current hyperfixations: superman (2025), the pitt, sabrina carpenter (specifically man's best friend), nope (2022)
fatal flaw: after watching a movie or any piece of media i hyperfixate it where it consumes my everybody waking thought for months after that 💔💔
what you can expect....
small stories & one shots (requests are welcome but i am not the best writer you guys)
random things that i just want to say (tumblr is basically my twitter ok 💔 and i swear im funny u guys)
pictures i take from time to time since unfortunately half my photo storage is made up of pictures i never post💔
MASTERLIST
SMUT INCLUDED:
stood up — when you see clark getting stood up, you decide to take up the mantle and go on a date with him.
"what’s your secret?" — in which you’re tired of losing out on interviews with Superman to Clark, so you nag him until he gets you one, and the interview is quite memorable…
save a horse, ride a cowboy! — in which you tie clark down to ride him.
PURE FLUFF:
VALENTINES SPECIAL breakfast in bed — your boyfriend clark, brings you breakfast in bed <3
description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
wc: 4k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension, tw: reader second guessing, public-?ish-? Sex???, abbot down bad
series masterlist
I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
A/N: hehe idk if u guys will be mad but reader may be grappling w the gravity of boinking her attending soon
This was just downright criminal.
If HR walked into Jack Abbot’s house right this very moment, they’d have all the evidence needed to convict both of you—for what crime, you weren’t exactly sure anymore—and send you both out on your asses.
All they’d need was one quick glance at the current scene.
You sprawled across the couch beneath a throw blanket, attention half on the movie playing quietly across the mounted television. Jack lay stretched out on his stomach between your legs, fully taking advantage of the position by using your stomach—and very intentionally your chest—as a pillow.
Like this was a normal, random Saturday off of work.
Like this was something you’d been doing for years instead of approximately forty-eight-ish hours.
Your fingers drifted lazily through his curls, scratching lightly against his scalp while his arms rested around your waist. Every so often, he’d shift just enough to get more comfortable, and every single time, you were forced to pretend not to notice the way he settled further into you with a quiet sound of contentment.
And maybe the worst part?
You liked it. Worse than liked it.
You were becoming alarmingly attached to it.
Jack shifted slightly again, nose brushing absentmindedly against your shirt as he adjusted his head more fully onto your stomach.
“You’re kind of crushing me,” you informed him lightly.
“Mhm.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“You can breathe enough to talk.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, fingers continuing through his hair anyway. His curls were softer like this after a shower, slightly damp still at the roots. Every once in a while your nails scratched lightly against his scalp and his breathing would deepen almost immediately.
Which was honestly an outrageous—and intoxicating—amount of power for one person to have.
“You realize,” you said slowly, eyes still on the television, “if anyone from PTMC saw this, we’d actually never hear the end of it.”
Jack made a low noise against your stomach that almost sounded like amusement.
“Robby would pass away instantly.”
“He already thinks we’re suspicious.”
“We are suspicious.”
“That’s not helping.”
Finally, he tilted his head just enough to glance up at you from where he was sprawled across your body. Fever still lingered faintly in the pinkness of his cheeks, though he looked far more healthy now than he had yesterday. You tried not to attribute that to your TLC, but it was too coincidental not to point out.
“You seem pretty relaxed for someone worried about HR.”
You narrowed your eyes down at him. “You are literally using my boobs as a Tempur-Pedic.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“Jack.”
“What?” His mouth twitched. “You brought it up.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you before you lightly shoved at his shoulder. He barely moved.
“Unbelievable.”
“Still letting me crush you.” he murmured, eyes drifting shut again as he settled more heavily against you.
Your hand slowed briefly in his hair.
There it was again—that quiet thing underneath the teasing. The truth of it.
You looked down at him for a second too long, taking in the rare sight of Jack Abbot completely relaxed against you. No more walls were up. Just playful banter while your attending’s temple was pressed against the firmness of your underboob.
It felt like something dangerous in your chest.
So instead of acknowledging any of that, you lightly tugged his curls.
“You drooled on me earlier.”
One eye cracked open immediately. “Slander.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Can’t prove it.”
You smiled despite yourself, resuming the slow scratch of your fingers through his hair as his eyes drifted closed once more.
But the moment was quickly interrupted by the faint buzzing of your phone, buried somewhere beneath either a couch cushion or one of the throw pillows Jack inexplicably owned.
His brows furrowed immediately against your stomach. “Who is it?”
You twisted slightly, digging around blindly beneath the blanket and nearly smacking him in the face with a pillow in the process while he made zero effort to move out of the way.
“Hold on—”
The screen finally lit in your hand and your head immediately tipped back against the couch with a groan.
“It’s Trinity.”
“No.”
You snorted at the sheer immediacy of his response. “I’ve been dodging her calls for like two days now, Jack. She’s gonna think you murdered me.”
“Yeah, and start calling the police.” You swiped to answer before he could protest further. “Trin, hey—”
Jack lifted his head just enough to send you an unimpressed scowl as you ignored him completely.
“Roomie,” Trinity’s voice exploded through the speaker immediately. “You’re alive.”
“Barely.”
“Bullshit. You sound suspiciously comfortable.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means every time I’ve texted you this week you’ve answered like a woman being held hostage but in a weirdly content way.”
Jack’s shoulders started shaking slightly beneath your hand.
“What can I say, I’ve been busy.” You immediately cringed with how you could practically smell how she’d decipher that.
“Busy, huh?” You knew the sound of her smirk. “Busy in what positions?”
“Trinity,” you whisper-hissed, heat exploding across your face.
But it was already too late.
Below you, Jack Abbot had gone suspiciously still for half a second before slowly pushing himself upright, one hand bracing against your thigh as he sat up between your legs.
And for someone who was practically on his deathbed last night, he was somehow still entirely capable of weaponizing smugness.
His hair was a mess from laying on you, curls pushed every direction as he looked up with that infuriating glint in his eyes.
“What positions?” he echoed hoarsely, voice roughened from sickness. “Where to start?”
Your jaw dropped as you covered the mic. “You are sick.”
On the phone, Trinity made a sound so loud you nearly threw it across the room.
“Oh my god.”
“Trin, I swear to God—”
“Huckleberry!” You heard her call before her mouth dropped back to the phone. “You slept with him.”
“Hey! No one said that!”
Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “You didn’t?”
You whipped toward him so fast he actually laughed.
The sound dissolved into a cough almost immediately, forcing him to lean briefly into his fist before recovering with an exhausted sigh.
“You are unbelievable,” you muttered.
“You like me unbelievable.”
Trinity was fully losing her mind now somewhere through the speaker.
“I need details immediately.”
“You’re getting none.”
“Coward.”
“Boundary.”
Jack looked deeply entertained now, leaning back more comfortably against your legs like this was the best television he’d watched all week.
“Fine,” Trinity cut in quickly, but after a beat of silence asked, “So…how long would you say this has been a thing?”
“You’re fucked if you think I’m giving you anything—”
“You know,” he rasped toward the phone, “I tried telling her not to answer.”
“You are contributing to the problem!”
“Hey, he created the problem,” Trinity argued. “By apparently seducing his resident into climbing him like a tree during quarantine.”
You made a strangled noise while Jack outright laughed this time.
Again—followed by coughing.
“Actually,” he corrected mildly once he recovered, “she climbed me without asking.”
“Jack.”
“Oh my God,” Trinity shrieked. “He’s funny!?”
“Of course I’m funny—what is this?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Jesus Christ.”
“Was he at least better than the firefighter who—”
“Okay!” you cut her off loudly, cheeks burning. “We’re done here—”
But Jack had already grabbed the phone from your hands. “Bye, Santos,” He interrupted smoothly.
Your head whipped toward him in suspicion while Trinity immediately started yelling through the phone.
“No—”
You hung up before she could finish, tossing the phone dramatically onto the opposite couch cushion with a groan.
“Why’d you say it like that,” you accused slowly.
“Say what?”
“Santos,” You mocked his deep voice.
Jack looked entirely unbothered, settling back against your chest like nothing had happened. “That is her last name.”
“You used it in a dismissive tone.”
“So?”
“You were jealous.”
That finally got a reaction.
He tilted his head back just enough to level you with a look. “Why would I be jealous of Trinity?”
You gave him a deadpan stare.
“Not of Trinity, you shit.”
“Oh.” Understanding crossed his face a second too late. “Of some lousy firefighter? Please.”
You barked out a startled laugh. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You literally interrupted her mid-sentence.”
