches the movement, worried. You motion towards the hallway leading to the studio. He nods wordlessly, smiling.  

Escaping from the chaos, you wander into the bedroom studio setup. Everything quiets, the acoustic panels doing their job. You look around at everything. It's nothing crazy or out of this world, just a nice studio built up over the years into something that worked for them. You run a finger along one of the guitars in the corner, the matte black finish catching your eye. Turning, you sit down in a comfortable desk chair. On the desk, there are a few nice interfaces, a monitor controller, an array of microphones, and a desktop computer. A few guitar amps sit under the desk to save space. You smile to yourself when you can easily name everything. Even after all that training, you still sometimes worry it’s not enough. And in a way its not, experience and time are the real teachers. Still, there's a sense of accomplishment as you fiddle with the midi keyboard to the side.  

“What do you think?” Once again, Noah startles you out of your skin, making you clutch your chest. He only laughs, stepping closer.   “I feel like you’re doing it on person now.” You tease, spinning the chair around to face him. He laughs, leaning against the doorway with one arm.  

Dear God, that smile. 

“We’ll have you in the big studios in a few weeks. I think you’ll like them.” Your chest flutters at the idea of finally being in a proper, real studio.  

“I think I will too. It’s been a while since I’ve been in one.”  

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna just throw you into the fire. You can just sit and watch the first few days if you want, get an idea of our workflow.” He assures.  

“That sounds good. You guys primarily use Logic for production right?” You ask, 

“Yeah. The songs don’t usually don’t go to Pro tools until the final stages. You know Pro tools?”  

“Really well actually. It’s usually my go-to for editing and mixing.” You smile proudly.  

“That’s good. I can’t wrap my head around it most of the time. I guess we found another job for you.” He smiles, “I’m gonna send you some demos to mix later, I wanna see what you think and how you work. Don’t go easy on me, I want honesty.” 

You smile at that, sitting up straighter. You always loved mixing other’s music rather than making your own. He clearly notices your excitement, grabbing a spare chair and motioning for you to sit so he could use the computer. After swapping places, he loads up a few different projects, trying to decide which to show you. 

“This one's a bit more relaxed, more melodic.” He says and presses the space bar. A rolling, hypnotic guitar riff fills the room through the monitors.  

As the song goes on, you mentally take note of a few things. You have to close your eyes to avoid staring at his broad shoulders as he turns away from you.  

The song ends and he turns around, “So?”  

“Its good!” You praise, but he gives you a look. One that says, “be honest.” You sigh, chewing your lip. “I think the uhm, backgrounds feel lost. They should come up a little. And the guitars tracks sort of sound like they’re fighting each other...”  

He smiles at that, nodding. His voice drops a little, “That's what I want. Good.” He turns back to the computer.  

Your breath hitches at his words, and you have to squeeze your thighs to stop yourself from reacting. Noah continues to show you songs, new and old. It’s fun to see the inner workings of all the songs as he explains his processes and the stories behind them.  

The doorbell rudely interrupts your time, and you hear the rest of the guys’ voices fill the house. Noah closes the projects and you follow him out to the living room, seeing Nick, Folio, and Davis holding pizzas. Davis sets them down and pulls you into a hug; he smells woodsy and faintly of cigarettes.  

Everyone settles around the living room and enjoys the pizza. Laughter fills the house and for the first time in a couple days, you feel yourself relax. Conversation is easy and you find yourself engaging more than usual. Even after only having met a few days ago, you feel like you’ve known everyone for years. You could get used to this.  

Noah seems to notice your more social behavior. Your eyes meet and he smiles at you from across the room. You return the smile, but not without a heavy pink dusting on your cheeks. You expect him to look away first, but he holds your gaze until it’s too much for you. You look away, laughing softly.  

The night goes on for a while. A few of the guy's drink, Noah declines like usual. Davis offers you but you decline as well. You don’t typically drink unless it's around the holidays or if you’re really in the mood. You and Nick end up chatting for a while about cats and random shit, and the whole time you feel Noah’s gaze on you. Even Nick seems to give him a look at one point, which makes you laugh.  

The night ends around 1am, the guys that haven’t sobered up crash on the couch. Davis drives home, having only had one beer hours ago. You and Jolly put away the leftover pizza, playing tetris as you try to arrange the boxes in the fridge. Once everything's cleaned up, you say goodnight to everyone and head upstairs.  

This time, you hear Noah’s footsteps behind you on the stairs. You reach your door and turn around, meeting his eyes. “Everything alright?” You ask with a tinge of sarcasm when he doesn’t continue to his own room.  

“Yeah, I just uh- was wondering if you wanted to chat for a little while. Unless you’re tired.” He rubs the back of his neck, his arms flexing briefly.  

Dear god.  

“Uhm, yeah. Sure. I’m not super tired right now.” He smiles at that, nodding his head for you to follow him.  

He guides you into his room, and wow, it looks the same as it did 5 years ago. Same bed, same framed posters. You peak at his desk setup, two monitors and a nice pc behind it. The webcam and mic are still there, but the webcam is facing a different way, and the mic is tucked to the side. It makes you a little sad, knowing he had to stop streaming when things go too big. You weren’t a fan back then, still going through school online during covid and not into metal music yet. But still, you watched old archives on occasion when you needed a pick me up.  

He pulls out the red gaming chair for you, moving to sit on his bed. “So, how are you doing?” His voice is gentle, almost hesitant.  

“Honestly, better than I expected. I’m glad I get along with everyone.” You say, sitting down in the chair. You look around again, noting the small rack of jewelry and sunglasses behind the door.  

“I’m glad. And I knew you would fit in well. Told you we don’t bite.”  

You look down shyly at that, smiling to yourself.  

You two end up talking for longer than you expected, sharing life stories and stupid work moments. He tells you about his ghost writing and tour stories; you return with stories about all the bands and comic you worked for at the old venue. It’s nearly 3am when you finally begin to nod off in his chair. He chuckles softly, 

“C’mon, let's get you to bed.”  

He walks you to your room, and the two of you pause at your door. 

“Thanks, by the way. For tonight. I usually have trouble sleeping. And talking helps me wind down.” He says, his voice barely above a whisper to not disturb the others.  

You smile tiredly, nodding in understanding.  

The conversation ends but neither of you move. Theres a thick tension in growing in the air. Noah takes a step closer, invading your personal space. Your breath hitches as he stares at you. He leans down a little, cocking his head to the side. Your heart races, and your hands come up to his firm chest.  

You swallow thickly, “Noah... I-”  

“Hmm?” He places a hand over yours, his long, nimble fingers caressing yours.  

He leans in further, and this time you lean in as well. Your breaths mingle as you inch closer and closer. You can’t find it in your brain to pull away. You know this isn’t smart; this could make you lose the dream job you just got. But at the same time, you can’t bring yourself to stop. You want this. You’ve wanted this.  

Your faces are millimeters away, both your eyes closed now. You can feel his warm breath on your lips, you can feel the heat radiating from his chest. His heartbeat thrums rapidly under your fingertips.  

Your lips are just about to meet when you hear a shuffle and a groan from downstairs, then footsteps. You heart drops, and it snaps both of you out of your shared trance, your eyes are wide as they meet his own apologetic ones. He looks like he’s about to say something, but you don’t give him enough time to speak. You open your door and retreat into your room.  

End.

Tag List: @novainpolaroids @lowergroundfloor @heavilyfadingpower

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carefulwhatyouwish4]

𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜

Noah Sebastian x F!Sound engineer!Reader

Part One. Part Two

Wc: 2.9k

Warnings: slight age-gap (early/mid 20’s and 30), eventual smut, probably wattpad-ish storyline, self-indulgent bc I’m a sound engineering student lol, non-descript reader, Her coworkers are lowkey dicks but we’ll fix that. Reader has a bad omens tattoo (more self indulgence I’m sorry) implied shorter reader. (I'll add more as time goes on)

A/N: This still feels super short but I didn't wanna reveal too much lol Future chapters will be longer I prommy <3

Music was your entire life. You’re childhood was spent around instruments and constant car radios blaring. Your adolescence was filled with headphones blasting and various concerts. When you got out of high school, the idea of a boring 9-5 desk job seemed like the worst possible outcome. Music was the only option. After two years in college for sound engineering; sleepless nights, long lectures, and even longer studio labs, you had finally done it. The life started small. Small venues, small jobs, small projects. After years spent working your way up, you finally settled into a job as an assistant front of house engineer for a nice venue in your city.  

The job was nice, good music most nights, comedy others. You had built a nice home for yourself in this life, having successfully escaped the dread of a desk job. The creative side of music had never quite been your specialty. Sure, you played instruments and occasionally made beats, but this? Engineering for other people and making it sound good? This was your bread and butter. Now, in the well sized venue, you’re engrossed in setting up the console when––  

“Y/N! Get your ass over here and fix this cable!" Right. That was the only downside, bossy, sweaty old men who think they know more than you just because they’re... men. Sighing, you jog upstage to solve whatever problem you didn’t cause. Today, they had been more prickly than usual. Rushing you around to make sure everything was perfect the like pope himself was performing tomorrow night.  

“Why are you guys being more bitchy than usual? You won’t even tell me who were setting up for!” You said, crouched under the stage to see the faulty speaker cable. You had learned quickly that the only way to fight the fire was with more fire. They would have eaten you alive if you hadn’t learned to fight back and stand up for yourself. 

“Because, you’re gonna freak out about it and never shut up. The less you know the better.” One of them answers, snarky and rude. What could be so important that it needed so much preparation and so much condescension? This wasn’t the biggest venue ever, if it was someone so special they would’ve chosen a different venue for sure. You solve the mystery of the cable, tuning out the snarkiness of your coworkers as they chide you about the various problems in the set up (which they caused). 

It's close to midnight by the time you’re finally cut free, sighing into the cool night air as you walk to your car. The drive home is quiet and tiresome, and the relief of finally being in your bed washes over you like a soft wave at the beach. You’re brain is still in work mode despite the nearly 12 hour day. Rolling over sleeplessly, you check your phone with heavy eyes, scrolling mindlessly until something makes your heart drop.  

No... Theres no way. Plastered across your screen is an announcement from Bad Omens, your favorite band.  

“VENUE CHANGE NOTICE.”  

Right under, the name of the venue you slave over every day. There’s no way. You read the announcement repeatedly, truly wondering if you were dreaming. Something about the previous venue being unusable due to weather and up sales. This announcement was from weeks ago, how did you not know? You must have been too busy to notice.  

“This can’t be happening...” You mumble to yourself, heart racing. Your favorite band, performing at the venue you work at, while you’re working. This was going to be the ultimate test of professionalism. You decide to try and rest as much as possible. Naturally, sleep doesn’t come easily, your mind whirling, but you already know you’ve got a long day ahead of you.  

The next morning, you take extra care to prepare yourself, sacrificing extra sleep for a longer shower and a bigger breakfast. You practically sprint out of the house, making it to work in record time. When you arrive, way too early, there are buses and trucks already parked at the back entrance. Your heart rate immediately spikes, realization setting in. You couldn’t do this. You weren’t prepared for this. You never thought–– 

 Before you can spiral too far, a friendly knock on your car window makes you jump out of your skin. Jenna, one of the venue's receptionists, and one of the only women you work with, is staring apologetically through the glass. You muster the courage to move, grabbing your bag and getting out to greet her.  

“So... I take it you finally found out why we weren’t telling you about today.” Jenna sighs, looking slightly guilty. 

You nod, trying not to look as frazzled as you are about this whole thing. “I wish you would have told me something, at least! So I could have prepared myself mentally, or something!” 

“Yeah... but we didn’t want you to overthink and get too caught up in it. You do amazing work and we wanted that to stay the same, no matter who’s performing.” She smiles. 

“Still! A warning would’ve been nice! Can’t believe you teamed up with those assholes...” You sigh, but there's no real malice in your voice. 

Jenna only laughs softly at your exasperated tone, ushering you towards the main entrance. Your heart is beating out of your chest, eyes watching every corner. Eventually, you and Jenna go your separate ways, she waves you on encouragingly. 

“You’re gonna do great!” She yells from a few feet away, already turning to leave.  

You take a breath, nodding to yourself. It can’t be that bad, right? All you have to do is make sure they sound good and then you can go home. You got this. After gathering yourself, you walk into the large empty hall. No sign of the band yet, that’s good.  

Chris, one of the lighting techs, is jogging up to you with a shit-eating grin on his face, “Y/N! You’re on stagehand duty today. Bands already got front of house and are short a hand. Perfect opportunity.” Okay. Maybe things could get worse.  

You contemplate walking out then and there. Front of house meant distance and brief conversations, stagehand meant... the opposite. Always checking in, always on stage during set up, close proximity. Taking a deep breath, you trying to still yourself, you learned how to be professional around celebrities, this couldn’t be that hard, right...? 

The first few hours of setup are easy. Checking mic packs, setting up wireless mics, and having everything laid out and ready. You meet with the band’s stage manager, a nice woman. She explains things swiftly and without the disrespect of others you’ve met. Soon enough, everything looks great. The drums are hooked up with microphones, one of your favorite activities, guitars are tuned, and everything is ready for soundcheck.  

You know this is it, the moment you have to see them in person, up close. Part of you worries they’re not like what they seem, what if they’re rude, bratty? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had to deal with something like that...  

Kate, one of the tour managers, nudges you gently.  

“Fan? You’re shaking like a leaf.” She says gently, a soft smile on her face. “Don’t worry, they won’t bite.” You don’t have time to answer with anything other than a shy smile before the crew starts bustling.  

Your eyes snap to the stage faster than lightning, seeing four tall frame file out onto their respective sides of the stage. Folio checks the drum’s setup and tuning, fitting the drummer stereotype well as the kick drums thumps through the empty venue. Jolly and Nicholas strap up their guitars to soundcheck whenever Folios done doing his thing. You can barely focus on them, your eyes trained on the 6’3 frontman standing center stage. Even a few yards away, you can see him clearer than ever before. Your heart races,  

The band starts soundcheck minutes later, and within a few seconds Noah stops, apologizing as he fiddles with his in-ear monitors. Like muscle memory, you jog to side stage, watching him intently to see if it’s something he can fix himself. You freeze when dark brown eyes meet yours, but you quickly shake it off, trying to do your job. He motions you over, 

“They won’t stop popping and buzzing.” Noah mutters, eyes trained on your flushed face as you approach.  

“Could be wiring issue, let me see them?” You mutter, shaky hands outreached to grab the pack. He’s taller in person, you think, and jesus, his hands are huge compared to yours.  

You study it for a few seconds with a worried expression. If this was a soldering issue, it would take a few minutes for you to fix it.  

“Oh. Heh.” You try not to smile, lips pursed as you realize one of the cables wasn’t plugged in all the way. You look back up at him, eyes meeting his deep brown ones. “It just wasn’t in there correctly...” 

Noah laughs softly, and the sound almost makes your spine melt. “Shit, always the little things. Thank you, uhm...?” He proposes, eyebrows raised. 

“Y/N. Stagehand, for today.” You try not to blush as he repeats the name, familiarizing it on his tongue.  

“Can you...?” He asks, his voice surprisingly soft as he motions to clip on the back of his waistband.  

You nod curtly, stepping into his personal space. His scent floods you, fresh and musky. Theres a slight hint of leather, probably from the bus. You try not to think too hard about it as your shaky hands fasten the pack onto his waistband. Your knuckles graze his lower back briefly, the soft contact making you swallow thickly. Once its secured, you step back. He thanks you and you smile curtly before stepping off stage again to let them continue.  

Soundcheck goes... almost smooth after that. One of the drum mics wasn’t working, the solder points old and falling apart. You’d have to fix that tomorrow. Jolly’s microphone was dead, a fault on the band’s team for not replacing the batteries. Overall it wasn’t terrible, that’s what soundchecks are for. Soon enough, all that's left is to wait until showtime. You expect Noah to follow the rest of the band backstage, but he lingers, eyes set on you as you watch their front of house with undivided attention. Noah walks up, his tall frame looming behind you has he watches you ask the poor engineer a million questions about the setup.  

“You seem pretty passionate about this stuff.” He says, voice smooth and teasing as you nearly jump out of your skin, turning to face him. 

“Oh! Uhm- yeah. I like engineering. I like music in general.” You stutter, looking up at his tall frame as he smiles.  

“You know your stuff, that's for sure.” Noah comments, “The guys around here said you practically run this place.” He adds, sitting down on one of the chairs to not tower over you so much.  

“I’m not sure I’d say that...” you mutter, internally making a note to interrogate the others after this. Theres a beat of silence, as he studies you, his eyes catching the ink that peaks out of your long sleeve.  

“Nice tattoo, by the way.” He smirks, motioning to the small inked Bad Omens logo poking out from under your sleeve.  

You quickly shove the sleeve down, blushing profusely. You’re about to make some sorry excuse or apologize when he cuts in again.  

“Don’t worry. I’m not making fun of you. It’s nice to find fans in the wild like this. Especially when they’re talented.”  

Was he... complimenting you?  

Before the conversation can carry on any longer, hair and makeup are whisking him away backstage. He smiles at you once more before jogging away. You let out a breath, slumping down on the seat he was in. You run your hands along your face, sighing. That was embarrassing. This is somehow the best and worst day ever.  

Hours later, the venue is packed with bodies as the crowd murmur grows louder. Crew members run around backstage, doing final checks before the show starts. You’re sitting side stage tucked away, on standby in case there's technical difficulties during the show. Your knee bounces, teeth chewing at your bottom lip. Stage hand work was one of your favorites, at least during the show you could relax unless something goes wrong. Still, you miss being behind the console. You’d have to find some time in a studio soon. 

 The house lights dim, the crowd going wild as the opening music plays. Noah runs up to the stairs right next to you, adrenaline clearly climbing as he psyches himself up for the show. Before he runs on stage, he turns to give you a big smile and a small wave. It makes your heart beat out of your chest, and you instinctively return the gesture. Before you can blink, he’s on stage, commanding the crowd like always. The cheers are louder than you’ve ever heard them here.  

Throughout the show, you peak around the curtain to watch, giving yourself the excuse of making sure nothing goes wrong. You watch as he screams into the mic, vocals on point like always. Folio is smashing the drums, perfectly on time. Jolly and Nicholas play like they never have before; the guitars blending together in a perfect mix. You heart aches for a moment, will you ever see them again? You tried to get tickets to this tour, and the one before that, but they were either too expensive or sold out in minutes. Would this be a once in a lifetime thing? You shake the thoughts off, forcing yourself to smile as you enjoy the moment while it lasts.  

After the show, Noah comes out first, sweaty and practically bouncing off the walls with energy. He smiles at you, eyes meeting yours for a moment. He seems to contemplate something before he sits down next to you, heat radiates off him.  

“So, what’d you think?” He cocks his head, sharp brown eyes boring into yours. Is this real? Why was he so determined to talk to you? Not like you’re complaining.  

“You guys did great. Always nice to get paid to watch concerts.” You joke. You’re not usually a talker, keeping to yourself outside of work. But something about him makes it easier, a little to easy.  

You two talk for a while as the venue slowly empties, sharing soft smiles, and quiet laughs as you tell him more about your work.  

When the fans finally funnel out, you and the rest of the crew strike. It doesn’t take nearly as long as setup. Within an hour, everything is in gear cases and loaded onto the truck. You don’t see Noah as you help the crew close the truck. They thank you graciously before returning to their own duties.  

Just like that, it’s over. You sigh, pulling out a cigarette when you’re an appropriate distance from everybody. A few crew members linger outside, chatting about future tour dates and time off. Noah and the band are still nowhere to be seen. It’s nearly midnight. You light the cigarette, taking a deep drag and sighing in relief. Your feet ache and your back is screaming for rest, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. As you catch up with the past day’s notifications on your phone, you nearly jump out of your skin (again) when a light tap meets your shoulder. You whip around, only to meet the same eyes you’ve been getting lost in all day.  

“Noah...!” You sigh, clutching your chest. “You need a bell.” You say, teasing.  

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” He smiles. His hair is damp, freshly showered, and he smells like clean laundry. “You did good today. It's nice to see someone younger in this field rather than a bunch of old dudes.” He says, smiling down at you.  

“Oh. Thank you...” You mutter, getting a good look at him. His neck tattoos glisten as the slight dampness of his skin reflects against the outside lights. The newer, more vibrant tattoos stand out from the old ones. From this close, you can see the small scars on his face from old piercings. His stubble from before is now clean shaven. You suck in a breath, forcing yourself to look away before you stare at him for too long. 

“You off the clock?” He asks, attention fixed on you. 

“Yeah. Now I just have to find a way to get home in this traffic. I’ve never seen these many cars here.” He snorts at that, looking a little too proud of himself. It makes you smile, heart fluttering despite trying hard to keep your infatuation under wraps.  

“I may have a solution for that...” He begins, looking past you as the crew socialize with one another.   

“Hm?” You brows furrow, a solution? You cock your head to the side, curious eyes meeting his and you swear you see him blush in the dim light.  

“The band and some crew are going out for a late dinner to celebrate the end of the tour. I wanted to invite you, a thanks for your help today” He says, his voice slightly... shy?  

“Me? I-” You laugh softly in disbelief. He wants you to join them?! “I just did my job, which honestly wasn’t much. I wouldn’t want to Intrude.” You argue as politely as possible, but part of you definitely wants to come. Noah only shakes his head, and you know there's no saying no now. He motions you forward towards the band’s van. 

“Our treat, I insist.” He assures, “Besides, business proposals best done over dinner, no?” He smirks, and you’re too enamored to process his words.  

“Alright... Wait- business proposals?”  

End. 

I hope you guys enjoy! I've wanted to write this for so long but forgive me I haven't written fic in like 10 years. My asks should be open if you wanna chat about anything regarding this fic or not <3

Credit to @cafekitsune for the dividers <3

[richeeduvie]

𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙈𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙏𝙤 𝙈𝙚 (𝙉𝙎𝙁𝙒)

Jack reveals too much about his obsessive tendencies for you at an inopportune time.

WORD COUNT: 2.6K // SMUT - 18PLUS - MDNI // fucking n' cock teasing, descriptions of gaping holes and semen seeping, the hottest thing about this is Jack exposing himself, unhealthy relationship, possessive tendencies, bad ways of going about telling your partner about said tendencies // ABBOT MASTERLIST // ROBBY MASTERLIST // AUTHOR MASTERLIST //

When Jack's finally allowed to have you, and projects all his filthy perversions onto your relationship with him. He has years' worth of fantasies and absolute horndoggery from your tight-fitted scrubs and flirtatiousness that he was only able to live out in his dreams and blurred moments of zoning out while thinking of your tits and the way your mouth moves when you talk.

And now, sleepy, he's entitled to you. You're his God given right. There is no God, but you get the point. You're at fault for the overload of filth, but now you love him enough for him to not want to blow his brains out for blaming you.

“You know, I don’t think you actually understand how bad it is.”

Jack says it almost idly in his groan, even though he’s trying not to blow his load. That’s routine with you every other day. That’s your little, soaking cunt’s fault as much as it’s your flirtations and claims that you love him, kiddo.

You do. What a tragedy that is for sleepy.

You glance at him, confused with teary eyes as you press your nose into his cheek. Your bare, sticky folds make filthy, wet noises as his thighs slap against your rounded ass.

There was a time when he could only imagine what it looked like, let alone felt like. Hell on earth. 

“What’s…bad?”

“My head about you.”

You huff at that, like he knew you would, because no. You don’t know how bad it is. 

You don’t know how bad it could get. 

Soft steps. Easy steps. This is how you take care of her. Stop it from getting as bad as it could be if you can’t fix how bad it already is. 

“Jackie, do–don’t be dramatic, not now—”

Jack manages to slip his cock out at your quip, because even though his cock practically rages at not being inside your warm, gripping, needy insides…he doesn’t appreciate that. He’s trying to talk to you. 

You choke out a noise that might be a sweet sob when he leaves the inside of you. Who’s the dramatic one now?

“Jack—”

Jack’s leaking cock butts against your quivering entrance. His lips curve into a half-smile when you squeak.

“Yes, okay. I know, I know—I know you’re crazy about me.”

You place your palm on where he gropes you to the point of a bruise, your tit. You squeeze his hand, and it’s a warm comfort that Jack knows very well is manipulation. You’re not as sly as you think you are, Sleepy.

It’s the most obvious, perfect form of desperation that Jack’s undeserving of—the way you slip his hand down to his cock, trying to push his thick tip back inside of you, like it's his idea to move past this. 

Nice try, baby.

He pulls his hand back up, arm flattened across your waist and tits as his fingers curl over your shoulder.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“Well, fuck—explain it to me, then.”

You whine, back arching away from his stomach. Most of the time, your filth and need to fuck outmatch his. It’s only that you’re cute enough to get away with it. Not not obvious enough to deny it, though. 

Jack exhales through his nose, like he’s bracing himself.

“I think about where you are when you don’t answer your phone, I map.”

He places his face in the crook of your sweat-laced neck, breathing in. He thinks your brows are furrowing, and he hopes it’s only with confusion, because he won’t be able to handle anything else once you’ve drained him. 

“Like…if you say you’re going to the store, I picture which one. How long it should take. Which streets you’d use.”

He murmurs it low against your skin, jaggedly wincing when you rub your thumb over his tip. 

“You’re…you’re a control freak. Duh. I’ve known that since forever.”

Jack sighs. Everything’s a joke to kiddo. 

“When you come home quiet, I replay everything I said to you that day. Not just the mean things. I look for the moment I tipped it.” He flings his cock so its head meets your swollen clit, holding you tighter when your body trembles at the touch. “I know, sleepy. I know. It’s bad.” 

You manage, even in the tremble and quivering moans he hears in his dreams, to nudge his arm with your elbow. 

“You’re–you’re intense. That’s it. You’re…focused.” 

“Focused.”

Jack scoffs. He drags his cock against the wet, pulsing length of your cunt. Not being inside is an awful thing to do to both of you, but being tucked under it is the next best thing. 

“I know when you’re aroused before you do. You stop fidgeting, you lose yourself. And I think you’re gonna call that observant to make yourself feel better about the way I study you.”

Silence. The room feels smaller. 

Jack takes in a deep, deep breath before rolling his tongue over your beads of sweat. 

Music. Meal. Mine. 

“I think about how easy it would be to make you dependent on how I touch you. On how safe you feel when you’re with me. Pressed against me. Hell, sleepy. You tell me enough—”

He blinks when he feels your throat bob. 

“Jack?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

It’s the first thing you’ve been able to say without your voice shaking the way your body does when you're bouncing on him. He swallows. 

Let him say it out loud instead of letting it rot in his head. If you’re afraid. That’s okay. That’s better, because if you indulge, kiddo, he’ll never let you go. 

“I think about who takes your attention from me. But you know that.”

“Jack—”

“And when you’re upset with me, for things like this—things that barely scrape the surface of my filth—”

You’re so wet that the sound of Jack rubbing his cock against your pussy has become downright obscene, and his hand is soaked with a sticky layer of your arousal from guiding his shaft through it again and again and again.

“My first instinct isn’t to apologize. It’s to figure out how to make you dependent again so you won’t leave. Because…there are too many ways for you to realize you don’t deserve this.” 

He kisses your neck that’s licked clean, nose pressing in deeper. 

“It’s always too damn easy to mold you into what the worst of me wants, baby. I think about keeping you home all day, where your—”

Jack chokes on the burning of his truth.

“Your only thought is how to love me even more than you already do. I don’t deserve that. I deserve awful goddamned things for wanting that, but I think…I think about asking you.”

His tongue flicks as he feels your sticky cunt beat against his thigh.

“And you know what I think? I think you’d do it for me. I’ve imagined conversations where I tell you what you need. Not suggest. Tell. And you listen. Because it would be easier. You already do. But you shouldn’t. And if I ever ask you, you should—”

Jack’s nose flares with another choking at his throat. What he says would end in his brain on a tree somewhere, but he knows it’s true. He knows he has to say it. 

“You should leave me. If you ever feel like you need to become smaller so I can stay sane, then I’ve already failed.”

Silence. 

It’s suffocating. 

It’s realization. 

I’ve said way too fucking much. No. No. 

Jack tries to push his thick head back inside of you, but he can only hold you tighter when you squirm. 

Where the fuck are you going? Somewhere you actually deserve to be? Somewhere safe? Somewhere where he’s not unloading the worst onto you? Absolutely not, kiddo. Sorry. That’s not happening. 

He straightens his spine against the couch, leaving the crook of your neck to kiss the back of it, staring deep into the skin he’s licked and bitten and bruised and made bled onto him. 

Your name sounds out against his lips when he hears the sharp breath escape you. 

Rebellion. Nope. Not now. Not when he’ll always need you in the worst way. 

“Sleepy, I—”

“You’re scaring me.”