“She was about to annoy me.”
“She was asking about another guy.”
“That too.”
Your grin widened triumphantly as he sighed like he regretted saying it out loud already. “This is really interesting behavior from a man who spent years hating me.”
“Hey,” Jack scoffed, shifting just enough to look up at you. “I’m a man of science. I just want to know how I measure up to a firefighter. You know, as a decorated veteran, senior attending physician—”
“Oh, what else?” You grinned despite yourself.
“Homeowner.”
You snorted.
“Mentor.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Excellent hair.”
“That one’s subjective.”
“It’s really not.”
You laughed, shaking your head as he settled smugly back against you.
“And for the record, I never hated you.” He continued.
“You were mean to me for, like, three consecutive years.”
“I was professionally challenging.”
“You once told me my sutures looked ‘visually upsetting.’”
“They did.”
You gasped in offense while he smirked against your stomach.
“See?” you pointed accusingly. “Mean.”
“I’m dating you now. I can’t completely lose my edge.”
Your fingers stalled briefly in his hair. The words landed strangely in your chest, each letter swirling around in your mind as your brain began to paint different pathways of how this all could inevitably blow up in your face.
Dating.
Not sleeping together. Not whatever this quarantine thing was. Not dancing around each other until HR inevitably hunted you both for sport.
Jack must’ve noticed the split-second pause, because his head lifted immediately.
“What?” he asked carefully.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, suddenly very interested in the television again. “Nothing.”
“Sounds like something.”
You looked down at him finally, trying—and failing—to keep the sudden self-consciousness off your face.
“Are you?”
One of his brows lifted slightly. “Am I what?”
“…Dating me.”
Jack stared at you for a second before a slow smile pulled at his mouth.
“Thought I’d try the label on,” he said lightly. “Why? You don’t like it?”
“No,” you answered quickly, almost too quickly. “No, I just…” You trailed off, chewing briefly on your lip. “I don’t know how it feels yet.”
For the first time in what felt like days, the teasing eased from his expression completely. Something softer took its place, like he was realizing the weight of what he just placed on top of you both.
“Okay,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Take your time.”
The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten a little. Because there was no pressure in it. No hint of smugness or his usual teasing tone.
Just Jack, looking up at you like he really meant it.
The silence that followed stretched a beat too long—aware and awkward in a way neither of you usually let things become.
Then, suddenly—
“So,” Jack said casually, settling his cheek back against your stomach, “is it because of the firefighter?”
You snorted so hard you nearly choked.
“Why are you genuinely threatened by a man from two years ago?”
“I’m not threatened.”
“You’re literally bringing him up unprovoked.”
“I just figured, if Trinity knows about him, he must’ve been hot shit.”
“The reason she knows is because he couldn’t make me finish to save his life,”
You could practically feel the grin forming against the skin of your stomach.
“Couldn’t make you finish, you say?”
Later in the day, as Jack’s fever had finally begun to surrender, you adopted his task of making dinner.
Not that he’d accepted the demotion gracefully.
He insisted on helping, claiming he was “perfectly functional” despite the fact that last night he ran a fever high enough to qualify as a small furnace. The compromise landed somewhere in the middle: you manned the stove while he handled prep work as a quiet playlist drifted from the Amazon Echo.
The whole thing felt strangely familiar.
Not the cooking itself, but the way you moved around each other.
Without discussion, you slid aside when he needed something from the cabinet behind you. You passed ingredients back and forth without looking, somehow already knowing what the other needed.
The same choreography you’d shared in trauma bays.
Only now there were no monitors screaming in the background. There wasn’t any blood or urgency. No where to be.
Just at the kitchen counter.
You found yourself watching him when he wasn’t looking, knife moving steadily through vegetables as music hummed through the kitchen.
Was this how it had always been? Under the arguments and sharp comments?
Beneath the constant push and pull, had this dance always existed between you?
You thought back to the countless shifts you’d spent orbiting each other. The way he always knew where you were in a crowded trauma room, like tracking you grounded him. The way you anticipated his next move before he’d made it, because even if you wouldn’t admit it, you had learned him years ago.
And the way everyone else seemed to notice your tension long before either of you acknowledged it.
Did they see this coming?
Were you both simply the last people to realize something everyone else had already figured out?
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because if it was so inevitable…why had hearing him say ‘dating’ felt almost frightening?
The word itself wasn’t the problem. It was what came after. Dating implied a future.
And future required reality.
And reality was waiting patiently outside the walls of this house.
Fourteen days—that was all this quarantine was ever supposed to be. Fourteen days before the emergency department reclaimed you both.
Before Jack became Dr. Abbot again.
Before you returned to being his resident.
Before HR.
Before questions neither of you had answers to yet.
When this all started, that countdown had felt like salvation.
Now it felt more like a period.
You tried not to think about it for too long, because doing so threatened to shatter the beautiful illusion you’d both built here.
And that illusion was slowly starting to peel away as the outside world crept in.
Like now, when Jack’s phone lit up with a call from, of course, Robby.
Jack glanced at the screen and immediately looked annoyed.
“I don’t want to answer it,” he gruffed.
“You have to. It’ll look suspicious if you don’t.”
“I dodge his calls all the time.”
“If I had to answer Santos, you have to answer Robby.”
That appeared to give him pause.
His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was begrudgingly acknowledging the fairness of the argument.
“I still don’t like it.”
“Answer the phone, Abbot.”
He sighed dramatically before finally swiping to accept the call.
“Hey, brother.”
“Hey,” Robby’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Just checking on you. How’s the fever?”
“Nonexistent.”
You rolled your eyes silently at the never-ending ego while stirring the vegetables sautéing in the pan.
The fever had absolutely existed. You were there, after all.
“Good,” Robby replied. “Because I can’t have all my night shift offense dying of a virus.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You I can replace, but not my best R4.”
Jack glanced toward you, immediately catching your amused expression.
You smiled sweetly.
His eyes narrowed.
“Anyway,” Robby continued, oblivious. “You guys surviving over there?”
“Unfortunately.”
Oh, that’s how he was going to play this?
No.
He didn’t get to sit there all calm and collected with his best friend while Trinity had practically conducted a full-scale interrogation earlier.
Meanwhile, Jack was somehow getting away with a casual check-in.
If you were going down, he was coming with you.
“Unfortunately?” Robby laughed.
Jack opened his mouth, undoubtedly preparing some sarcastic response, when you chose that exact moment to slide beside where he was now standing against the counter.
His words stalled—only for a second—but you noticed.
Interesting.
“Yep,” he continued, voice slightly tighter than before. “We’re surviving.”
Your lips twitched.
Because while Robby was busy talking about staffing shortages and patient volume, you were busy observing an entirely different phenomenon.
Namely, how much concentration it apparently required for Jack Abbot to hold a normal conversation.
His attention flickered briefly toward you.
A warning.
You ignored it.
“—and Santos accidentally discharged the wrong patient paperwork,” Robby was saying.
“Mm.”
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
“Absolutely.”
“No, you didn’t.”
You let your hand rest on Jack's hip. Light. Innocent, even.
His jaw tightened.
"I heard you," Jack said, his tone carefully measured. "Santos screwed up discharge papers."
"Right. So anyway, I had to—"
Your fingers traced a slow path downward, following the line of his quad muscle through the fabric of his pants.
Jack's hand shot down, catching your wrist.
He didn't push you away.
He just held you there.
A standoff.
And historically, standoffs between you led to intense eye contact, gritted teeth, and heavy breathing.
Yeah, okay, maybe you’d had sexual tension for a lot longer than you wanted to admit.
"—completely ridiculous, right?" Robby finished.
"Yeah," Jack said. "Ridiculous."
There was a pause on the other end. "You okay, man? You sound weird."
"Fine."
You smiled sweetly at him, then deliberately slipped your hand free from his grip and placed it on his chest instead. Much more appropriate. Practically PG.
His eyes narrowed.
Good.
You let your palm slide down the front of his shirt, feeling the firm planes of muscle beneath the cotton. Slowly. Appreciatively. Your fingers traced the ridges of his hard abdomen, following each defined ridge downward.
"So listen," Robby was saying, "I wanted to ask you about—"
Your hand reached his belt.
Jack's breath hitched.
Just barely.
But you heard it.
"About what?" Jack's voice came out rougher than intended.
"About that conference next month. You planning to go? Heard Gloria saying she wants the attendings to go for some… ‘not mandatory but gently suggested training’,"
Your fingers worked his belt buckle open with ease.