There’s a thick pause where Jack decides you need comfort, that you need what you’ve been whining for, so he presses his thumb against your fat clit, rolling deep, slow circles. It’s a sticky, sticky comfort, isn’t it, kiddo?

“That’s fair.”

Doesn’t he take care of you?

“I’ve been dragging back on it, okay? I remind myself you’re not something I get to manage. I remind myself that wanting you doesn’t give me jurisdiction to be engulfed by these thoughts and these claims—”

“You said you were getting better.”

Jack shudders at your cries. 

“I-I have…sleepy. That’s what I’m telling you—”

“Has it been getting worse?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away; he only quickens his pace on your clit to break your soft cries, because there’s only so many truths he can handle.

Even with the ones he can, he would much rather do it with you leaking juices and clenching around nothing, because that means you still want him, and that, even in the worst of who he is, it’s still too easy for him to comfort you, whether he’s inside you or not. 

She deserves the truth, Abbot. Just as much as she deserves you getting better for her. You can only allow yourself to give her one or the other.

“Just a bit, sleepy. I promise.”

“You promised it wasn’t as bad as you’re saying it is—”

“I know!”

His voice goes loud in the depths of his throat. He shuts his eyes against the back of your head. 

“I know, okay? That’s why I’m saying it out loud,” His voice is softer in the gravel. “So it stays where I can see it.”

He smooths his palm against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, cock throbbing as hard as it did the first time he got to fuck you, as he readies himself with one last kiss to your neck.

“Jack…”

Jack’s heart folds in on itself at your hiccupped breath. Every time you cry, it’s worthy of his own suicide.

His body feels that, at least. Now, he knows you need him inside you again as much as he needs a reminder that you’ll never leave him. 

Your warm, squishy thighs are nearly that as they caress his naked, hot skin. He pumps his cock against your cunt, and he eyes the way your hips twitch each time his head catches your clit. He tries remembering how he almost burst at that the first time he noticed it. It wasn’t funny then. 

Your breath grows heavier as Jack’s free hand comes to bruise your perfect tit. He rolls his neck at his soft whimpers escaping your lips. 

Let him get away with the truth tonight, and then he’ll get better. He promises, baby. 

“Sleepy. I’ll keep myself in check.” 

His cock, veined in the throbbing and the need to find you clenching around him with those familiar, whorish cries, slides back into your hole, shaft shiny and wet with your juices again. 

“Ah! Do yo–you mean that—ah!”

He does. That’s the worst part. He means it, and he doesn’t know if it’ll be enough, because—

God, you feel so fucking good, kiddo. 

Jack bears his teeth, straining and grunting below you as the muscle in his leg stretches to buck up into you with an already impossible speed. His balls smack against your ass. 

“Jack!”

“You know how it feels? Your cunt wrapped all around me, sleepy?”

Jack’s hips only thrust more violently. 

Do you know how it feels for you to be wrapped around him, knowing that he—

That he can do whatever he wants to you, and you’ll stay? Because you love him. Because you’re an indulgent whore who thinks the deepest parts of his obsession can be fixed? And even when you figure out they can’t be, you’ll still be here, shivering on his cock and making sure he takes care of you because He loves you. 

He does. God, he does, kiddo, he’ll only get worse; you’ll love him anyway. 

And he’s just waiting for the day it’s not that you’ll love him despite the worst of ways he needs to keep you, but you’ll love him because of them. 

Doomsday. It’ll come soon enough. 

Jack’s balls begin to contract as your cunt spasms out. He doesn’t blink, because he doesn’t want to miss any second of the way your tear-drawn face crumples in sweet agony. 

Here comes sleepy’s orgasm. It’ll tear through you, and then the real care begins. He can call the Pitt for you. 

“It feels like I’m fucking the prettiest cunt in the world—”

Jack lets out a strangled groan on a particularly burning, tightened thrust. He stops trying to say anything at that, tongue slipping into your mouth as he pauses. 

He changes his pace, entering you with hard, long strokes—pulling all the way out before slamming himself back inside. He knows that’s your favorite. 

And he’s only proven right when you come hard, milking him to the goddamned bone as your cunt flutters—as she flutters with fucking death grips. 

Every other day. For the rest of his life. It better not be any other way. 

Jack bucks wildly into you. You let out a shrill that finds the groan that tears out of him, and after he feels his face redden to the goddamned brim…

He feels his cum pool in your contracting, winking hole. Still hungry, even as you breathe out in drooled exhaustion. 

Jack heaves to catch his breath as he runs a hand over his face, and you fall off of him, going limp and spread out across the sofa. He turns to you. 

“Let me see, sleepy.” He leans inward, opening your thighs up. “Open up your cunt.”

He doesn’t ask nicely. He never does. He promises that’s because you like that way more than he does. 

He counts the seconds, waiting for the moment the first drop of his cum blooms out of your filthy, well-fucked hole like a…you once described it like a gleaming white pearl. He likes that. It’s romantic. His a little romantic. 

He watches it drip, getting caught in your labia until it separates and streams, bit by bit, down your crack until it pools at your asshole and down onto the couch. 

His brows twitch as he blinks fast. 

“Sleepy, I said—”

You finally listen, spreading your legs further and making your tight slit open into a gaping round hole. More of his cum drips out. 

There you go. 

Jack leans inward and kisses your thigh. 

“We should buy you a plug.”

He doesn’t say it with much humor before he gives you a light slap on your slit, and he’s glad he didn’t, because you quickly close your legs when the last bit of white seeps out of you. 

“You promise, right?”

Jack nods, eyes never leaving yours as he runs a circle on your knee. 

“I’ve been trying. I’ll try harder.”

…Even if he goes back on his word, he promises he’ll figure it out, kiddo. He will.

[gee10120]

The Sacrilegion of Falling in Love - 8

Chapter Eight - Thread The Needle

Vessel x Sleep its kind of an exploratory thing

part 7 | masterlist | part 9 | narrated ver

words: 3207

tws and tags: shockingly few, manipulation and usual erotic overtones, blood, nightmares, loneliness

a/n: hey hey! thanks for bearing with the slightly late upload, i think upload schedule just isn't working for me at the minute, everything in my life is super hectic, but i'm not abandoning this, just going to be a little bit off with schedule, if it was wanted i'd be able to make a tag list? please let me know if you'd maybe be up for it and i'd be happy to do that since i won't be as on it. but regardless i'll update and post snippets, i probably won't ever go totally dark ever. but anyways, thank you and enjoy!

---------

The grey evenings after his dead-end job never help to alleviate his stress. He is tired. Exhausted, not just from the work, but from life itself. He wants to create things, to make things. Somehow spit out every wretched emotion going on inside of him. But he can’t, not while he’s stuck, trapped in the endless cycles he’s currently in. Wake up, go to work, go to bed and wrestle his impending insomnia diagnosis, repeat. It’s not that he doesn’t want to sleep. He wants more than anything for unconsciousness to sweep him into its arms so for a few hours so that he doesn’t have to be aware of the gaping hole inside of him. Imaginary talons that rip him up each time he’s reminded of the empty bed. Cold and unforgiving, there’s no comfort in this.

The room is clinical at best, and a prison at worst. High ceiling white walls, nothing but a bedside table and a desk to decorate the room. There’s no personality in here. He often wonders if he even has one himself. How much can one make the exploration of words their personality? He could hardly call himself a writer, much less a songwriter. He has no time for those sorts of dreams. Not with his rent inching higher and higher each month and more and more shifts to make up for it.

So, while he tries his best- he cannot sleep. Too many thoughts jumble his mind. Every day the aches in his head and his heart grow a little bigger, the bed grows wider, swallowing him up in the sheets till he’s drowning in the depths of his duvets and suffocated by his pillows. Everything is wrong. His room too hot or too cold, the sheets too scratchy. It’s never quite enough.

And even when he does sleep, dreams plague him. Whispered disjointed noises, sounds and voices a little too far out of reach. He wants to find the source, wonders if they’d grant him companionship. He sees antlers, teeth, jagged red spills on floors and trails of the substance leaving doorways. He can’t make sense of any of it.

Altars and cloths and masks. Cultists and gods all encircle each other. Holding hands and dancing around circles of candles. The snapping of jaws and the horrible stench of metal and the taste of copper.

But then he wakes, and those dreams are over, he’s been plagued with them for two years. Told by doctors it was caused by an overactive imagination or from the monotony of his day to day. ‘Go on a holiday, maybe go for coffee with someone you haven’t seen for a while.’ one had said. But with what money? With what time?

He doesn’t really have friends either. He knows a man, they used to be friends at a music school they both attended. A greying building in a town he couldn’t ever quite call home. They’ve kept in touch here and there, but they drift in and out of orbit, never quite close enough for friendship. He did have a girlfriend- he’s had a few- but she broke up with him when his sleep deprivation got bad. Insinuating she couldn’t help him with it while he babbled about noises and deer and blood. Images he’d never been interested in before. He stopped writing music after she left, too caught up in the pit inside of himself.

Two years they were together, and for a year and a half, he was the best version of himself he’d ever been until six months before she ended it. He was inconsolable. Always angry, always upset. Too tired and irritable. He didn’t know what to make of what was going on inside of him. And then after six months of him in that state, talking about hearing the voices of women he couldn’t see. She left.

He started to get better at once point, stopped hearing the voices and the giggling so much, but now it’s back in full force. And the dreams are worse than ever, even after he wakes, he can still taste blood on the tip of his tongue.

The days blur into one, menial tasks like food shopping or buying clothes to replace the ones he’s worn through feel Sisyphean. Cyclical in a way he can’t see ending. The voice keeps whispering to him in his sleep, the laughter echoes in empty hallways “follow me, worship me,” and he wants to, he really wants to follow it, but he’s never found himself lucid enough in his dreams to be able to.

Tonight, he hears the humming trail after him as he readies himself for another turbulent wrestle to get himself to dreams. It follows him into the kitchen as he makes a cup of tea, it follows him still when he showers. Eyes dart about the bathroom for a woman that isn’t there. He really hates this, the feeling of being watched, he’s amusing something he conjured in his own mind. Night after night, he wakes in cold sweats, a lingering presence just leaving his room, the smell of smoke and sugar embedded in his senses. Something is watching him- he doesn’t think it’s human.

He tucks himself into bed, but falls asleep far faster than normal, he still tosses and turns, but there’s a presence in the room that quietens his racing thoughts, it comforts him, relaxes his enough to fall into the clutches of sleep.

There was none of the fight he expected and none of the usual distractions that inhibit him.

There’s a strange sensation of waking up. He knows he’s still asleep but everything about this space feels real. It’s an odd sort of darkness but he feels in enough control of his body. The dream he has is lucid. The voice that’s been following him around, the humming, the giggle, it’s embedded itself into his dream. Much clearer, as if across the room. This time, he can follow it.

He walks through darkness, perhaps void is more apt. It’s negative space. Nothing stretches before him, behind him, above or below him. He wanders, feeling his way through the space, he knows it isn’t dark because he can look down and see himself. He’s clad only in the pyjamas he went to bed in, as if he was plucked from his bed and placed here. The humming follows him, even here into this void. He wanders towards wherever it comes from, finally allowed to glimpse the source of her siren call.

There’s no corner to round, she just appears before him, materialising right before his eyes. She’s gorgeous, so striking he forgets to breathe for a few moments, she’s catlike in the way she lounges a foot in the air, as if lying on an invisible sofa, she regards him with interest.

This is who has been following him around.

“I wondered when you’d stop by,” her voice is sticky sweet caramel in his ears. “You’ve been so tired recently, you really should have let me in sooner,” she tuts, she looks up at him through her lashes, her eyes big and staring. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t stop looking at her, the tight dress she’s wearing clings to her figure, he doesn’t have it in him to stop staring, his eyes roaming the exposed curves, feasting on the exposed flesh- this woman is perfect, the embodiment of every late-night fantasy, every childhood on-screen crush, the most enchanting being he has ever met. He’s so tongue tied he can’t get anything out other than a choked whisper,

“Who are you?”

She laughs, deep and rich, like melted dark chocolate. “I’m everything you need.” she isn’t upselling herself; she says it like a fact. That she knows she is everything he is missing. She moves from her languid place, she’s fluid like water, she floats up, righting her position before him. He can properly see her face now and his knees buckle. She truly is divine. A work of art. Her gorgeously deep eyes watch him. Watches the way he maps out her features. She lets him take her in. He follows the slope of her nose down to the most disgracefully kissable lips, pouty and full, freshly glossed. She is going to be his ruin, and he’d follow this woman into the depths of hell if she asked him to, if only to have her eyes on him again.

She moves towards him in that gracefully lazy way and the scent that comes off her rolls in waves, crashing into his senses in a dizzying, thick sweetness. Woody and warm. Ginger and jasmine and sandalwood wafts towards him filling up his senses. Warming his brain and his body from the inside out.

“You look nervous,” she teases, predatory grin tugs at her lips, “I don’t bite,” she throws her head back to laugh, her hair cascading around her in waves, “Not unless you ask nicely, anyway.”

He tries to get any semblance of words out, but he can’t, his brain can’t catch up fast enough. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, brain too melted. God, if he could dream like this every night.

She regards him, taking him in. She looks at him with interest, like she’s reading all his secrets off his micro expressions alone. He doesn’t doubt she can. He feels incredibly out of place and underdressed. The hem of her dress slides up her thigh, exposing the softest looking skin. His eyes greedily follow as the trail is exposed. He wants to see more.

He almost reaches out, but he is harshly reminded of the striped pyjamas doing little favours for his own appeal. He fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, trying to figure out where to keep his eyes in a respectful manner. Her presence is suffocating. Heartbeat thudding and his breathing constricting as he struggles to grasp this situation unfolding. This gorgeous woman has materialised in his dream and claims to be what’s been following him? It doesn’t feel right, this can’t be real, can it? She’s too perfect. This is too perfect. Too good of an explanation for his deprived state. Something about her feels so familiar, but he’s sure he’s never seen her before. He shakes his head, trying to dispel her, maybe wake up. It doesn’t work. The hand that catches his wrist snaps his eyes open. Long nails trace the lines of blue green veins.

“You’ve been lonely, haven’t you?” she tilts her head, eyes still piercing and form still fluid. “It covers you, I can smell it,” she leans in close, hair brushing his shoulder as she leans in, nose in the crook of his neck as she inhales, he feels the air change slightly, a charge that wasn’t there before. She comes back up, her eyes are dilated and her lids heavy, intense gaze directed at him.