Jack's free hand gripped the armrest of his chair.
"Haven't decided," he managed.
"Could be fun. It's in Miami, Shen said. We might actually, dare I say it, have some fun for once instead of—"
The zipper came down with a soft sound that seemed deafening in the quiet room.
Jack's eyes locked on yours.
A warning. A plea. You weren't entirely sure which.
Maybe both?
"Miami sounds…cool," he said, his voice strained.
You rose a brow mockingly as you sank onto your knees in front of him.
His pupils dilated.
"Right?" Robby continued, enthusiastic now. "And Dana’s been on my case about taking a actual vacation, so I figured—"
You palmed him through his boxers, feeling him already half-hard.
His hips jerked involuntarily.
"—we could make a long weekend out of it. Self-care and all that bullshit Mel talks about. What do you think?"
"I think—" Jack's words cut off as you freed him from his boxers, wrapping your hand around his length. "I think that could work."
"Yeah? Awesome. I'll send you the details."
You stroked him slowly, watching his cock harden fully in your grip. His knuckles were white where they gripped the counter.
"Great," Jack bit out.
"You sure you're okay? You sound—"
You leaned forward and dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, base to tip.
Jack's entire body went rigid.
"—distracted or something."
"Just tired," Jack forced out. "Didn’t sleep well."
"Right, yeah. I trust that it was helpful having an ER doctor around to help you battle COVID."
If Robby sounded suspecting, neither of you noticed. You took him into your mouth, just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the sensitive crown.
Jack's hand flew to your hair.
Not pushing. Not pulling.
Just anchoring himself.
"So anyway," Robby continued, "I was thinking we could—"
You sank down, taking him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.
"Fuck," Jack breathed.
"What?"
"Nothing. Stubbed my toe."
You had to suppress a laugh, which created an interesting vibration that made Jack's grip in your hair tighten considerably.
"Graceful as always," Robby teased.
"Shut up."
You established a rhythm, bobbing your head slowly, deliberately. Your hand worked what you couldn't fit, twisting slightly on each upstroke.
Jack's breathing was becoming increasingly uneven.
"Anyway," Robby went on, completely oblivious, "Had to break up this fight between Santos and Whitaker the other day, think they’re going completely mental not having their mediator at home—”
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, and Jack's hips bucked up involuntarily.
"—protein powder theft. You following?"
"Yeah," Jack rasped. "Following."
His voice was wrecked.
There was no way Robby couldn't hear it.
"Dude, seriously, are you—"
You pulled back and sucked hard on just the tip, your tongue working the sensitive spot just beneath the head.
Jack's thigh muscles were trembling under your free hand.
"I'm fine," he gritted out. "Just... headache."
"You want me to let you go?"
"No."
The word came out too quickly, too desperate.
You smirked around him and took him deep again, setting a faster pace now.
"Okay, well, I won't keep you much longer," Robby said. "Just wanted to check in. Make sure you haven't killed each other yet."
Jack's laugh was strained, almost painful. "Not yet."
"That's the spirit. Trinity says—what?" His voice became distant as he lowered the phone. “I’m not asking him about that stupid bet. Take that off the whiteboard like I asked a week ago. Trinity says hi.”
You did that thing with your tongue that you'd learned drove him crazy, and Jack's hand tightened almost painfully in your hair.
"Tell her—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Tell her hi back."
"Will do. Alright, man, I'll text you those conference details."
"Sounds good."
You could feel him getting close. His cock was pulsing in your mouth, his breathing ragged despite his best efforts to control it.
"Talk soon?"
"Yeah. Soon."
"Feel better. Later, man."
"Later."
The second Jack ended the call, his phone clattered onto the counter and both his hands were in your hair.
"You," he growled, looking down at you with dark eyes, "are absolutely fucking evil."
You pulled off him just long enough to smile innocently. "I have no idea what you mean."
Then you took him back into your mouth, deep and fast, and his head fell back with a groan that he no longer had to suppress.
"Christ," he breathed, his hips rocking up to meet your mouth. "You're going to be the death of me."
You hummed in agreement, the vibration making him curse again.
His control was completely gone now, one hand guiding your movements while the other gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"So fucking good," he muttered, his voice rough and unrestrained. "Your mouth—fuck—"
You could feel him right on the edge, his thighs tensing, his breathing harsh and uneven.
"I'm—" he warned, his grip tightening in your hair. "I'm gonna—"
You didn't pull away.
Instead, you took him deeper, sucking harder, and he came with a broken groan, his whole body shuddering as he spilled down your throat.
You worked him through it, swallowing everything, not letting up until he was gasping and oversensitive, his hand in your hair going from demanding to almost gentle.
Finally, you pulled off him with an obscene pop, looking up at him with satisfaction.
He looked completely wrecked.
Hair disheveled from running his hands through it. Chest heaving. Eyes still dark and unfocused.
Beautiful.
"You," he said again, his voice hoarse, "are in so much trouble."
You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, grinning. "Worth it."
He huffed a breathless laugh, then reached down and pulled you up into him, kissing you hard and deep, tasting himself on your tongue.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes had that dangerous glint you'd come to recognize.
"Robby's going to call back," he murmured against your lips. "He always does when he forgets to mention something."
"So?"
His hand slid up your thigh, fingers teasing at the hem of your shorts. "So when he does, it's your turn."
Your breath caught.
"Fair's fair," Jack said, his smile sharp and promising. "And trust me, sweetheart—I'm much better at multitasking than you gave me credit for."
summary - you're running the flower gram booth fundraiser. this poses a bit of an obstacle for jack.
a/n - medschool!jack abbot!!! awkward idiots in love!!! did i get the idea for this from an episode of bobs burgers? yes. but its rlly cute your honor. it took me so long to write this because my writers block has been BRUTAL and i kept starting and then scrapping stories before i got here. agh pls send in any requests it rlly helps, and im going to start cranking on the ones in my inbox!!! enjoy <3
---
“Shit! Shit!”
You flapped your hand madly to rid it of the sting the pruning had shears caused. You paused to examine it; blood was blooming along a thin, short slash mark, but it wouldn’t need more than a bandaid. Still, you thought grumpily, just another way to make your arduous valentines-carnation journey more unpleasant. God, you hated the stupid holiday.
It was against your wishes that your school’s chapter of the AMWA decided on doing a flower gram for the annual fundraiser, but alas, you were outvoted. And, stuck with no other option than to do what you do, you embraced the campaign one hundred percent. You were never good at half-assing things.
You had your pride, but it also left you with the responsibility of gathering one thousand red carnations and organizing a campus-wide exchange, ensuring delivery of flowers to the intended recipients.
It had taken you longer than you expected to find a place to sell you that many flowers wholesale. Then, of course, once you got your hands on them, there were the flowers themselves. They were obviously cut rather roughly, made for the hands of experienced florists to turn them into beautiful bouquets, but that was a far cry from you. You were an overworked, overtired year two medical student, desperate for this to go well and somewhat in over your head.
So you found yourself, a week from the fourteenth, sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded with heaps of stems, working feverishly into the night in a hope that all would be trimmed and somewhat presentable to be delivered by the deadline. As the clock struck twelve, you became a little more rushed, and a little less careful, as evidenced by your bleeding hand.
Still swearing like a sailor, you carefully stepped out of your petal nest and creaked your way towards the bathroom, joints snapping along the way. Your roommate, Chelsea, was brushing her teeth at the sink with a ginormous volume propped up on the faucet in front of her. As you ruffled through the drawers, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked exhausted, if the bags under your eyes were anything to go by, and flyaways framed your droopy face in an odd crown. Chelsea didn’t look much better, a lawyer in training. You often lamented together about your inexplicable choice to put yourselves through more expensive and rigorous schooling.
“What’d you do?” asked Chelsea, muffled over the buzz of her toothbrush.
“Just a nick,” you said, finally locating and retrieving a box of Disney bandaids. “What the hell are you still doing up, Chels?”
Chelsea spit into the basin and turned on the tap, eyes not leaving the pages.
“I’m not up, I’m not up, I just wanted to finish this chapter,” she said. “What are you doing up? Can’t those fucking flowers wait another day? V-day isn’t until next Monday.”
“Yes, well, I have other commitments, believe it or not,” you said, slapping an iron man bandage on your finger.
“Actually, I don’t really,” said Chelsea, grabbing the floss. “You spent the whole weekend volunteering at a clinic, like a goddamn hero. And I know Jack asked you to come to his little friend’s housewarming party with him.”