“You’re so jumpy,” she notes as he steps back. “I can make it so you’re never lonely again,” she steps towards him, invading his space again. She’s too close. Far too close. He can see the flecks of colour in her eyes, the way each of her eyelashes split and dance around as she bats them toward him. “You’ve felt more company with my voice alone than you have in a long while- think how good it could be if I was always around, just like this.” It’s an offer wrapped in flirtation, to prove her point, she trails her fingers up his arm, looping her arm around his neck, pulling him close, their faces inches apart. “All you have to do… is worship me,” she smiles.

At the look of confusion on his face, she smiles. “I can give you anything you want, I’m not just a dream, that’s just what I’m good at. All those visons of yours? They’re all gifts from me. A long time ago, I was powerful, more powerful than this. But now, I’m reduced to this, a whisper in your mind.”

He would hardly call the dreams gifts. They’ve done nothing but plague him. He hesitates, unsure. Her gaze never leaves him; the deepness of her eyes swallows him up.

She leans in, breath brushing the shell of his ear, “Are you going to help me?” but before he has a chance to respond, she’s vanished and the moment she’s gone he jolts awake. Back in his bedroom. The door clicks softly closed, as if someone’s just left. He bolts out of bed and throws the door open, but no one is there.

The next few nights are dreamless, but he does sleep better. Finding himself falling asleep faster, and the loneliness that’s weighed on his heart so long feels a little lighter, the hum follows him around some, only in his quietest moments, a reminder of the creature he hasn’t been able to find again. These nights feel more like gifts than the nightmares he usually has.

The few weeks following the first dream blur together, night after night she visits him. He’s slept better than he has in months. In the nights he spends in that void realm with her, he’s learned a lot about her. She told him her name, her intent to grow a following, become a real god again. The way she laments about missing helping those that follow her. Her visions seem so grounded, he wants to help her. Despite all her otherworldly beauty, he thinks he sees something in her, something helpless. He wants to help her- so he agrees. He agrees to worship her and to follow her. She is delighted, clapping her hands and smiling, as if she hadn’t expected him to. But he knows that she knows he was never going to say no. he’d agree to anything if it meant keeping her around.

He hasn’t had companionship like this for so long. He can feel her presence like a blanket around him, the knowledge of her around him. Her voice and her song keep him warm from the inside out. He wanders through his days revigorated. Her presence enough to get him through the day. A balm that salves the torn hole in his chest, enough to dull the bruising around his battered heart and ribs.

He finds himself in that state with her so often now. Safe in these moments with her. They sit together, discussing everything from his fears to her plans. He talks of his loneliness, or she tells him of how she used to be. The domains she ruled and the power she held.

But something eats at him. How can this woman be so hungry, as ravishing for attention and starved as she is when he’s right there? He- in the last few weeks- has come to realise he would lay his life down for her and her cause if she asked. She almost has; she’s asked him to become her mouthpiece. Her face to the world. He agreed. Her conditions were for him to start making music again. He told her he couldn’t, not with the amount he had to work. he couldn’t afford it, but how he wanted to- he had already been scrawling lines about her in margins of extra notepaper and the back of napkins when the inspiration struck him. She only laughed, saying she’d make it happen.

“Do you think about what I taste like?” she asks, she doesn’t turn to face him, content to stare into the void stretching endlessly before them. He often wonders what would happen if he walked in.

He balks at her question. “In what way?” he asks softly, he copies her, staring forward. He doesn’t want to face her either. They often have their most intimate conversations facing away from each other.

“Any way.” She hums, head tilted, waiting for his response.

“Well… yeah, I mean- of course, yeah.” He tries to control his breathing, to not say half the things he wants to, but something probes him to, pulls at his inhibitions a little. “I think about tasting you,” he says softly, looking down at her lips, he can see the tip of her tongue behind her teeth. “I think about all the places I could taste you,” his eyes drift down to where the hem of her dress is still hoisted up her thigh. He’s decidedly vague. A part of him doesn’t want her to read into it. A part of him is desperate for her to read into it.

She nods wordlessly, unsurprised by his response. She knows how deeply he feels. She can see all the dreams his brain stores locked up, he can’t remember what happens in those late-night intervals in the morning. She can. From his darkest nightmares of hooded cults and bloodstained antlers to his brightest dreams of flashing lights and headliner shows. 

She makes him wait for her response. She lets him sit with his own desire, stewing in bubbling feelings he cannot shake. At least not in this dream with her presence surrounding him from what feels like every angle. Even if she doesn’t have eyes on him, she can see him. 

Her silence makes his skin crawl. She gives him everything in a few words and pulls the rug from under him. Picks at the fraying edges because she knows he won’t fight it. He plays into it. Hoping she might respond. Might give him some semblance of it back. But she doesn’t. At least now when he expects it. Her lavishing words and praise come when he’s low. Never when he’s up. Never when he wants it. Only when he needs it.  

“You believe that one day you’ll get to?” She asks, it comes from her- not hesitantly but as if she’s piecing thoughts together while she asks. Quick-witted cogs turning faster than he can keep up with, so he nods, unthinking of consequence. 

“Belief is strong,” she states, her voice is hollow and clinical, outside of herself, “if you must imagine my form to satisfy yourself, you may.” 

She turns back to him, more spring in her movements, animation returning to her figure, her joints move with less friction, and she smiles again, warmth returning to her voice. He sits jaw slacked at her words. He couldn’t possibly do that to her. Could he?

“I’m just playing with you,” she grins, before brushing him off. “Tell me about your new song?” And he does. He tells her all about the new lyrics and ideas he has planned. But something in that chills him. 

Over the weeks it happens more, moments, cracks, seeds of doubt. She’s hollow and mechanical in moments he can’t form a pattern to. Her eyes glassy and staring, never ever looking at him, choosing to look away when she bares… whatever it is of herself she does. 

But the moments where she’s warm and caring are what he sees in her most often. She’s touchier than any girlfriend he’s had. Sometimes her touch makes his head spin. He can’t tell if it’s because of her or because he’s gone so long without. Regardless, she’s mending something in him. And he needs her to keep doing it. 

a/n: once again, big thanks for sticking around!

[gee10120]

The Sacrilegion of Falling in Love - 7

Chapter Seven - Bloodsport

Vessel x Sleep its kind of an exploratory thing

part 6 | masterlist | part 8 | narrated ver

words: 2242

tws/tags: emetophobia (mentions of throwing up), arachnophobia (spider mentions) heavy angst, like it's basically whump, mentions of body/viscera in a semi body horror way, lots of guilt, panic attack, romanticised violence, vessel is ten times more unreliable than normal

a/n: this felt like a return to form. this felt better to write than the last chapter, maybe i've channeled a little too much of myself into parts of this silly story. but that's the curse of art i think. i would love to say hope you enjoy, and i will, because despite the angsty nature of this chapter, i think it's important for the plot of this story, that has grown so much from what i'd originally envisioned for it. i will say, this is one of the more intense chapters i've written so take care of yourself if the tws aren't your cup of tea <3

He hasn’t slept for three days. It’s haunting him. He can’t eat. He can’t sleep. He won’t eat. He won’t sleep.

Everything is crashing down on him. The temple he built with mud, has finally met its match in the rains of Her bitter disappointment. He rocks himself back and forth in the armchair. Gripping at his sleeves, scratching his skin. It feels like there’s spiders, crawling ever so slowly up his arms. Hundreds of tiny legs meander his exposed skin. He keeps falling in and out of microsleep. His body betraying him. Trying to give him up to the jaws of the very being he is trying to avoid. He can’t give in, not now. The mug of half-drunk coffee is long cold next to him, he doesn’t know how many he’s had- evidently not enough. His hand shakes as he reaches for the mug. He retracts it when he can’t still the tremor. Hiccupping breaths shake his whole diaphragm. He doesn’t think he could swallow it anyway. he doesn’t have the strength.

He doesn’t want to see Her. Not because She was ever angry, but because his own guilt is feasting on him so deeply. Gnashing teeth and poisoned tongues torture his insides, twisting up his guts and eating up his viscera, the guilt swallowing him up.

She is so cruel, so arrogant, She has never cared about the dizzy states She leaves him in, only caring to come back when the need suits Her, if it suits Her. He hates her. He wants to hate Her.

He can’t hate Her. Not when She is the only thing that ever gives him the attention he so desperately craves. A dog that comes back each time he’s kicked because the boot is the closest thing to a kiss he knows. Tail between his legs as he begs and pleads to an open and empty sky. Praying and offering and gifting. He will take anything. A whisper in his dreams. he won’t even ask for all of Her, he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything.

He thinks of his past lover. It’s the first time he has allowed himself to. He hasn’t been able to. He doesn’t think he can now. But he owes it to her. He rocks back and forth more frantically. He hasn’t thought about her. He hasn’t looked her up or anything since he left her body in that bathroom. Maybe she was found. She probably was. He isn’t afraid of being caught. He has always been a man of consequences. He would do the time for it if it ever went back to him. He owes her that much. But he’s terrified. Terrified to face her in turning himself in. Terrified even more that facing the consequences of this would mean facing himself. He cannot do that, despite how wrong he is for it. The feeling of disgust still crawls through his intestines, weaving its way through his insides. He wants to be sick. She deserved more. Far more.

The girl from the club deserved more. Sleep deserves more. His bandmates deserve more. He cannot be what anyone needs him to be. He has done terrible things. In the name of what? A God that doesn’t even care for him. He has doomed himself and everyone else to the disappointment of a deity that he cannot get back. He is not scared of a It, but he is terrified of himself. He wants to crawl out of his skin and pick himself apart until he bursts at the seams. Scratch up his skin till it bleeds. Hurt himself the way he hurts everyone else. He looks down at his arms. Red and blotched and nicked from his ragged and chewed nails trying to scratch off bugs that he can’t feel anymore.

He gets up, paces around the room, shaking his hands. The sensations around him get more intense, pressing into his body as if there are forces in the room he cannot see. Poking and prodding him like a patient in surgery. His breathing quickens. Jolting and stunted. He shakes more, scratches harder. He can’t cope. He can’t cope he can’t cope He can’t cope.

He screams. He stands in his living room and wails.

He cries for his lover, he thinks of her pretty face, her infectious smile, her gentle touches, and he thinks about the way she was there for him. So keen to help him through his bouts of loneliness, so happy to stay by his side through his worst moments. He cries harder. She didn’t deserve that. He should not have ever been able to do that. To take her future from her. She loved him for how he was and how he had been. She had accepted his love and his guilt and his shame. She had cloaked him in warmth.

She would wait for him -- in the early days, curled up in the corner of the studio couches while he recorded the original demos. Fell asleep to the sound of his voice and praise-soaked words. He’d wake her up and drive her back home, eyes heavy from her interrupted sleep. There was a lightness in his chest as he watched her there, small smile tugging on her lips with her eyes closed. She’d stay till he left, pour over the lyrics with him, content to watch him weave his magic into the music.

Tears slip down his cheeks, salty and covering his skin, he doesn’t move to dry them off.

He wants her back, now more than ever, but he cannot have her.

He wants to be sick, he wonders if he could expel the guilt from his body through his own vomit, he wants to shove his fingers in his throat, be rid of everything inside of him. watch his intestines, his guts, his lungs, his heart splatter onto the floor and cover it with the blood. Watch his own blood bleed into the carpet, soaking it. Spilling his own blood won’t fix anything, it won’t ever settle the debt, but it might make him feel some ounce of what he’s inflicted upon others, however selfish it makes him.

He thinks of the girl from the club. How he used her. Desecrated her. Left her in the dark about his intentions. He claws at his face as he remembers the shy blush that spread across her features when she handed him her number. The giggled invitation for more. She was so lovely, so kind, so understanding. He didn’t harm her, but he feels like he did. She’ll wait by her phone and wonder why he didn’t call, why he didn’t text, what she did wrong.

He has failed. He sings of reverence for women, one woman. But his hands have brought about nothing but pain. He hates himself for it. Sleep is right. She is always right. Every relationship he touches turns to ash. He managed to cause a God to flee from his clutches. He ruined Her as much as he ruined the other two.

He thinks about his members, all so much more well-adjusted to this dynamic than he. II so content to appreciate the music, his worship is secondary to his craft. And III, happy to serve It so long as he could continue to be himself. Be himself. A concept so foreign to him. Now only a vessel. The first vessel. She only ever refers to him as such. As Vessel. Stripped him of whoever he used to be and made him up into the image of her disciple.

And IV, the guitarist, so stoic, a knight, talks less but his words have always held more weight. Even in his stretching silences, he doesn’t ever seem phased by the false promises hanging over his head like a sword on a thread.

Why are they not haunted? Why doesn’t She torment them the way She torments him?

And finally, he thinks of Her. Thinks of how deeply ensnared he is. He doesn’t think She’ll want him back. He wants her to want him. He wants to go back. He wants to crawl into Her arms more than anything. Smell Her sugar and smoke perfume. Taste Her on his tongue. He needs Her fingers in his hair and Her whispered words against the shell of his ear. To feel Her breathing close to him. He doesn’t deserve it. He wants it so bad it’s tearing him up, splitting him apart with the ache to be seen. To be known by someone. Anyone. Even if that someone is a deity with no real care for him. At least She pretends, he hopes She’ll pretend forever.

They will never get that September night back. He will never get it back. He won’t get Her body wrapped in his, Her fingers in his hair and Her lips meshed with his. Falling asleep with Her legs entwined with his. He won’t ever see love bites on Her neck or watch the way Her eyes stare at the walls of his room.

He never waits, he always acts out, but he doesn’t know how else to love but to bite. To sink his teeth so deeply into something that it cannot escape his clenched canines and molars. And even if it does, he’d leave a mark so deep they could never forget him, carry a piece of him wherever he went so he couldn’t ever be forgotten. He would choose Her to leave Her mark on him every time, the teeth of her jaw the only pain that dulls the rest of his aches. He knows he is Her favourite regret; he is the best worst thing to ever happen to Her. The biggest mistake She ever made was crawling into his dreams that very first night, but he knows, despite how much he disappoints, how much he angers her, that deep down, he fascinates It. And fascination is the closest thing that he will get to It sticking around.

He should be punished. He wants to be punished, he has done terrible acts, horrible acts that he should never have been able to commit in the first place. He needs Her warm hand around his neck, delicate fingers caressing his throat, pink nails hover over his rabbit-quick pulse. Her soft-spoken disappointment, sugary sweet berating words. From Her, any attention is good attention, isn’t it?

He sobs, rock himself, tries to soothe himself as the panic truly sets in. The recognition of how trapped he is. Back and forth thoughts. Does he want to be? Yes. No. Maybe. Fear settling so deep in the marrow that it chills him. He catches a photo on the mantelpiece, looking for anything to tether himself to. Himself as a boy. He stands by a bike with skinned knees and a big grin. Tousled hair from a parent, he can’t now remember which one, perhaps whoever had taken the photo? He cries harder. He weeps for the boy in the photo, how he has sentenced him to the same slaughter as he. The boy in the photo doesn’t know what’s to come. He doesn’t know of the loneliness that will entrap his heart and wrap around his ribs like iron.

He has sentenced the women in his life too, each unaware of the pain he is capable of causing, so caught up in his own need, his own selfish desires that he cannot stand to not try to control it. Bend his lovers to his will. To make them stay until they don’t.

He has condemned his bandmates. He is the thread that binds. The one that ties them together into this divine chaos. He has them ensnared by Its practice. They don’t know they cannot escape, and he doesn’t plan to tell them.

And he has condemned the whole world by parading her message across so many stages.

It hits him like a ton of bricks. There has not been love in his life for a very long time. And nothing he can do will stitch the ache back together again if it cannot be Her. He needs to find something of hers, to bring him close to her again. He needs it.

He stumbles out of the chair. Brain feeling like it’s melting in his skull and pouring out of his ears. He feels heavy. So heavy. His head feels too big for his body, like someone tried to blow him up with helium. It lolls as he tries to keep himself attached, head to body, arms to torso. He drags his way into the study. Crashing into walls and trying to steady himself. The room is dark, the pictures still line the walls, maw and antler and canine. Eyes and eyes and eyes. Watching. Judging. She is judging. She can see him. She has to see him. Please stop looking. He can’t- he can’t think- think think think.

He blinks, closes his eyes, scrunches them to try to bring himself back but he can’t. The room spins, the world swimming, he looks up for the lightbulb, it’s spinning and spinning. He feels sick again. When did he last eat? The room gets darker and darker. He sees the floor is coming at him. He tries to shout but he can’t get the words out. It’s faster than he can process. His head hits the floor with a dense thud. Everything turns black.

a/n: as always, it means the world that you read or are reading this! i won't harp on, anyways, hope you enjoyed <3

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

are we too late? are we too far? // jack abbot pt. 1

At nineteen, you told Jack Abbot that you’d marry him someday. He laughed it off and disappeared from your life for eleven years. Now, you’re months away from marrying a safe, stable man. Until you lock eyes with Jack across a bar, and your perfectly curated life completely shatters.

genre: dad's ex-best friend!jack x reader, age gap, forbidden romance, mutual pining, eventual smut nsfw mdni

word count: 2700+

(a/n: i've had this one in the drafts for far too long. oooooohhhweeee i love this concept. has me giggling and kicking my feet whilst writing it. there will be a second and final part don't you worry.)

Then

"You're glaring." Jack said. He didn’t look up from the bed of his truck, his massive, infuriatingly broad shoulders working as he hauled a heavy plastic bin toward the tailgate. "It feels very vengeful gremlin. Stop it."

"I am not glaring." you lied, crossing your arms over your chest to keep the chill from the wind out and from the sinking feeling opening up in your stomach. "I am observing. There’s a difference."

"Right. And the term for burning a hole through the back of my flannel with your eyes is what, exactly?" He finally turned around, wiping grease off his palms with a tattered red rag.

He looked entirely out of place in the gravel driveway of your father’s crumbling, overgrown house. But then, Jack had always looked out of place here. He was the only functional adult who had ever walked through that front door. 

And now, he was walking away for good.

"I’m documenting the exact moment my favorite person decides to abandon me to the wolves." you murmured, your throat suddenly tight.

Jack’s teasing expression faltered. He dropped the rag onto the tailgate and took two slow steps toward you, effectively obliterating your personal space. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back just to keep eye contact, a fact that you resented on a daily basis.

"I’m not abandoning you." he said, his voice dropping. "We talked about this, kid. Your dad...I can’t do it anymore. If I stay around, if I keep letting him drag me into his disasters, I'm going to end up throwing him through a wall. And that helps exactly no one."

Especially not me, you thought. You knew what your dad was. A master class in parental negligence, a man who viewed his daughter as an inconvenience until he needed a loan or a designated driver. 

Jack had spent the last year playing shield. Fixing the plumbing your dad ignored, buying groceries when the fridge was empty, stepping between your father’s alcohol fueled rages and your quiet bedroom.

"I know." you whispered, hating how small you sounded. Hating that you were nineteen and yet entirely unequipped to handle the reality of him leaving. "I get it. He's a parasite. You should leave."

"But?" Jack prompted softly, tilting his head.

"But it sucks."

A corner of his mouth tugged upward, a faint, bittersweet smile. He reached out, his large hand coming down on top of your head, affectionately rustling your hair the way he always did when he thought you were being dramatic. "You’re going to college in the spring. You’re getting out of here. You just have to hold down the fort for a few more months, okay? If you need anything, you call me. I’m cutting ties with him, not you."

It was a safe promise. 

And suddenly the suffocating reality of how much you loved him, how much you had loved him since he first showed up to drag your dad out of a bar, boiled over. 

"I’m going to marry you someday." you said.

Jack froze. His hand stayed resting on your head before he slowly lowered it, his dark eyes blinking in confusion. "What?"

"You heard me." You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets so he wouldn't see them shaking. "I'm going to marry you someday. Plan accordingly."

The confusion on his face morphed into a booming laugh that rattled right through your ribs. He shook his head.  "Jesus, kid." he chuckled, leaning his hip against the truck tailgate. "You really are losing it. I think the stress is finally liquefying your brain."

"I am entirely lucid." you insisted, your heart hammering against your sternum.

"Sure you are. Look, I know I'm a catch." he teased, his eyes glittering with amusement as he pointed a finger at you. "But I'm twelve years older than you, I have a bad knee, and my current retirement plan is hoping the lottery works out. You're nineteen. Go find some college kid who thinks a romantic evening is sharing a box of cheap pizza, and leave the old men out of it."

"You're not old."

"I'm ancient by your standards. Now get inside before you freeze." He waved a dismissive hand, turning back to his truck to close the tailgate. 

You turned and walked toward the porch, the gravel crunching beneath you. You didn't look back. 

As you reached for the doorknob of the house you hated, the lighthearted mask you’d worn slid completely away. Your chest felt tight, a wild, terrifying spark of certainty settling deep into your bones.

He thought you were joking. He thought it was a silly, dramatic crush from a teenage girl who had a bad dad and a soft spot for the guy who saved her.

But as you pulled the door open and stepped into the dim hallway, you knew with absolute clarity that you had never been more serious about anything in your entire life.

It was unfortunate then that you wouldn’t see Jack Abbot for another eleven years. 

…

Now

"I think we should go with the eggshell white for the table linens." Meg said, waving a heavy, binder in front of your face. "Standard white is too aggressive. It screams hospital cafeteria, and we want understated elegance. Thoughts?"

You blinked, pulling yourself out of the haze that had taken over your brain three months ago when wedding planning officially began. "Is there a difference between eggshell and ivory?"

Meg looked at you with the pity of a maid of honor who was single handedly dragging a reluctant bride across the finish line. "One has warm undertones, one has cool undertones. Do you want your guests to feel cozy or intellectually stimulated while they eat their prime rib?"

"I want them to be fed and silent." you muttered, resting your chin in your hand.

You were sitting in your apartment, the coffee table entirely buried under fabric swatches, floral arrangement lookbooks, and a seating chart that confused the hell out of you. 

From the bedroom, the sound of typing drifted through the cracked door. David. Your fiancé. A man who possessed a master’s degree in data analytics, an impeccably organized sock drawer, and a temperament so blindingly stable it felt like a weighted blanket for your chaotic soul. David didn't yell. David didn't forget to pay the electric bill. David didn't bring volatile drama into your life.

He was safe. He was exactly what a girl who grew up with a father like yours was supposed to want.

"You're doing that thing again." Meg observed, tapping her pen against the binder.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at your engagement ring like it’s a tiny handcuff instead of a three carat symbol of eternal devotion."

You instinctively dropped your hand into your lap, the platinum band suddenly feeling incredibly heavy on your finger. "I am not. I love the ring. I love David. I am just tired. Decision fatigue is a real medical phenomenon, Meg."

"Right. Well, the good news is David already approved the catering invoice." she said, flipping a page. "He made a spreadsheet comparing the price per head of four different vendors against their Yelp reviews. He’s very efficient."

"He is." you agreed, forcing a smile. "He's incredibly efficient."

When David asked you to marry him six months ago after a perfectly pleasant dinner, it had made total, logical sense. Your twenties had been a blur of trying to stabilize your life, working a steady job, and actively untangling the emotional wreckage your father had left behind. 

David was peace. He was the quiet harbor.

So why, as you looked at the eggshell fabric swatch in your hand, did you feel like you were suffocating?

"I need a drink." you announced suddenly, pushing yourself up from the couch. The walls of the apartment felt like they were closing in.

Meg raised an eyebrow. "It's a Thursday night."

"Exactly. The perfect night for a gin and tonic. Want to come?"

She looked longingly at the mountain of swatches, then at her watch. "I can't, babe. I promised my mom I’d call her by eight. But go. Escape. Command David to join you for a celebratory beverage."

You glanced back toward the bedroom door. The typing hadn't stopped. 

"No." you said quietly, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. "David’s working. I'll just slip down to the bar on the corner for an hour. A little solo decompression."

…

You pushed the heavy wooden door to the bar open, the overhead bell chime was immediately swallowed by the hum of a Thursday night crowd. The air inside was warm with the low murmur of conversations and clinking of pint glasses.

You threaded your way through the standing crowd toward the far end of the bar, finding a rare, empty leather stool near the service well. You sat down, sliding your purse onto the counter, your fingers instinctively finding the band on your ring finger. You began to rotate it. A nervous habit. 

The bartender wiped down the wood in front of you. "What can I get you?"

"Gin and tonic, please. Lime if you have it."

He nodded and vanished. You let out a long breath, closing your eyes for a fraction of a second to let the frantic pacing of wedding checklists drain out of your head. 

"I’m telling you, if the CT scan shows a retroperitoneal hematoma, you don't wait for the labs." a voice echoed from across the room, slicing through the noise of the bar. "You call trauma surgery immediately. If his pressure drops in the middle of the night, a spreadsheet of his blood counts isn't going to save him."

Your entire nervous system seemed to short circuited.

The sound of the bartender dropping ice into your glass faded. Your breath hitched, freezing right in the middle of your chest. You didn't move. You couldn't. Because your brain, despite eleven years of therapeutic distance and deliberate forgetting, recognized that voice with instantaneous accuracy.

Slowly, you turned your head.

You looked past the crowded center of the bar, your eyes tracking the sound toward a large, dimly lit booth in the far back corner. There was a group of four or five people sitting there but your brain entirely bypassed them.

It locked directly onto Jack Abbot.

Eleven years had done things to him. Unfair, frustrating things. 

He was sitting with his back partially against the wood paneling, one massive arm stretched out across the top of the booth’s leather cushion. The boyish edge to his jawline was entirely gone, replaced by a rugged permanence that only came with time and the unimaginable stress of running an emergency room. 

His hair was mostly silver now, but he still had those curls that you used to love so much.

You just stared. You took him in like a person dying of thirst who had unexpectedly stumbled into an ocean. You watched the way his fingers loosely gripped a lowball glass of amber liquid, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as a resident across the table nodded rapidly, absorbing everything he said.

Then, one of the residents cracked a self deprecating joke and Jack threw his head back and laughed. It was that uninhibited sound you used to listen for through the floorboards of your childhood bedroom. The sound that meant the storm had passed and you were safe for the night.

But as the laugh faded, Jack’s head came back down. His gaze drifted casually across the crowded bar, tracking the room with a lazy, relaxed familiarity.

Until his eyes hit your face. And stopped.

The change in him was instantaneous. The easy, relaxed posture vanished. Jack was frozen, his entire frame locking up as his eyes widened, just a fraction, in shock. 

His glass stayed suspended halfway to his mouth. The lazy amusement in his face was entirely wiped clean, replaced by a stunned, piercing gaze that was pressing against your chest from across the room. 

He stared at you as if he were looking at a ghost. As if he couldn't quite determine if the alcohol or the dim lighting was playing a cruel trick on him.

Panic taking over, you abruptly tore your eyes away. You spun your stool back around to face the bar, your hands trembling so hard you had to clasp them together in your lap.

"Here you go. Gin and tonic." the bartender said, sliding the glass in front of you.

"Thank you." you breathed, your voice sounding thin and reedy even to your own ears.

You grabbed the glass, your knuckles white, and brought it to your lips. You took a long sip, the sharp bite of the gin doing absolutely nothing to calm the wildfire currently roaring through your veins. You kept your eyes glued to the rows of liquor bottles on the wall, staring intensely at a bottle of cheap vodka as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Just leave, your internal monologue screamed. Pay for the drink, stand up, and walk out the door.

But you didn't move. You sat there, sipping nervously, your ears hyper tuned to the noise behind you, waiting for the inevitable.

You didn’t hear his footsteps over the chatter of the bar, but you felt him. The pressure shifted, the light dimming as a towering shadow fell over your left shoulder. The scent of rain and something deeply, inherently Jack invaded your senses.

He stopped right beside your stool, not saying a word at first. He just stood there waiting until you finally found the courage to look up.

When you did, he was looking down at you, his jaw tight, his eyes searching your face.

"I’d know the back of that head anywhere." Jack murmured. "Even if you did finally change your hair."

…

Your vocal cords felt like they’d been sutured together. You just stared up at him, your fingers around your gin and tonic, desperately hoping the dim bar lighting didn't betray the frantic pulse at the base of your throat.

"Jack." you finally managed.

A grin broke across his face. Without asking, he slid into the empty leather stool next to yours, his shoulder brushing against your arm. The casual dominance of his presence immediately erased the rest of the crowded room. He flagged down the bartender. "Bourbon. Neat. And whatever she’s having, put it on my tab."

"I can pay for my own drink, actually," you shot back, the old defensive reflex kicking in before your brain could stop it. You anchored your heels onto the brass rung of the stool, trying to match his height as best you could. "I have a big girl job now. I’m a fully functioning member of the tax paying public."

Jack tilted his head, his face doing that infuriating amusement you remembered all too well. "A big girl job? Is that right? I know you're an adult. I just heard you order a cocktail that tastes like pine needles and regret. Nineteen year old you would have demanded something neon green and loaded with sugar."