You had been teased one too many times about Jack for your face to immediately heat like it used to, and you rolled your eyes.
“Not with him, just — you know, with him,” you said exasperatedly. “As a group thing.”
“You are so determined not to see that man’s crush on you,” said Chelsea.
Tired of your friend’s repeated attempts to make you see something that you were sure wasn’t there, you regurgitated your own repeated defenses.
“If he liked me, he would have asked me out ages ago,” you said. “I mean I’ve known the guy since our year one cadaver lab.”
“Aw, he’s just shy,” said Chelsea sweetly. “Cut him some slack!”
You huffed slightly and stalked back to your post on the living room floor.
“Goodnight, meddler!”
“Goodnight sweetums.”
What bothered you most about Chelsea’s pestering was that she acted as though you wouldn’t take the chance if offered to you. Well, the idea scared you slightly. You had never had a real relationship, never even a true fling, only messy, intoxicated hookups in bars and trucks. You were far too busy with school and work to be fussed much about boys.
Jack, though, you had to admit, was special. He was just as steadfast as you, however less fiery. He got good grades, and worked hard to achieve them. You’d never known him to drink or smoke more than the occasional party, similar to yourself, and he was often joining you in your role of designated driver. He understood your overzealous nature, though he didn’t copy it, and he never once dampened your spark. On the contrary, he seemed to admire it.
And he was just oh so pretty. Dark auburn curls, and a crooked smile, and let’s face it, pecs for days. You’d never really gotten over the group beach day your friends forced you to attend over break; he had glistened in the sun like a statue carved by Michelangelo.
But with all of that, he still seemed unaware of his own beauty. He blushed and stuttered when people flirted with him. You knew it spread all the way down his pale, freckled chest because there were a few lifeguards who had taken a liking to him that same day.
You picked up your shears again and resumed your chopping with a little more force.
Silly though it seemed, sure though you were that Jack held nothing more than friendly intentions for you, you had thought through the scenario on several occasions. If he asked you out, would you say yes? Surely he could only prove to be a distraction? But it was Jack, so perhaps not…
God, this was all Valentine’s Day’s fault. The stupid holiday had everyone feeling overly susceptible to harmful, heteronormative ideals blasting out at you from every advertisement, sign, decoration, and rom com displayed. You needed to ground yourself. The facts were that Jack was not going to ask you out, and you would never be tempted to say yes.
In the end, you only made it some halfway through your carnations before you were practically falling asleep right there on the rug, and you forced yourself to bed. After class the next morning, bright and early, you took up your station at the flower booth, placed in the very middle of the quad, with students rushing to and fro in a constant buzz.
You were bundled up against the wind, with two sweaters, a coat, a scarf, a wooly hat, and matching mittens that made it exceedingly difficult to set up your signs. They instructed the public that it was two dollars per carnation, five dollars if you wanted a fancy ribbon. Luckily, the ribbon responsibility fell to your co-organizer, Janice. One less thing to worry about, though you would have swapped her for the flowers any day.
“Need some help?” said a familiar voice.
You looked up, braced for the harsh wind, but found it blocked by Jack’s solid body. You couldn’t help but smile in return; his was warming you from the inside out.
“Thanks, Jack,” you sighed, sitting down at last while he fiddled with the plastic legs of your sign. “What are you doing out here?”
“Can’t I just want to visit you?” said Jack, and you told yourself the pink in his cheeks was from the cold.
“I guess,” you said, working hard to combat your widening smile.
“Can I sit?”
“Um, sure,” you said, waving a gloved hand. “Liz is never on time, anyways.”
He took the empty seat next to you, then shoved his red hands in his pockets. You allowed yourself exactly three seconds to admire his curls in the breeze, before you forced your head forward to face the front.
“So how’s it going out here?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s great,” you drawled sarcastically. “Yeah, I really love freezing my ass off so that people can come up and ask me dumb questions and never buy a flower. Do they not see the signs?”
Jack chuckled.
“Well, you know, charity and all.”
You hummed noncommittally.
“I just love how everyone who voted for the stupid idea magically became swamped when it came to organizing the damn thing,” you grumbled. “I should have done that.”
“You couldn’t possibly have,” said Jack, matter of factly.
“Yeah, you’re right,” you sighed. “Jesus, sometimes it’s exhausting being the way I am.”
“You’re better for it,” said Jack, so genuinely you had to avert your eyes.
You were distracted momentarily when a group of giggling freshmen approached the table, and one in the middle sheepishly asked for a carnation. They twittered away excitedly, and you slumped back with your stiff legs crossed. You shook your head. Jack looked fondly after them.
“I feel like I know how that one will turn out,” you said glumly, scribbling on your clipboard.
“Oh, come on, don’t you remember what it was like to be out on your own for the first time?” said Jack. “The first crush, or girlfriend you’d had when you didn’t need to ask your parent’s permission to go out?”
Your lips turned slightly down.
“Not really,” you said honestly. “I’ve never had many crushes. And when I did, they were never all consuming like that, never strong enough to pull me away from a night of studying.”
You glanced Jack’s way and found that he was already watching you, though upon being caught, he turned quickly to a lone dead leaf on the ground, crushing it with his shoe.
“So… do you — what are your Valentine’s plans?”
You could practically hear Chelsea in your head, but you shook her off.
“Well, I’m going to wander around res all day, delivering love carnations from a wagon,” you said in a monotonous voice, “and then I’m probably gonna go to the library and study for Ratliff’s. Which reminds me, I need to book a study room. Though I hardly think they’ll be in high demand on Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, right,” said Jack, scratching his cheek. “No, yeah, I should probably do the same. Um… mind if I join you? Next week, I mean?”
You’re brow furrowed, and you stared at the side of Jack’s curly head.
“You want to study the names and properties of medications with me… in the library… on Valentine’s Day?”
The ear you could see was quickly reddening. He coughed.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, I feel like no one else’ll be around — all my friends have dates, at least.”
“You don’t have a date?” you asked, accidentally aloud, and it was your turn to avert your eyes.
“No,” he said hurriedly. “Not unless you count all the alone time I spend with the Principles of Pharmacology.”
You chuckled lightly, heart picking up a bit. Spending the most romantic day of the year, alone, in a secluded library with a gorgeous guy sounded almost too good to be true. A little dangerous, even. But, you firmly reminded yourself, he was right. No one else would be around anyways, and you could quiz each other. And when your friends woke up the next morning with hangovers, you’d be waking up with a productive night of studying under your belt.
“Okay,” you said, and he grinned at you. “Sounds fun. I can stop by the library later today.”
“That’s okay, I’ll do it!” said Jack happily. “I’m headed that way anyway.”
“Alright,” you said, heart fluttering madly. “Oh, here comes Liz.”
Your friend and peer, with a head of curls not dissimilar to Jack’s but in a shade of darkest brown, was dragging her feet in your direction. There was an iced coffee in her hand, and sleep in her eyes. Jack immediately jumped up from her folding chair, and all she could offer him with her mouth around the straw was a nod of thanks.
“Liz, what the hell are you wearing?” you said sharply.
“A hoodie,” she said.
You shook your head, then began removing your jacket.
“Here you go,” you said, shoving it into Liz’s hands without waiting for permission.
“Babe, I don’t want —”
“Just take it, you stubborn asshole,” you said, sure that she would be moaning about the cold in ten minutes time, and wishing to avoid that all together.
Sighing like you were doing her a great disservice, she set down her drink and shrugged the coat over her shoulders.
Before you could make another move, another jacket was now being shoved, this time to you. Jack was standing in the courtyard in nothing but a crew with your university’s logo on it, no gloves, no hat, no scarf. You blinked.
“That’s okay, Jack.”
“But you’ll be cold without a coat.”
“I’ve got two sweaters on, I’ll be fine.”
“Please just take it, I’ll be inside anyways —”
“Yeah, don’t be a stubborn asshole,” quipped Liz with a grin around her straw.
Sending her a glare, and Jack a shy smile, you pulled on his puffy coat. You were suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of him, and it was all you could do not to stick your nose into the collar and inhale deeply. Only when it was zipped all the way up did Jack look satisfied.
“Thank you,” you said in a small voice.
“No problem,” said Jack. He wasn’t shivering, but his cheeks were turning rather pink again. “Um, I’ll see you Thursday, for the patho study group?”
You nodded, and he smiled again, and disappeared into the crowd. You could feel Liz’s eyes on you, but were spared a confrontation by the approach of a student.