"It’s a sophisticated palate." you sniffed, taking a defiant sip. "And I overheard your little performance back there. 'You call trauma surgery immediately.' Honestly, do you ever stop playing god, or do you just like terrifying your underlings in public so they know you're the smartest guy in the room?" You couldn’t help being a brat. The feelings of him leaving you bubbling up, making you pissed off all over again.

"They’re interns." Jack corrected smoothly, leaning an elbow on the bar, shifting his torso so he was completely facing you. The scent of him was overwhelming. "And they need to be terrified. If they lose their heads because a patient's blood pressure drops, they don't belong in my ER. It's called guidance, kid."

"It's called being bossy.”

Jack let out a chuckle, a sound that rattled right through your ribs, agonizingly familiar. He shook his head, his eyes darkening as he leaned a fraction of an inch closer. "God, I missed your mouth." he murmured.

The words hung in the air between you. The banter evaporated, leaving a silence. Jack’s gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before lifting back to your eyes, searching them.

Fuck.

You were fucked.

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

one last chance // jack abbot pt. 2

Jack knows you were the one that got away. So when the crew receives your save the date for your wedding, he decides he's got one last chance to right all of his wrongs.

genre: jack abbot x resident!reader, friends to lovers, smut 18+ mdni, rom com-ish if you squint???

word count: 3200

(a/n: ahhhh yay!!! hope you guys enjoyed this one :) now i'm really meant to take a break from writing for a minute, but you know me. i'll probably have a new story posted by next week lol. until next time, thank you for all the kind words!!)

part 1

Robby announces the lake house weekend like he has been waiting to deploy this idea for some time.

"Team building!" he says, at the nurses' station, to anyone who will listen. "Good for morale. Good for cohesion. Restorative. My family's place is sitting empty and I've already cleared it with.."

"No one asked you to clear it with anyone." Jack says, not looking up from his chart.

"I cleared it with myself. I'm the one hosting." Robby looks around at the assembled staff. "Friday night through Sunday. Lake house. I'm making food. There's a fire pit."

"I'll come." you say, not looking up from your own chart.

Robby points at you. "See? She's in. Who else?"

Everyone agrees in quick succession. These people who have been working consecutive long shifts and would agree to almost anything that involves not being in a hospital. Jack is the last holdout, and he holds out for a while before Robby turns a stare on him.

Relentless and aggressively well meaning.

"Fine." Jack says and Robby beams.

…

The lake house is exactly what a lake house should be. Weathered wood and a porch that wraps around two sides. The drive out of the city takes forty minutes and deposits them into the Pennsylvania landscape that exists only once you clear the suburbs.

When you pull in you go straight to the porch swing with your bag and a book you've been trying to finish for three weeks, and by the time Jack is done helping Robby unload the cooler from the truck, you are installed on the swing with your feet tucked under you and your book open.

He stops in the porch doorway and watches you turn a page. The afternoon light is doing something almost angelic to your face. The swing moves slightly, just the smallest sway, and you reach up absently to tuck a piece of hair back without taking your eyes off the page, your ring catching the sun sending sparkles along the deck.

"You're staring." Trinity says with a look of undisguised amusement. 

"I'm not staring." Jack says.

"You are. It's a little creepy."

"I was looking at the porch."

"Uh huh." she says, and walks away.

…

In the evening, everyone migrates toward the fire pit as the sky goes orange and then deep blue. Someone brings out blankets. Trinity finds the s'mores supplies in the cabinet where Robby said they'd be. 

You end up next to Jack at the fire. There were several chairs and you took the one next to his like how you take the spot next to him at the nurses' station, the way you always have, and he has long since stopped pretending he doesn't notice it.

Dana is on his other side and Trinity is across the fire, cross legged on a blanket, already armed with a marshmallow laden skewer. "There's a technique." Trinity is explaining, to no one who asked. "You can't rush it. You have to rotate."

You are listening with visible delight, chin resting on your knee, and Jack watches you. You take a marshmallow and find a skewer. You hold it toward the fire and try to follow Trinity’s instructions.

"Rotate." Trinity says.

"I am rotating."

"You're oscillating. That's different."

"Trinity, those are synonyms!" The marshmallow catches.

It goes from golden to inferno in about two seconds, and you make a sound and yank the skewer back, and the marshmallow is fully on fire, blazing merrily. Trinity leans across and blows it out in one breath.

She pulls the marshmallow off the skewer with ease and assembles it between two graham crackers and a square of chocolate and passes it to you. "Eat it before it hardens. " 

You look at it and take a big bite. The sound you make is involuntary. A small, genuine hmm of satisfaction, eyes closing for just a second, and Jack's hand tightens slightly on his own cup.

"Good?" Dana asks.

"Transcendent." you say, with your mouth full.

You turn to look at Jack, presumably to share this opinion with him. You have always done this, turned to him with the things you find interesting or funny or good, as though his reaction is the one that completes the thought. And you're looking at him with this expression, firelit and smiling, melted marshmallow clinging to the corner of your mouth.

He reaches up before he's decided to. His thumb catches the corner of your mouth. One small motion and he feels you go very still under the touch.

He pulls his hand back one second too late before he realizes what he's done.

And then because he is apparently losing his mind, he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks off the residue. 

You are watching him do this with an expression he cannot read in the firelight.

The fire crackles bringing you back into the moment and you look at your hands. You wipe them on your jeans once, deliberately, the gesture of someone buying a moment. "I'm tired." you say, to the fire. "I think I'm going to turn in."

…

Early in the morning, the kitchen is quiet. Jack makes coffee carefully, trying not to wake anyone, and takes it to the porch.

The lake is extraordinary at this hour. He'd expected water and he'd gotten something else entirely. The whole surface is flat and silver, absolutely still, reflecting a sky that's going from dark to the deep blue that it is twenty minutes before actual sunrise.

He's on his second cup when the screen door opens behind him.

He turns and you're in a sweatshirt that's slightly too big for you. Someone else's, by the look of it. 

You stop when you see him. "Oh," you say. "You're up."

"I'm up."

You look at the lake and back at him. "Come row with me." you say. "I want to see the sunrise from the middle."

He could say no. He should probably say no, if he's interested in self preservation. But instead, and against his better judgement, he says "Let me get my shoes."

…

The rowboat seats two if you're comfortable with the other person, which he is, which has always been the problem and the gift of it simultaneously. 

You take the oars first, because you called them, and you row with more competence than he expected and less than you implied, and he watches you figure out the coordination of it in real time. He doesn't offer to take over because you'd find that condescending and also because watching you figure things out is one of his more embarrassing hobbies.

"I can row." you say, without looking at him.

"I know. I'm watching." He can’t help but smile. 

The boat drifts out past the dock, past the shallows, into the open middle of the lake where the water goes dark under you and the sky goes huge. You ship the oars when you've gotten far enough and the boat rocks gently and then settles, and you sit back, and you both look at the horizon.

You're sitting across from him in the amber morning light, your too big sweatshirt, your undressed hair and he feels his heart split wide open. 

If he can’t have you ever in this life, he at least needs you to know just how much you mean to him. 

He says your name and you turn to look at him. "Last night.." he starts.

"Jack."

"No." He shakes his head. "Let me say it." He looks at you across two feet of gently rocking boat, in the middle of a morning that is being unreasonably beautiful, and he says it. "I'm in love with you."

He keeps going, because stopping now seems like the worst possible option. "I have been for a long time. I don't know exactly when it started, or maybe I do and it's embarrassing. I know the timing is terrible. I know you're engaged. I know I'm your attending and I have.." He stops himself from cataloguing all the reasons this is inadvisable, because you know them all, you’re not stupid, and listing them is just another form of cowardice. "I know all of it. I just needed you to know that last night wasn't nothing. That none of it has ever been nothing. You are not and have never been nothing to me."

He can't entirely read your expression from here but you're looking at him like a person processing something large.

You look at the water. "I don't know what to say."

"That's okay. You don't have to say anything." he says, and he means it. "This isn't me asking you to do anything. I just couldn't keep it in anymore. That's all."

The boat rocks slightly and the sun keeps rising, indifferent to the emotions that are being spilled in front of it, golden.

You pick up the oars and you row back to shore.

…

The next three weeks are, in your opinion, all about survival. You put in your personal leave and you didn’t look back.

Jack doesn't call. He doesn't text. From what Trinity tells you in brief, heavily filtered updates, he plunges himself into his rotation trying to outrun his own thoughts.

You know what he thinks. He thinks you're using the time off to finalize the catering, to pack up your apartment, to become someone else's wife. He thinks he's mourning a loss that already happened.

He has no idea you spent those three weeks staring at your living room wall, untangling a life you never should have built, and finally calling off the engagement.

…

Jack clocks in at his usual time. He’s running on four hours of sleep and bad breakroom coffee. He walks up to the central nurses' station, ready to grab his first round of charts, and stops dead.

Draped over the back of the swivel chair is your denim jacket. He knows because it’s covered with iron on patches and he can smell the lavender laundry detergent you use all the way from here.

His chest tightens and he’s three patients in before he actually catches sight of you.

You’re standing by the trauma bays, talking to Trinity. You look tired, but lighter. Clearer. When you turn your head, your eyes find his. No flinching. No looking away. It's a challenge and an invitation all at once. Trinity says something to you, breaking the spell, and you look back down at your iPad.

By eleven pm, you disappear.

It’s entirely instinctual, the way he knows exactly where you went. He doesn't even check anywhere else. He just heads for the metal door at the end of the hall and starts to climb the stairs, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

Hoping to God he isn’t wrong.

…

You're at the edge of the roof, standing a few feet back from the ledge with your arms folded across your chest.

You hear the door groan open and you turn. He’s never been able to sneak up on you.

You look at him across the rooftop, watching as he closes the distance, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He comes to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, the familiar warmth of him cutting through the cold night air.

You inhale and break the silence. “I called my engagement off.”

This time, you don’t turn to look at him. You keep your eyes fixed on the cars driving around downtown. 

Jack lets out a long sigh, his head dropping back. "I need you to know that I said what I said on the lake because it was the truth. Not because I was trying to..I would never want you to derail your life, or do something that wasn't right for you, just because I opened my mouth."

"Jack." you say gently.

"I don't want you to have done this because of me," he presses on, the words tumbling out in a panicked, defensive rush. "I want you to have done it because it was the right.."

"Jack."

"..thing for you. Because you deserve a life that.."

You turn, grab the collar of his scrubs, and kiss him.

It stops him completely. His hands find your waist on pure instinct, steadying you, and you're kissing him and after a half second of stunned stillness, he kisses you back. 

It’s the only sensible response. It’s the only response he’s capable of.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands resting flat against his chest. You can feel his heart beating wildly. 

"I did it because it was right." you say, your voice steady. "And because I've been in love with you for an embarrassing amount of time, and I finally stopped talking myself out of it."

"How long?" he asks, his voice rough.

You look up at him and you can’t help but smile. It does what it always does to him, which is make him feel like he could take on the world. 

"Since forever, I think." you say.

He closes his eyes briefly, leaning his forehead against yours. "We were such.."

"Spectacular idiots? I know." Your hands curl into his scrubs, pulling him a fraction closer. "We should probably work on that."

"Probably." he says, and this time, he's the one who leans in.

…

The drive from the hospital is thick with tension, the kind that accumulates after years of longing. The second Jack shuts his apartment door behind you, everything snaps.

He doesn’t even let you drop your bag. His hands find the sides of your face, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you into a kiss. It’s deep and desperate, a mutual pouring out of everything you both held back. 

You’re pressed flush against him, your hands gripping the fabric of his jacket.

When he finally breaks the kiss for air, his forehead rests against yours, his chest heaving. His voice is a whisper against your lips. "There’s a lot of things I'm not sure of in life," he breathes, his thumb tracing your cheekbone, "but one thing I am one hundred percent certain about is seeing you spread out on my bed."

The words send a sudden heat straight to your core. He takes your hand, leading you into the bedroom. The room is dimly lit and quiet.

Jack sits on the edge of the mattress first and he reaches out, his hands wrapping around your hips to pull you between his thighs. He looks up at you and there’s so much tenderness in his eyes. "Come here." he murmurs.

He reaches for the drawstring of your scrub pants. His fingers are steady but impatient, untying the knot and tugging the fabric down over your hips. You step out of them, standing before him in just your scrub top and underwear. Jack’s gaze darkens, he hums approval as his large hands slide up your bare thighs, smoothing over the warm skin with a reverence that makes you ache.

He doesn't make you wait. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, he slides them down your legs. You step out of them, and before you can even process the cool air of the room, Jack is leaning forward, guiding you to shift back just slightly so you're leaning against the edge of the mattress, completely open to him.

He hooks his arms securely under your knees, supporting your weight and holding you steady against him. When his mouth brushes against the inside of your thigh, you let out a soft gasp, your fingers instantly tangling in his hair.

Then, he presses his tongue to you.

You throw your head back. 

Jack is deliberate, his tongue sweeping over you in slow, wet strokes. He knows exactly how to lick you, his thumbs pressing into your hips to hold you right where he wants you. 

"Jack, please." you whimpered, your knees trembling.

He only groans against your skin and quickens the pace, his tongue flattening out, putting just enough pressure exactly where you need it. The pleasure coils tight and fast in your stomach. You grip his shoulders, your breath hitching into gasps as the tension stretches to a breaking point.

With one deliberate, deep swirl of his tongue, you snap. Your hips arch into his mouth and Jack drinks in your cries, holding you firmly, his tongue continuing to stroke you soothingly until your breathing slows and your muscles go soft.

Before you can even fully come down from the high, Jack is moving. He shifts back onto the bed, sitting up fully against the headboard.

He pulls his own scrub top over his head, followed by his pants and tosses them to the floor. He reaches out, his hands finding the hem of your scrub top, pulling it up and over your head until you’re both completely bare to one another. He looks at you, his eyes drinking in every inch of you in the dim light/

"Get on top of me." he commands softly. "Straddle me."

You shift your weight so you're kneeling over his lap. As you settle down, you feel the hard length of him pressing right against your center.

Jack reaches between you, guiding himself to your opening. He doesn't rush. He holds your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin. "Look at me." he whispers.

You look down into his eyes, and slowly you sink down.

A sigh tears from Jack’s throat as you take him all at once. He arches up slightly, his hands gripping your waist as your body stretches around him, tight and incredibly wet. 

You gasp and rest your hands flat against his chest, feeling his heart doing that same wild dancing you felt on the roof.

"You feel so good." he groans, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second before snapping back open to lock onto yours. "You're perfect."

You begin to move, lifting yourself slightly and sliding back down his length. The angle is incredibly deep. Because he's seated, every downward stroke forces you flush against him.  Allowing you to lean into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

It starts out slow and sweet, filled with soft, open mouthed kisses against his jaw and collarbone. But the pent up longing quickly takes over. Your movements become hungrier, harder. You roll your hips, riding him desperately. 

His hands slide from your waist down to your thighs, helping to guide you, his strong grip keeping you perfectly balanced and secure on his lap. Every time you come down, he meets you, his hips tilting up to drive deeper into you.

"I love you." you whisper against his skin, the words pouring out of you.

His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your hips. "I love you. Say it again." 

"I love you."

That's his breaking point. He pulls you tight against his chest, his upper body locking you as you begin to clench around him.

The friction sends you right back over the edge. Hearing you shatter is the catalyst for him. He groans as his hips drive up one last time as he pulses deeply inside you, filling you completely.

Jack’s arms stay wrapped around you, holding you against his chest while his lips press a soft kiss to your temple. He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I'm never letting you go again."

You let out a laugh as you lean up to press a gentle kiss to his jaw. "You don't have to" you whisper against his skin. "I'm right where I'm supposed to be."

taglist: @garci7 @loki-miss-a @madprincessinabox @jennataurus @woodxtock @vicky066 @starlitflora @midnightalbatross @proudlyvastlake @saralovesjoelmiller @lllla717 @thegirlwhowaited5everok @fudge13 @tiddieshakeshownu

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

i got me someone else instead // jack abbot pt. 2

you agree to open your relationship after your boyfriend kept begging. at first he's on the apps getting absolutely zero matches, but then he gets a date. And the first time you go out with your friends with the full intention to find someone, you meet jack abbot. and he is hell bent on making sure you do not forget him.

genre: jack abbot x tattoo artist!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, best friend trinity, smut 18+ nsfw, lots of dialogue. sorry, i got carried away lmao

word count: 5500

(a/n: in writing this, i came to the unsurprising revelation that this character will have me in a chokehold for a while. and i'm okay with that. he's mine. that's mine. )

part 1

You had convinced yourself the guest room was a real contingency and not just a lie you’d been telling yourself to justify staying in this bed for as long as you had. Jack’s voice cut through the dark. "When did you stop?"

You turned your head, the friction of the pillow loud in the quiet. He wasn’t looking at you, he was staring at the ceiling. "Stop what?"

"Choosing things for yourself."

You tried to find an answer, but your throat was dry, your mind a terrifying blank.

You had chosen Derek. It felt like a single, monumental decision at the time, but you realized now it was actually a thousand tiny surrenders. Incrementally, year by year, you had rearranged the furniture of your entire life to fit around the shape of him. 

"I don't know," you said finally.

Eventually, you did go. You waited until his breathing evened out into sound of deep sleep. You lay there long enough to know that if you didn't move in this exact heartbeat, you’d be anchored there forever. 

You gathered yourself, slipping out from under the covers and retreating to the guest room. The bed was cold. You lay there, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, while his question sat open in the center of your chest.

When sleep finally pulled you under, you didn't dream about Derek.

...

It was Friday morning, two days after you’d got up and left Jack’s place early in the morning without a goodbye when he texted. 

Jack: Hope your ceiling situation is getting sorted.

He was giving you an out, a way to be normal about it all. You stared at the blue bubble for a long time, the memory of his question still echoing in the back of your mind.

You: Ceiling is getting sorted. Thank you again.

His response came while you were in the middle of setting up for your first client of the day.

Jack: For you? Anytime.

An open invitation, or you guess, a door to him? You felt a traitorous curve of your lips before you could stop it.

"Stop smiling at your phone." Bella said. She was across the room, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

"I'm not!" you said, quickly locking the screen and sliding the phone into your pocket.

…

Just when you thought you’d finally managed to stop the constant loop of him in your head, the texts would come in.

They were always casual, aggressively so, but they still did something to you. They made a warm feeling stir in your belly. 

Jack: How are you doing?

"Fine." you typed back. Then, you paused. "Fine" felt dishonest, and for some reason, he was the last person you wanted to be dishonest with.

You: Better than fine. How are you?

Jack: Just got off. Long night. Good coffee though. Small victories.

You: Very small.

Jack: The smallest. Get some sleep tonight.

It felt mundane. The assumption that you probably hadn't been sleeping. Which you hadn't.

You: you too.

Jack: Already on it.

…

Then, a photo. A medium sized dog of indeterminate breed standing outside the hospital entrance, wearing a bright yellow raincoat. 

You laughed out loud in your empty apartment. 

You: Why is he dressed like that.

Jack: It's raining!

You: It is not raining enough for that.

Jack: Tell that to his owner.

…

This one almost did you in. A voice note, which surprised you. You stood outside in the afternoon sun with your phone pressed to your ear, listening to his voice.

"I'm outside a bookshop. There's a display in the window. Botanical illustration, old prints, the kind with the Latin names at the bottom. It's on the block past the coffee place. Thought you should know it exists."

You listened to it three more times before replying.

…

It was late Friday night. You were still up, not for any particular reason, just the insomnia of a brain that wouldn't stop moving, when your phone buzzed.

Jack: Are you awake?

You: yep. are you working?

Jack: I am. Thinking about food though. There's a place near my apartment that does breakfast at midnight. Eggs and everything. I've been going for years.

You looked at the text, the intimacy of the routine bleeding through the screen.

You: That's either the best or worst thing I've ever heard.

Jack: Best. Definitely best. You'd like it.

You: I do appreciate eggs at midnight.

Jack: I knew it. Then, sometime?

You: Sometime.

Jack: Good. Go to sleep.

…

The last one before everything changed came on a Thursday evening. It was ordinary in every way except that it wasn't. You were locking up the shop, keys in hand, when the phone buzzed.

Jack: I know you said that it was one night, but I would be upset with myself if I didn’t say this once. I'd like to keep seeing you. In whatever way you will have me. I just wanted to say it once. Just so you know.

You just stood there. Keys in hand. Mouth agape. 

…

Derek came back from Portland all smiles. He hugged you at the door, and the first thing you noticed was the scent. An unfamiliar floral of someone else’s laundry detergent clinging to his jacket.

Over dinner, he talked about Sienna. He did it with an enthusiasm that was trying very hard to be considerate of your feelings, but his carefulness mostly just confirmed the obvious. His heart hadn't made the return flight. It was still somewhere in Portland, tucked away in a coffee shop or a rainy park with a girl you had never met.

For some reason, you did not tell him about Jack.

You were allowed to.

That was the whole point of the arrangement, the freedom you had both negotiated to keep the edges of your relationship from fraying into resentment. There was no rule against telling him. In fact, there was an implicit expectation of honesty. A pact that neither of you would have to carry the weight of a secret.

And yet, you still didn't tell him.

The words stayed locked in your throat, not because you were afraid of his reaction, but because telling him would make Jack part of the arrangement. It would categorize what was happening between you and the doctor, making it something manageable and defined. And for some reason, you weren't ready to let Derek touch whatever it was that was growing in those texts and shared photos.

…

Jack asked you to lunch a week later.

Jack: I have a two hour window free before my shift. Lunch? There's a place near your shop I've been told has good noodles.

Jack was already there when you arrived, hair tousled and he had a little tiredness settling around his eyes.

"You look tired." you said, sitting down across from him.

"I am. But feeling better now for some reason." he said smiling, his voice seemed to settle right under your skin.

He slid a menu across the table toward you. "How many times have you been here?" you asked.

He picked up his own menu, his eyes meeting yours. "A lot. I'm a creature of habit when I find something worth repeating."

A thrill went through your spine at the way he said it. You were starting to understand that with Jack, almost nothing was a throwaway line. 

The pho arrived, steaming and fragrant. It was extraordinary, and when you told him so, he looked quietly pleased, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You ate for a while in a comfortable quiet that you still hadn't fully gotten used to. The fact that silence with him didn't require anything from you.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looked up. "Anything."

"The army." You kept your voice even, curious rather than probing. "How long?"

"Eight years." He set his chopsticks down. "Enlisted at twenty two. Medic."

"What made you stay in medicine after?"

"I didn't know how not to," he said finally. He looked down at his hands. Those large, careful hands, then back at you. "It wasn't a career decision, exactly. It was just the thing that made sense to do." He paused searching your face. "You understand that."

"Yeah," you said quietly. "I do."

"When did you know?" he asked. "That it was going to be tattoo work."

"Sixteen," you said, a small smile forming. "I watched an artist work at a shop near my mom's house. Just through the window, I never went in. I went back every day for two weeks." You could almost feel the cold glass against your forehead. "She finally came out and said, 'Are you going to come in or just haunt the place?'"

Jack laughed "And?"

"I went in. I watched her work for three hours. She let me try a practice stroke on a piece of fake skin and I was terrible at it." You turned your chopsticks over in your hand, lost in the memory. "I knew right then that I was going to do it until I wasn't terrible at it."

"How long until you weren't terrible?"

"Two years of being pretty bad. One year of being okay. Then something clicked." The afternoon light moved across the table between you. "Do you miss it?" you asked. "The army."

He turned his water glass once on the table. "Parts of it. The clarity of it, sometimes. Knowing exactly what the job was. The people, too."

"The SWAT shifts.." you said. "What’s that about?"

He looked at you, and his expression shifted, hardened slightly. "The ER is..it's good work. Important work. But you're always waiting for the thing to come to you." He considered his words. "The other work, you go to it. There's a difference in how that feels."

"You like going toward things." you said.

His eyes held yours across the table, dark and certain. "Yes."

…

Outside, the afternoon was shifting into evening. His shift would be starting soon.

"Same time next week?" he said.

This was supposed to be a one time thing. You were not supposed to be in Jack Abbot’s orbit anymore. You were supposed to be safe in your own lane, tending to your own life. But as you looked at him, you found it very hard to come up with a single reason why you shouldn’t.

And you could think of more than one reason why you should. The top one, the one that caused your heart to swell when you looked at him, was simply because you wanted to.

"Yeah." you said, the word feeling like a small, reckless surrender. "Okay."

He nodded once, his smile softening the hard lines of his face. "I'll find somewhere new."

…

Trinity showed up at your apartment with a bag of groceries and the clear intention of spending her day off horizontally on your couch with bad television and zero obligations. You took one look at her and knew that you were going to tell her.

You waited until she was settled. Feet up, blanket appropriated. From the kitchen, you started the coffee. You kept your back to her, it felt safer that way. "I have to tell you something."

"Okay.." Trinity said. Her voice had shifted into that careful, neutral tone of someone who had learned in residency to assess a situation before reacting to it.

"I met someone."

"Define met."

"At the bar. The night we went to Dillon’s." You heard the rustle of the blanket as she sat up. "After you left."

"Y/N. That was six weeks ago."

"I know."

"You've known something for six weeks and you're telling me now?"

You poured the coffee into two mugs. Your hands were steady, which surprised you. "It wasn't..I didn't know what it was. I still don’t entirely know what it is."

You brought the coffee into the living room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Trinity had pushed the blanket off, her feet were flat on the floor, fully turned towards you. "Tell me." she said.

Trinity listened. She was very good at listening when she wanted to. When you finished, the silence in the room stretched out. Then Trinity asked, "What's his name?"

"Jack." you said. "Jack Abbot."

Trinity went completely still. "ER attending?"

You looked at her, something curious moving through your chest. "How did you.."

"Y/N." Trinity set her coffee down very carefully on the coaster. "Jack Abbot is an attending at my hospital."

"He’s..what?"

"PTMC. He’s been there for years." She stopped. She pressed her hand briefly over her mouth and looked at you with disbelief, hilarity, and something almost reverent. "How bad is it?" she asked. It wasn't really a question.

"I drew his hands." you said. "From memory. So do with that what you will."

Trinity closed her eyes briefly. "And Derek?"

"Derek is in love with someone in Portland," you said. "He doesn’t know it yet. Or he does, and he’s waiting for me to..I don’t know. Release him." You looked at your hands. "It’s what we’ve been doing for a long time, I think. Waiting for the other one to say it first."

Trinity remained quiet, letting you find the rest of it.

You turned the mug in your hands, feeling the lingering warmth of the ceramic. "I think I’m the one who has to. I think I’ve been ready for longer than I want to admit, and I just didn’t have a reason to know it."

"And now you have one." 

…

Derek came home in a mood you didn't recognize at first.

He came through the door, put his keys down, and stood in the entryway for a moment longer than necessary. It made you look up from the couch. "You okay?" you asked.

"Yeah." He came in, but he didn't sit next to you. He sat across from you at the kitchen table. "Sienna, uh.." He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "She met someone. Someone in Portland. So she ended it, with me."

"I'm sorry." You meant it. You were not a person who wanted Derek to hurt, even now, even with everything shifting beneath your feet.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood. "It's fine. It was.." he exhaled, a tired sound. "I don't know. It’s fine."

You’d ordered takeout earlier, optimistically, and the containers sat on the counter. You looked at Derek and he looked lost. Like someone who had reached for something and come back empty handed, unsure of what to do with his hands now.

The old version of you would have moved to fix it. You would have smoothed it over, sat beside him, and made it easier without being asked.

But you stayed where you were. "Derek." 

He looked up.

"I need to tell you something."

A wariness arrived in his expression.

"I met someone," you said. "A while ago. Before Portland, before any of it got serious for you." You kept your voice even. "It started as one night. That’s all it was supposed to be. And then it just.." you paused, finding the honest word. "It grew. Into something I wasn't expecting. Something I realized I actually wanted."

Derek was very still. "Who?"

"That doesn't matter right now."

"Who." His voice was harder this time, an edge of demand bleeding through.

"His name is Jack. He’s a doctor. I met him at a bar." You held his gaze. "He's a good man. He makes me feel like someone worth paying attention to."

"That’s what this is supposed to be." Derek’s voice snapped, tight and frustrated. "It’s casual. It’s just dating, it’s just.." he stopped, shaking his head. "We were always going to come back to each other. That was always the deal."

You looked at him, the word echoing in the small kitchen. "What deal?" you asked quietly.

"That’s..you know what I mean. That’s what this was. We try things, we come back. That’s how it works."

"Derek." You kept your voice gentle. This wasn't about winning. "That wasn't a deal we made. That was an assumption you had."

"We’ve been together for ten years."