It was a pretty good day for the booth. You got to see Chelsea come to order some flowers for her girlfriend, Tara, then saw Tara later that day to do just the same for Chelsea. There were a couple guys you recognized and were sure they were only sending flowers to dates to increase their chances of sex. A young, and rather brazen girl, who boldly addressed a red carnation to a professor, which technically there was no rule against, though you made a mental note to ask your advisor about it later.
You left around two for a class, and when you got back, Liz was happily reporting the day’s haul as close to five hundred dollars raised. All in all, it wasn’t so bad. The booth did pretty well, and you actually got some studying done at the table.
As the week progressed, flower sales steadily grew and your locked tin box of money was filling up. It meant great things for the association, and helped you accept that maybe, despite the injuries to your fingers and lower back, the hours slaved over the flowers were worth it.
You also kept getting preoccupied by your not-date with Jack, which was drawing ever nearer. You didn’t dare breathe a word of it to any of your friends, especially your despicable roommate, who already had a thirty minute freakout when you walked through the door wearing his coat. You knew that if you confided in her, she’d go overboard and get in your head.
At the Thursday study group, the combination of handing back said coat to its original owner, plus his confirmation of the study room number for Monday, caused some more suspicious looks. Fortunately, Chelsea didn’t tend to run in the same circles, being of a different major, so you were subjected to her preaching.
On Monday, after class, you were needed back at the apartment to help her pick out the perfect Valentine’s outfit. Then the two of you parted ways on the street. Chelsea off to her date, and you off to the library.
You got to the room before Jack did. You compulsively checked the sign up sheet outside the door, but you weren’t surprised to see it, and the rest of the library, almost totally empty that night.
You set up your books, index cards, notebooks, and pencil case, while trying hard not to pick over your outfit. After hours of agonizing, far more agonizing than Chelsea had spared, you had rested on your regular jeans and a zip up hoodie. Cute, comfy, and most importantly, casual. Still, your mind was running over hundreds of scenarios in which Jack in some way, shape, or form, disapproved of this outfit. Ridiculous, you reminded yourself.
You tried to focus on pharm. Which main infections are treated by Penicillin G? You tapped your pencil against your notebook, thinking. Strep, definitely, and meningitis… but beyond that you were drawing a blank. You glanced out of the window, but you couldn’t see anyone else in the library.
Focus. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia, gonorrhea…
Maybe he changed his mind, and he found a date last minute. There might be a message waiting on your machine back at the apartment right that second.
You rested your forehead in your hand, hunching over your notes, trying not to glance at the door every five seconds. Strep, meningitis, pneumonia…
But you know what? Screw him if he was going to bail. Kinda shitty, not too crazy, though, for friends. Acquaintances, even. Maybe you were never really as close as you had thought, maybe you were reading into everything because of your stupid, school girl crush. No matter. Since he was just your friend-slash-acquaintance, it wasn’t that big of a blow. You weren’t about to miss out on your studying. It didn’t bother you…
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in came Jack. He was slightly winded, as though he had been running, the tips of his ears and nose pink with cold. He looked a little anxious, and he straightened up awkwardly, with one hand on the silver handle, and one bent behind his back.
“Sorry I’m late!” he panted. “I — I got… caught up…”
He trailed off, looking worried. You glanced at your watch: it was only two minutes past your agreed upon meeting time.
“You’re not late,” you dismissed, “I just get everywhere early.”
“I know! That’s why I wanted to — um, I just didn’t account for…”
He trailed off strangely again, and stepped into the room. He kept his back squarely to the wall, shuffling inside like a crab so as not to reveal to you whatever he was attempting to conceal. As you took him in, you realized he was dressed nicely, definitely nicer than you. He wore jeans, but not his usual, everyday jean with the holes and fading — these were dark wash, and they looked new. On his top he wore a button down, nothing too dressy, but certainly a step up from the usual college attire of t-shirts and hoodies.
This display made you confused; insecure though you now were that your fears of underdressing seemed to be true, you couldn’t help but enjoy his appearance. Most of the time you saw each other, it was under a haze of exhaustion and stress. This was new.
You fiddled with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, unsure whether or not to break the brief silence. Eventually, you decided you should.
“So — do you wanna sit? I can quiz you,” you said briskly, defaulting to your comfortable business tone. “I was just going over antibiotics, but I also wanted to review muscarinic agonists and antagonists.”
He didn’t budge. In fact, it appeared as though his body was tensing more every second. His face turned from pink to deep ruby red, spreading past his cheeks, down his neck, and you knew, despite not being able to see, down his chest. Just that thought had you heating up a bit too.
“Right,” he said. “Yes.”
Unable to handle the tension, you blurted out the first thing on your mind.
“Are you gonna show me what’s behind your back, or are you gonna stand like this all night?”
You hadn’t thought it possible, but his blush deepened even more, and you regretted the bluntness of your words. He visibly swallowed, staring at the floor like he would very much like to sink into it.
You looked away too, hoping perhaps to take some pressure off of him. Your eyes landed randomly on a bit of orange peel someone had left behind. You didn’t even have the time to be annoyed that someone had been sneaking snacks in the library, before there was a rustling and movement out of your peripherals.
Your eyes widened as you looked up and were faced with a large, truly gorgeous bouquet. It was clearly professionally done, beautifully spaced with mainly lilies and tulips, and spotted here and there with sage and little tiny daisies.
Unable to tear your eyes away from the bunch, you muttered, “is this for me?”
“Um, yeah,” he said nervously, letting you take the bouquet carefully, like he was desperate not to let any of his skin touch yours. “I — I wanted to get you carnations, but I couldn’t very well order them from you, that would kinda be counterproductive — besides, I know you don’t even like them —”
You finally broke away from the flowers to look into his cherry-red face.
“How do you know that?”
He blinked.
“You said so,” he said sheepishly.
“I did?” you said faintly, racking your brains.
A hand moved to the back of his neck, and he turned to face the ground so much so that all you could see was the top of his head and the tips of his maroon ears.
“At the start of the semester,” he said quietly, so quietly you had to strain your ears. “When the fundraiser was chosen.”
You remembered then, with his prompting. You had been sitting in the library, complaining loudly with Chelsea and some other friends.
“I mean, can we please be practical?” you had spat. “Flowers are messy, they wilt, they die, they’re expensive.”
“Use fake flowers,” supplied Chelsea.
“That would be disgusting,” you said. “I couldn’t possibly expect anyone to pay money for a plastic flower.”
“Okay, use real ones, then,” said Chelsea.
You groaned dramatically, attacking the calculator you were supposed to be using for dosage calculations.
“Why couldn’t we use, like, candy canes, or something? They do that in Mean Girls!”
“Because that was for Christmas, this is Valentine’s Day,” said your friend Bree. “There’s nothing lovey-dovey about candy canes.”
“I’d still rather get a candy cane then a fucking carnation,” you said. “That’s another thing stupid about this! Carnations! They’re such a boring flower. And red? I mean, be original.”
“People don’t want originality, they want classic romance,” said Sarah.
“I think lilies or tulips would be classic!” you argued. “Classic, familiar, but more elegant. I’m telling you, if everyone just did what I said, we’d have no problems left in the world.”
You were shocked that he recalled that. He had been there, but you didn’t think he’d been listening. He was buried in work, reading a textbook; you didn't know he’d even been aware of that conversation. But he had not only been listening, he’d carried the information, such inconsequential information, for almost a month.
You wanted to tell him how much you loved them, see that easy smile spread across his cheeks, but you seemed too shocked to find the words. You just stared between him and the bouquet, speechless, not that he was looking to notice. At your lack of response, he spoke again.
“I know it’s stupid,” he said. “I’m sorry, I mean, you don’t even have like a — like a vase, or anything, to put them in, and what are you gonna do, hold this massive bouquet when you’re trying to study? I probably should have just brought them to your apartment, huh? But then — I guess showing up on the doorstep with a bouquet is a little too forward — or old-fashioned — or maybe this whole idea was old-fashioned —”
You had seen him flustered on many occasions, where he’d blush, look away, and press on. This was different… you hardly recognized this stammering, jittery mess of nerves before you. It was honestly a good look on him.
“Jack,” you interrupted him, and he quieted at once. “I love the flowers.”
He let out a harrowed breath, looking at least somewhat relieved. His arm fell, though his hands met behind his back and you were pretty sure they were twisting with anxiety.
“Really? I tried to get anemones, I know you love the ones outside the gym, but they didn’t have any at the shop,” he breathed.
“Is that why you were late?” you asked. “You were getting me flowers?”
He nodded regretfully.
You raised your flowers to get a proper whiff of the dreamy aroma. Then, again, with apparent loss of your filter, “Why?”
He struggled for a second.
“I — I guess I —” he cleared his throat, shuffling his feet. “I didn’t want you to go without flowers on Valentine’s Day, just because you were the only one dedicated enough to run the booth.”
You smiled.
“That’s… very nice,” you said, taken aback. “But I feel like I should tell you, working a booth or not, I’ve never gotten Valentine’s flowers.”
“All the more reason,” he said.
You admired them for a few more minutes, while he admired you outside the scope of your vision, then you asked another question.
“What did you mean, ‘too forward’?”
“Huh?”
“Before, you said showing up on my doorstep would be ‘too forward’,” you explained. “Too forward for what?”
What little color he’d lost upon your assurance that you liked his gift came rushing back at that. You saw him glance at the window and then the door, as though hoping someone would come in and save him from your query. When no one did, he took a deep breath, as though steeling himself.
“I was thinking that maybe — if you had the time, of course, and if you had any interest whatsoever — maybe you might want to… go out? With me?”
Your heart, suspiciously tame up until that point, suddenly made itself known, galloping against your chest with a million times its usual power. You brought your bouquet up towards your face again, partially for the calming scent, partially to hide your face.
Jack Abbot was asking you out. Jack. Abbot. In front of you, hands tied, face red. Asking. You. Out. Chelsea’s voice was once again in your head, now screaming I TOLD YOU SO!
Just as Jack opened his mouth, perhaps to take it all back, you spoke.
“Okay, Jack.”
He took a step closer.
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll go out with you. I’d love to go out with you.”
You thought he might have melted right down to the floor, the way the tension left his bones. Finally, that favorite smile of yours spread across his glowing face. You matched it.
“I’d invite you over now,” you said, “but I promised Chelsea I’d be out of the apartment until at least eleven.”
“That’s okay,” he said cheerily. “We should really get some studying done, right?”
“Right,” you said giddily as he unpacked his bag, though you really didn’t want to release your lovely gift to hold a pencil.
As you were figuring out how to balance it in the crook of your nondominant arm, yet another thought struck you. If Chelsea was right… all those times, starting over a year ago, she nudged your shoulder, or sent you a look…
You glanced over at Jack as he pulled out the Principles of Pharmacology, and decided you wouldn’t prod him for a timeline. Because perhaps if you did, you’d have to admit that for as long as he’d been waiting to ask you out, you’d been waiting to say yes.
Doppel-banger: a double of a living person who you wouldn't hesitate to tap
summary: five times you think you stumbled upon jack abbot vs. the one time it's actually him
tags: shawn hatosy universe, brett richards, sammy bryant, andrew "pope" cody, terry mccandless, titus dandforth, jack abbot, terry is lowkey creepy, titus mentions sacrificing somone, brett sammy and pope are all nice, canon pope staring, second hand embarrassment, younger fem!reader but age is not specified
notes: okay, so I had this idea of making a full oneshot about a reader mistaking pope for a concussed jack for an entire day, but the I thought it'd be really funny to make a collection of all the major shawn characters. i haven't seen any of the tv shows, but i read so much fan fiction, I am sorry if some of them are ooc, if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!
word count: 9.6k
By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other.
A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field.
Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye.
You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you.
The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes.
You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders.
No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd.
Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone.
But more importantly, mentioning it to you.
Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire.
A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him.
“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?”
The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach.
“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.”
By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still.
That should have been your first warning.
But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—”
Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.
Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot.
In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance.
But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist.
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?”
Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.”
Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle.
You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.”
“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said.
Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.”
“I’m starting to gather that.”
“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.”
He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.”
You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.”
The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?”
“Only when he does something stupid.”
“I’m starting to think I should meet him.”
You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.”
He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.
Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body.
You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.”
Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.”
You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again.
Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.”
Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?”
“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.”
“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.”
“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.”
“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.”
“Seemed important to you.”
“I’ve been publicly humiliated!”
“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.”
“What?”
“The tone you’re doing right now.”
Brett blinked. “What tone?”
“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You sound exactly like him too.”
Now he looked offended. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.”
The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.”
Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?”
“Definitely not yours.”
You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message.
Jack:
Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid.
“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him.
He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.”
You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.”
“Feels like your problem already.”
“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.”
Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!”
You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.”
Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.”
_______________________
The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled.
Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights.
You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly.
Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately.
Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too?
Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights.
You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway.
“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.”
Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face.
“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.”
A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?”
“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly.
You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them.
Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb.
And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired.
You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.”
He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?”
“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself.
“Again?”
You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.”
“Well, that sound concerning.”
“I’m very concerned for my mental status.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it.
You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.”
“Nope.”
“Perfect.”
“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him.
You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.”
“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?”
“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.”
That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.”
You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.”
Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Late shift?”
You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.”
His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?”
“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.”
A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable.
You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night.
Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?”
A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.”
“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.”
He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.”
You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them.
“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed.
“Twelve years.”
“Explains your expression.”
At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?”
“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.”
He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.”
A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.”
Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?”
“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.”
“What does Jack do?”
“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”
Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.”
“You say that like you know him.”
“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.”
For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got.
Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?”
His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago.
Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.”
It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.”
“You’re tired,” he said simply.
“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.”
“You’re human.”
You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.”
“Me and Jack?”
“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.”
Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.”
“Maybe I need therapy.”
“That too.”
You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal.
As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs.
Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.”
“That’s still up for debate.”
“But you still like him.”
You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further.
You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.”
“Dangerous trait to have.”
And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.”
“Real terrible guy.”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.”
Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser.
“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.”
His eyebrows rose. “Probably.”
“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.”
“Likewise.”
As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell.
“And hey,” he called out after a few steps.
You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow.
“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!”
Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot.
_______________________
By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real.
Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in.
You’d be done in four hours.
That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult.
The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare.
You drank it down anyway.
Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently.
That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows.
Your steps slowed automatically.
Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.
Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack.
But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him.
“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?”
Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again.
Three and oh.
You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet.
In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad.
Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether.
You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.”
The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.”
Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you.
You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.”
He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?”
His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth.
A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.”
Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself).
You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”
He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?”
“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?”
Another pause.
“You can sit.”
You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt.
Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you.
“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently.
His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure.
“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.”
Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?”
He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.”
His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway.
You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”
A small almost-smile curled his lip.
You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.”
His eyes looked down at the cup.
“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him.
He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?”
You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I feel the same way.”
A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings.
Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read.
Lonely, your brain supplied.
You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?”
He pursed his lips. “Andrew.”
No nickname.
Not even a last name.
Just Andrew.
You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.”
“The last two?”
“Long story.”
He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully.
“Do you need to go help people?”
“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.”
“You’re tired.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.”
He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.”
“You sound like Jack.”
Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?”
“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband.
“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically.
Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.”
You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have.
You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.”
His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt.
_______________________
By now, you should have known better.
Key words: should have.
Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning.
Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment.
Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in.
All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise.
Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes.
The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car.
You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door.
At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket.
The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore.
Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first.
Et tu, Brute?
“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased.
“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.”
You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started.
“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes.
The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine).
However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.”
A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.”
You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Finding men who all have the same face.”
“That so?”
“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.”
The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.”
“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.”
You paused. “That was before you spoke.”
His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?”
“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.”
He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”
The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion.
Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.”
He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke.
Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all.
This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?”
You sneered. “That’s none of your business.”
“Mhm.”
“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”
“Only the pretty little ones.”
You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.”
Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?”
“You’re definitely something.”
Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest.
“You got a name?” he asked.
Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest.
“Smart girl,” he murmured.
Your spine stiffened.
The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.”
You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.”
“Before tellin’ me yours?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.”
You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest.
“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.”
You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.”
“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person.
You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.”
He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.”
You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.
_______________________
You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events.
The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities.
The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking.
Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served.
“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief.
Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”
“Well now I’m interested.”
Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly.
At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role.
The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane.
Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice.
But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint.
He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?”
You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”
“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.”
“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.”
Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him.
“Oh, I already like you,” he announced.
You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.”
“I get that a lot.”
You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”
He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?”
“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.”
“Do you seek his face out often?”
“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.”
“Ah. One of those situations.”
Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.”
“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.”
Oh.
Oh no.
For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally.
You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.”
His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.”
“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.”