"I know how long we’ve been together."

"So you can't just.." he gestured, a frustrated, sweeping movement. "You can't just check out because you met someone at a bar."

"I'm not checking out because I met someone at a bar," you said. "I'm checking out because I spent ten years not knowing what I was missing, and then I found out. And what I'm missing isn't Jack specifically." You couldn’t help but laugh a little. "It’s being chosen. It’s someone who notices me. It’s feeling like I matter in my own relationship.”

Derek looked like he’d been slapped. "That’s not fair," he said. "I love you."

"I know you do," you said. "I love you too. But love isn't.." you started again. "You suggested this because you wanted the freedom to look around while keeping everything exactly the same at home. And I said yes because I always say yes. But I looked around, too. And what I found was a relationship that looks completely different from what we have. And I think I've wanted that for a long time."

Derek was quiet for a while. You let the silence take up the space it needed. "When did it go wrong?" he asked finally.

The honest answer was a thousand small moments where you had made yourself smaller to fit a shape that no longer fit either of you.

"I think it was over the moment you suggested this," you said gently. "Because that was the moment it became clear we were wanting completely different things."

His jaw worked. His eyes were bright, holding himself together like a man who intended to fall apart later, in private. "So that’s it?" he said.

"I think so." you said.

You reached across the table and put your hand over his. He looked at it for a moment, then turned his over and held yours, briefly. Ten years, the good parts and the long middle and the quiet end, closing softly in a kitchen on a Tuesday night.

…

Trinity: I need you to bring me my sweater. It’s an emergency. The grey one. From your apartment.

You: Why is your sweater at my apartment???

Trinity: Y/N it’s an emergency. I'm freezing.

You looked around your apartment. You were in the middle of doing nothing in particular, which was a feeling you were still getting used to. The wide open quiet of an evening that belonged entirely to you. Just you and whatever you wanted to do with it.

You found the sweater draped over your desk chair. Grey, soft, unmistakably Trinity’s. She left things at your place all the time like breadcrumbs, a trail of her belongings scattered across your life.

You: fineeee I’ll drop it off.

At the ER, you saw her turn around the corridor and spot you. She was in her usual scrubs, stethoscope around her neck, looking not even remotely cold.

"You texted me for a sweater and it feels eighty degrees in here."

"I run cold!"

A sound came from down the corridor. A laugh that you were starting to know well. A laugh you loved in fact. 

You turned slowly, and there he was. Thirty feet away, in scrubs, chart in hand, laughing at something the woman beside him had said. He turned, his eyes found you, and he went still. You could see the math happening in his eyes as he walked over.

His voice was even, but his eyes were warm and confused. "How do you.." He looked at Trinity.

Trinity extended her hand. "I hear we have a person in common. Y/N’s best friend in the entire world, nice to meet you."

Jack looked at her. "Santos, I know who you are." 

"She didn't know." Trinity said. "Until recently that you worked here. With me."

Jack looked at you. And you just tried to look as normal as you could. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck. "Small world," he said softly.

"Apparently." you managed.

Trinity finally took the sweater from you hands. "You're such a good friend!” Then she made it a point to speak directly to Jack. “We're taking Y/N out tonight. She broke up with her boyfriend."

You watched Jack’s face. He didn’t say anything at first. But the smile that broke across his face was quietly, deeply pleased. He absolutely could not hide it. "Have fun." he said. 

Trinity was already taking your arm, steering you toward the exit. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot!" she called.

You looked back once. He was still standing there, still smiling, and when he caught you looking, he didn't look away. You let Trinity pull you through the doors. "You are the worst person I know."

"I'm the best person you know," she said. "Also, you're welcome."

…

Jack, true to his word, had let you be the one to come to him. He’d been patient this whole time while your world shifted. 

Finally, you decided you’d had enough of waiting, so you called him. 

"Hi," you said. "Are you home?"

"Just got in. You okay?"

"Yes." You sat on your couch in your apartment. Fiddling with the loose fibers in the seats. "I want to see you.”

"When?" he said.

"This week. Whenever you’re free. I don’t.." You paused, laughing slightly at the nerves you hadn’t expected. "I’m not usually like this."

"Like what?"

"Nervous."

"You're nervous?" he said. There was something in his voice, a smile that wasn't laughing at you, but with you. "I find that extremely reassuring."

"You’re nervous too?"

"I’ve been nervous since the day I met you." he said.

You couldn’t help but smile. Biting your bottom lip between your teeth. "Friday?" you said. "Dinner. Somewhere I pick this time. And Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"This isn't a one night thing."

"No." he said quietly. "It isn’t."

…

Dinner was the most fun you'd had in a long time and after, Jack walked you to your car. He reached up and tucked a piece of hair back from your face. "I'd like to take you out again." he said. "As many times as you’ll let me."

"That could be a lot of times." you said.

"Good." His hand dropped to your jaw, warm. "I told you. I’m thorough.”

…

The door hadn't even fully latched before Jack had you pinned against it. The air in his apartment was cool, but his body was a furnace against yours. There was only the sound of your combined breathing and the frantic slide of hands over skin.

He guided you to the sofa, his mouth never leaving yours, tasting like the red wine from dinner and the promise he’d been making you with his eyes all night. He pushed you back onto the cushions and dropped to his knees, parting your legs with a force that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"I’ve been thinking about this all night." he said, his voice thick and rough.

He didn't waste time. He stripped you and when he saw you, he let out a sound of approval. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "Your pussy is so wet, sweetheart. So beautiful."

Then he moved in, eating you like a man starved. He used his tongue with a relentless, lapping intensity, broad strokes followed by sharp, flicking pressure that had you crying out and arching your back off the sofa. He didn't stop when you shook. He gripped your thighs tighter, drinking you in until you shattered against his mouth.

You were still gasping, your senses blurred, when he pulled you to your feet. He didn't lead you to the bedroom. He didn't want the comfort of a mattress, he wanted you right here.

"Lean over.” You obeyed, gripping the back of the sofa, your knuckles white. You heard the sharp sound of his zipper, and then the heat of him was pressing against your opening.

He drove into you in one steady, uncompromising motion. He filled you so completely it took your breath away. "You are mine." he said into your ear, his hands finding your hips to anchor you.

He began to fuck you slowly. It was deep and deliberate, each thrust a claim. He reached around to find where you were most sensitive, his fingers working in tandem with the slide of his cock, pushing you toward a second, even more delicious peak. You watched your own reflection in the darkened window, seeing the way he moved behind you, until the world narrowed down to just the friction and the heat.

…

Two hours later, the adrenaline had faded into a delicious ache. You woke up in the master suite and followed the sound of hissing water to the bathroom. Jack was sitting in the shower, his built in chair positioned under the spray. 

He didn't say a word, just reached out, his hand wrapping around your waist to pull you toward him. Joining him under the warmth.

Being seated gave him a different vantage point, his eyes level with your chest, dark and appreciative. He pulled you into the space between his knees, his hands sliding up your thighs.

He guided you to straddle his lap, your knees resting on the edges of the chair. As you lowered yourself, he reached down to guide his cock into you in one deep, unhurried slide.

"You feel even better like this," he moaned, his fingers digging into your hips.

He used his arms to pull you down onto him while thrusting upward, a dual pressure that made every nerve ending scream. The chair was solid beneath you, providing a grounded leverage that let him fuck you without worry.

The water sluiced over both of you, masking your gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his movements becoming faster and more urgent until he filled you completely.

…

In the morning, Jack was at the stove, shirtless, the muscles of his back working as he moved. You were wrapped in one of his heavy button downs, sitting at the kitchen island.

He set a plate of eggs in front of you, but he didn't pick up his own fork. Instead, he watched you take a bite, his gaze dropping to your bare legs.

"Jack, eat your breakfast," you murmured, though your voice lacked any real conviction.

He pushed you to lay flat against the island and parted the hem of the shirt.

The cold air hit you for only a second before his mouth replaced it.

Right there in the morning light, with the coffee steaming and the sun rising, he went down on you again.

He was relentless, his tongue finding every sensitive spot with the ease of a man who intended to spend the rest of his life learning exactly how to make you come.

You gripped the marble edge of the counter, your breakfast forgotten, as he claimed you for the third time. 

…

one year later

You had tattooed a lot of things on a lot of people.

You had never once been nervous doing it, until now. 

"You're holding my hand very tightly for someone who is about to put a needle in it." Jack said.

"I'm positioning you." You looked up at him. He was watching you with those eyes, completely unbothered, which was both reassuring and deeply annoying. "You're not nervous at all?"

"No."

"This is permanent, Jack."

"I know what a tattoo is, Y/N."

"I just want to make sure you've.."

"Hey." His free hand came up and tilted your chin gently. "I know what I want." 

You looked at him for a moment. Then you looked back down at his hand in yours, his left hand, ring finger, the spot you'd cleaned and prepped and stenciled with a single clean letter. Your initial. Small and precise and permanent.

He didn't flinch. You hadn't expected him to, this was a man who had been through things that made a tattoo needle a deeply unremarkable experience, but still.

Something in your chest did the warm aching thing it did sometimes when Jack was being exactly himself.

You finished in two minutes. Clean lines, your steadiest work.

You wrapped it. Told him the aftercare instructions he didn't need because he was a doctor and knew perfectly well how wounds healed, but you told him anyway because it was your job and also because you needed something to do with your mouth that wasn't saying something embarrassing.

When you finished your own and wrapped it, you looked at your finger. His initial. Small and clean and permanent.

He brought your hand up and pressed his mouth to your knuckles, just above the fresh ink, careful not to touch it.

…

Trinity and Dennis came over a few weeks later. 

This had become a thing, somehow, over the past few months. A loose gathering at your apartment that involved whatever food Dennis decided to bring, which was always something excellent.

"These are incredible," Trinity said, around a dumpling. "Where did you get these."

"A place." Dennis said, a man who protected his sources.

"That's not an answer."

"That's the only answer you're getting."

You smiled at your drafting table. Jack appeared from the kitchen with two mugs and set one beside you.

When you reached for it, Trinity stopped and stared at your hand wrapped around the mug. "What is on your finger."

"Nothing," you said.

Trinity sat up fully pointing at your left hand "Is that a J?"

Dennis looked up. "Let me see." 

Jack came out of the kitchen. Dennis looked at him. Looked at his left hand and then at yours.

"Is that.." Trinity started.

"Those are.." Dennis said.

"Y/N! Are you married to Jack Abbot?" Trinity grabbed your hand now, fully staring down at it. 

You looked at your finger. The small clean J sitting there.

You looked at Jack and the smile that moved across his face was warm and held a mix of pride and mischief and you felt the matching one on your own face bloom and made no effort at all to stop it.

Yeah, you were married to Jack Abbot.

taglist: @vicky066 @sammiib444 @mimsie95 @what-the-jams @zbeez-outlet @becoats @renegadebirch @sarah-fuckyou @peachjellyy @clowninavan @krickett222 @imabapical @callmefatherr @shawnysimp @mxkhxx @kneelforloki @lottoloco @jaxawinchester

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

five dollar silver fox // jack abbot

You get bored one night and decide to download a chat service app. You pick Jack and he shows you just how good your choice was.

warnings: nsfw!, smut and basically pwp

genre: part written, part text au

You couldn’t believe you were doing this, but you were just so lonely.

It was late and your mind drifted back to a conversation with a friend. They had jokingly told you about this chat app where you fill out your likes and dislikes, and in return, it gives you a selection of men to choose from.

Once you made a choice, you could chat with them.

You were pretty sure it was meant to be sexual. I mean, the slogan for the app was “make your biggest desires come true,” so how could it not be?

You noticed you could do phone calls and video calls for an upgraded fee, obviously, but the standard chat fee was only $5. You weren’t willing to spend any more than that on something that felt this ridiculous.

"This is stupid, really," you thought out loud as you scrolled through the questionnaire. It started with the usual questions like, “What are your hobbies?” and other mundane details. But then, you scrolled down to the more salacious ones: Kinks? Safe word? Type in men?

Type in men.

That gave you pause. So far, you’d only dated guys your age or younger, though only by a few years. However, that strategy had proven to be faulty, given that it had been a few years since your last serious relationship and it had ended badly.

You pressed hard on the “older man” button.

Immediately, a drop down menu appeared, asking for specific preferences for just how much older you wanted to go. You were in your late twenties now, and the 30s didn’t seem that much older considering you were already on your way there.

"40s? Sure, yeah, that sounds right," you murmured to yourself. Then your thumb hovered over the next bracket. "50s? What the hell, why not?” You did have an affinity for a silver fox.

You hit submit on the form and watched the little loading circle spin while you waited. Finally, different accounts popped up, and you started scrolling.

"Holy shit," you whispered. These men were, to put it plainly, hot as fuck.

You clicked on Robby, 52. He was handsome, wearing glasses that looked incredibly good on him. He had a big nose, which you actually found quite hot, but for some reason, he wasn’t quite striking your fancy tonight.

“Another day, Robby boy. Wait for me,” you said softly, swiping up to continue.

You were starting to feel like maybe you should just give up, but then there he was: Jack, 48. You clicked on his profile, and all he had written in his bio was, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart”.

“Yeah. Absolutely yeah. Him. Him for sure,” you decided.

You clicked the green mail icon, and a chat box appeared on your screen.

“You are now speaking with Jack! Please stay behind after the exchange to write a review and rate your experience”.

After the screen went dark, you sat there for a long time. Your face was flushed and your heart was still hammering against your ribs.

You looked down at your phone. The chat log was still there glaring back at you. 

"I am never showing my face in public again," you whispered to the empty room.

But as you stared at Jack’s profile a small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

He was probably sitting in his home laughing at what just occurred. 

And you wanted to hear exactly what that laugh sounded like.

You navigated away from the chat and back to your profile settings. Your thumb hovered over the "Preferences" tab. 

[ ] Text Only (Standard)

[X] Voice Call Capability (Premium Upgrade - $15.00)

You didn't even hesitate. You clicked the box, the "Premium" gold checkmark flashing with a satisfying little ding.

$15 was a lot for a phone call, but after tonight, the idea of just reading his words felt insufficient. 

You wanted his voice in your ear. You wanted to know if he sounded as confident as he typed. And yeah, it’d be fun to hear him lose his composure over the phone. 

You locked your phone and hugged your knees to your chest, the smile growing wider. 

"See you soon, Jack," you murmured, already imagining the sound of him calling you sweetheart out loud.

(a/n: guys I learned how to make texts lmaoooooo. Prepare to be sick of me.)