“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
“It mostly entertains me.”
You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that.
“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.”
A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?”
He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.”
You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?”
Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.”
A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh.
“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh.
“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.”
Oh, absolutely not.
Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best.
“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.”
“How will you ever recover?”
“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.”
Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?”
“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.”
“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous.
“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.”
The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will.
You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.”
His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?”
“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.”
“Is it a sin to be attentive?”
“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.”
Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.”
Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you.
“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side.
You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight.
Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.”
His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket.
Double oh no.
He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.”
You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot.
“Titus—”
“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.”
“That is way too much money.”
“Probably.”
“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.”
“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.”
You hesitated before slowly taking in.
Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.”
Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.”
You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”
“How did you know that was next on my list?”
“It seemed very on brand.”
Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other.
Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.”
You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.”
_______________________
At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks.
One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well).
You were simply done.
Officially. Completely. Done.
Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance.
The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes.
And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes.
Unbelievable.
You didn’t even break stride this time.
“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.”
The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice.
You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.”
A long silence followed before he said one word.
“What?”
You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.
Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot.
Your Jack.
For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious.
You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?”
Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?”
“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.”
Jack stared at you in complete silence.
“. . . You met a rich version of me?”
“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.”
“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?”
The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that.
Brett had looked entertained.
Sammy had looked understanding.
Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely.
Terry had looked scheming.
Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing.
But Jack?
Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once.
“Oh.”
Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?”
“You’re actually him.”
“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?”
A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting.
Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?”
His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?”
“You happened,” you informed him weakly.
“That really didn’t explain anything.”
“It does in my head.”
“Which is terrifying.”
You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art.
But above all, Jack felt safe.
Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment.
You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty.
“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly.
Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.”
“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.”
He stayed quiet.
“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.”
Jack looked caught off guard.
“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.”
He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.
Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.”
A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.”
Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.”
The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days.
That was another difference too.
None of the others had ever felt like home.
You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.”
Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?”
“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.”
A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head.
“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.”
You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”
Jack stared down at you for one long second.
“Did any of them kiss you?”
A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?”
“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?”
“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.”
His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady.
When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly.
“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.”
Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?”
You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.”
He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss.
Aftercare with Jack is sometimes best done when nothing sexual has actually happened. Just a gruelling, mentally draining night shift that had rubbed the skin of his amputation site raw and made getting settled incredibly difficult now that he was back home.
You take the upmost care while sliding off the moulded plastic of the prosthetic socket, placing the leg carefully to the side and offering your beloved a sympathetic smile when he lets out a breath that spoke of his utter relief to be free of it. He was thankful for it's help, of course he was, but he was just as thankful for a partner that was ever so gentle with him and understood exactly what he needed when the skin ended up red or sometimes even oozing.
"Oh, my love... look how sore you are."
Deft fingers, that had done this a fair few times before and had become almost professional at offering massages, slipped along the crook of his knee until they found exactly where they needed to situate their attention, tips of them delving deep against the sensitive tissue to rid the solid knots deep within the muscle.
"That feel good?"
He could only give a shaky nod in response, lost to the indescribable pleasure that rippled through him in waves - each one better than the last as you continued your sacred ritual of caring for his stump.
His favourite part was when you'd finished up your ministrations and decided to reach for the bottle of moisturiser. Unscented, aimed at people with sensitive skin and left in the fridge while he was gone for the night so it was almost orgasmic when layered on and smoothed into his aches that burned.
You help him get into a more comfortable position against the pillows you'd fluffed up before he came home, unfazed when he pulls you closer so your head finds his chest and his heartbeat thrums in a steady rhythm against your ear.
Aftercare wasn't always sexual in the Abbot household, and that was perfectly okay.
— andrew is an inconsistent texter. he’ll leave you on delivered and maybe read for hours—not his fault, they had to use the burner for a bit—and comes back after a while. he texts and calls until you reply or he comes home.
— when you’re at work or he’s away pope sends you random pictures of what’s going on in his day, but he unintentionally makes them feel far more ominous than they are. he will send a picture of the open ocean and think that suffices as an “update,” while you worry about where the fuck he is.
— he responds to your random questions with utmost patience, no matter how stupid they might be. when you ask him if he would still love you if you were a worm, he sends a thumbs up and a “Yes 👍” back.
— you ask him to update you whenever he’s on a job. he types in simple texts, using the few seconds be has so you know he’s okay. “here.” “safe.” “going home.”
— he’s not too affectionate when texting. he doesn’t see the point. he doesn’t shy away from calling you his girl, though. he replies to your messages in his normal, deadpan cadence, and he doesn’t understand why you find it so adorable.
— pope doesn’t keep up with current trends, since he finds events and news a better use of his time. but when he overhears something new from someone else, he’ll take the time to ask you about it since he’s too embarrassed to ask anyone else.
— he doesn’t shy away from double texting. he will text you multiple times an afternoon and deflate if you don’t answer. nothing too lovey-dovey, maybe some simple updates. a picture of where he is. a pin request. multiple missed calls if you’re gone too late.
— when he’s away, he texts you an “I love you” every night even if you’re already asleep when he manages to get a hold of his phone—not the burner one, the you one where he could finally talk to his favorite person.
and if we put it all together…
man i just finished the ak finale ok let me be happy. also lmk if you love me and want to be on my taglist for pope hcs and writing.
toy flesh [explicit 18+] — [part 1] Clark randomly feels someone sitting on his dick even when he’s alone in his room. pretty much. part one for that magic toy prelude in my masterlist
. . .
Clark thinks it has to be a one off thing. Has to be. A wet dream too close to reality that somehow got his dick a little too wet. A hallucination manifested in some relaxing body tremors that felt so good it ultimately had him cumming everywhere in his pants, untouched, with the book he was nose-deep in forgotten while he lied down and stared at the wall in wide eyed, wide-mouthed shock. What just happened? How did that just happen?
He holds out hope that maybe he’ll get to touch himself and get rid of this pent up energy, get it flushed out of his system, not feel the same unexplained touch of someone else’s body—someone else’s flesh directly on top of him. While he goes about his daily routine before work he doesn’t ever stop looking down at his dick like he’s checking in on it. See if it falls off or grows a bigger brain of its own. Pulls his waistband out to take a confused peak while he’s scrubbing his teeth, foam running down the corner of his mouth. Watches his dick swing around and reluctantly roll upward and harden again from the memory even as he’s ironing the fine lines in his button down shirt.
It felt juvenile. It felt ridiculous.
What grown man couldn’t keep it down and stay soft for a dull eight hour work day?
He has to fondle himself to the memory again before he leaves, cum uncontrollably splashing just about everywhere even though he prepares himself with a tissue right at the tip. The shirt he spent nearly fifteen minutes ironing had to get thrown in the wash and replaced with something wrinkly and unkempt, but at least it was free of cum stains.
Clark sighs as the elevator door opens up to his office floor, trudging over to his desk and setting his briefcase down. Skips right over to their break room’s coffee maker to brew up a sugary full cup for the day ahead of him. Jimmy gave him a greeting with a rougher pat on the shoulder, jolting Clark in a reactionary shiver when he thinks back to being touched in bed by no one or something while he was withering all alone in his room.
He pushes his glasses up his scrunched up nose, letting out an almost disgruntled sounding hey.
Jimmy squints at him, noticing the offbeat attitude of his close friend and coworker. “You good, man? Sleep alright last night or did somebody take a hot piss in your Froot Loops?”
“Slept… slept fine, it’s just I’m kinda going through stuff right now. I don’t know.”
Clark swallows and stirs his steaming cup after dropping another sugar cube in. Jimmy pats his shoulder once again, trying to get Clark to meet his eyes with a tilt of his head.
“You know… maybe it’s about time.”
“What?”
“You know, dude, maybe it’s that time. Time for you to get yourself laid. I think it could help flush out some of these nerves in your system. You seem so tense. I know a few girls that would hop on that train, if you know what I mean.”
Clark turns beat red rather quickly, taking a long sip to gather his thoughts and come up with a response.
“Yeah you couldn’t have been any more direct actually. I… listen I understand, but it’s not that. Trust me, I’m getting… more than you think. I guess. Cause something like, something happened last night, I don’t even know how to explain it. And I liked….. it. It’s just really weird so maybe now’s not the time to discuss—“
Jimmy laughs a long, boyish giggle and slaps one of Clark’s broad shoulders, pulling Clark further aside into the corner with a look around for any coworkers meandering.
“Dude, I knew it. You found yourself a lady. You’ve been getting some and you haven’t been telling me. That’s really lame of you man, I thought our friendship had no barriers—“
“I haven’t met a— look, okay, it was weird, and I mean really really weird. I don’t know if you’ll understand it or if it’ll just sound crazy.”
“Whatever crazy thing you’re about to say, I’ve probably done crazier,” Jimmy assures with a knowing nod paired with a grin. “Trust me.”
“Uh, okay….” Clark clears his throat and lowers his voice, leaning down to Jimmy’s ear level. “Have—have you ever like, came untouched before? Felt someone…. down there…. even though no one else was in the room?”
Clark stares at Jimmy now, loosening the tie around his collar like he’s already broke out in another sweat just thinking about it. Wondering if it might happen again. If he has some odd guardian angel that likes to fuck him and look after him all at the same time.
“You mean you finished, no hands, completely dry? You’re living the dream. Should be more grateful. Why do you look so terrified right now.”
Clark closes his eyes and pinches his brows in a long sigh before nodding to Jimmy to follow him to the bathrooms after setting his coffee on his desk. With uneasy paranoia he peers down to check for any feet on the floor in the stalls before he continues.
“I… I don’t think you get it. It felt like someone literally rode me, like, put me inside them and came on my dick and everything. I wasn’t doing anything! Wasn’t even hard before it started happening, I was just reading. I don’t know how else to explain this or make it any clearer to you!”
Jimmy looks astounded after every word, awestruck with an open mouth. Even flashes of envy pass through his eyes while he chuckles and shakes his head. Typical Clark and his way of complicating things. Overthinking what truly sounded like a gift. “Sounds like a you’re being haunted by a friendly ghost that just wants to hop on that thing, dude. So what did it really feel like? And can I get one too?”
Clark closes his eyes and his mind goes back to last night. In the comfort of his soft sheets, legs sprawling out and taking over the entirety of his bed. How right when the plot of his novel started taking off he felt almost a tickle. A wiggle of what felt like a smooth, slithery tongue. It was unrecognizable when it started, like maybe he had an itch down there to scratch, or maybe some blood began randomly flowing down south.
When it became unmistakeable, too soft and wet to deny what was happening to him, he slammed his book shut with the bookmark in place and spread his legs wider, feeling the sweat breaking out. Feels his dick happily jump right into the warm invisible hole teasing his tip. He felt the hole clench down and struggle to take him all, slowly inching up and down like a bunny on top of what it could take. He clenched a fist at his side and held his dick up with a thumb, raising his hips gently into the heavenly heat. How the pace it had going stuttered when he did, probably in shock that he had more of himself to give.
Clark remembers crying with pleasure, pre cum getting drained out of him so effortlessly, so smoothly. Drool picks up on his tongue while he’s nearly going cross eyed, the pussy on top of him bouncing harder, bouncing faster—
“It feels— it feels unbelievable. I mean it was incredible,” Clark answers Jimmy’s question that had awkwardly hung in the air. “Haven’t felt anything like it before. Something might be seriously wrong with me.”
Jimmy raises a brow. “Watching too much porn? Just take a break. Meet a girl.”
Clark’s full body shivers, goosebumps now swarming up his arms and the back of his neck, making all the hairs there start to stand up. He feels an eager hand all the sudden grab onto his bare cock and slick their palm down, cold and wet like the hand had a puddle of lube to gloss him down.
If it hasn’t visibly shown up as a wet spot on his groin through his trousers yet, by the feeling of it it’ll start showing a dark spot soon. If he didn’t take his dick out it would surely start a puddle that would only dry as a fresh stain.
Clark takes a deep, shaky breath, turning over to grab onto the tile of the wall, resting his forehead against it and gripping like he’s engulfed in pain. Like his surroundings started spinning all around him.
“Woah, Clark. Dude. Take it easy. What’s happening?”
Jimmy gets closer to check on his friend but Clark can’t take it, shooing him off with a hurried no, it’s fine—just get out of here. I need a second. thanks!
“You sure you’ll be able to hold up the rest of today? You have enough leave. I’m sure Lois would understand—”
“Just, just…. I need to take a— I’ll take a ten, okay,” he whimpers, clutching onto the humiliating bulge growing so fast he already was showing a hefty print. “Maybe a fifteen. I can’t—I don’t know.” The hand stopped slicking up and down his cock and he feels it tease him by rubbing his length up and down a pearly wet slit, not yet having him enter.
He shoos Jimmy away and hurries to a stall, slamming it shut and locking it with his back to the door while his dick bobs around for more of her attention. Tingles sprout in his belly while his whole body starts to tense.
“Uh, okay,” Jimmy mutters. “Well I’ll leave you to it I guess? Here for you buddy. Don’t piss off your ghost girlfriend. Maybe next time she won’t fuck you as good if you do,” he laughs.
“Shut. The door. And shut. Up!” Clark howls, fumbling with his zipper and rushing to roll some toilet paper up into a ball for his tip when he’s hanging out of his boxers. He distantly hears his friend mumble a jeez, so touchy. sorry and the door creaks open and falls closed. With privacy at last, Clark is able to heave and thrust his hips gently into the beautiful, tight wet heat, little abstract murmurs and whimpers leaving his throat while his dick gets wetter, and wetter, and wetter.
“Don’t—Don’t, don’t want you to stop,” he quietly begs. Veins popping on his temple from all the straining his body is doing. “But I… I have to get back to work.”
Whatever is wrapped around his cock doesn’t pay his words any mind, sinking down all the way to his balls and creaming on his base the more they start their rough bouncing. Like they’re angry, like they’re taking everything out on his cock. Clark wished he knew what he did wrong, or maybe what he did right to deserve this kind of treatment from someone he couldn’t even see.
“I’m not gonna last, I’m not, it feels so good…. feels too good…. I can’t handle this again, not right now,” he breathes. Sees his tip bead more floods of pre cum and slip down the base of his cock, getting his balls messy with slick. The sound is obscene, with every up and down motion everything can be heard. How wet the pussy around him really is. How his cock stuffs it all the way through. If somebody came in right now, they would think he’s having real sex with a real body in this stall right now. When in all honestly, Clark doesn’t know what he’s having.
“Oh my gosh, gosh you’re more wet this time, you’re getting it so wet…. You’re gonna get me in trouble, wait…. please.”
The pussy on top of his dick starts to quiver, tremble and squeeze him down harder than before. Like it’s finally found release after a record of an eight minute round of going nuts on him like he’s nothing but a toy built strictly for their use.
Some cum that isn’t even his starts dribbling down on him, and that’s when the floodgates start to open. Clark can’t hold it anymore, and he doesn’t know how bad it’s gonna be trying to both cover his load and then clean it all up.
He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut once again, knuckles turning white while he holds on for dear life and busts another long, drawn out nut into whatever this thing is that’s tortured him yet again. He spits out rope after rope of cum in the waiting piece of balled up paper and tries to catch it all there but a few stray drips do manage to burst out too fast for him to act. He sprays a part of the wall and whines a little no, please, please no, you made me cum too hard again, I need to get back to work.
The come down is always humbling. Seeing exactly how foolish he was acting as the sweat under his arms and on his face visibly stains his clothes and his skin. He managed to wipe off his messy cum lines off the wall and stuffs another rolled up ball of toilet paper down his boxers to soak up whatever else is leftover in his pants.
When he feels ready enough he’s still catching his breath and trying to get his blushing face under control as he heads over to the sink to splash some water on his face. Presses on the soap dispenser over and over again until more than a mountain of soap is bubbling in his palm, lathering his sticky, filthy hands.
Clark fights everything inside him to try and act natural when he heads back to his desk. Ruffles his hair more than necessary, tightens his tie, rolls up his sleeves.
The cup of coffee he’d made had lost most of its heat but Clark was so preoccupied in his head he doesn’t notice, still gulping some down and logging back into his computer to answer more messages and emails that were left for him. His eyes zone in on an email he’d been CC’d in from Jimmy and Lois about an upcoming new hire’s start date for their vacant Office Assistant position.
The email read that Clark would be assigned as the one primarily training her since he’d started out in her exact title position a year ago. Clark adds a thumbs up to the email and closes out of it to start on another assignment, thinking in the very back of his head that if his dick can’t control himself while he’s training said new hire next week he’d be blowing his brains out, not out of his cock next time.
Jimmy side eyes him from across the room, mouthing a you good? much to Clark’s bashful shake of his head, assuring him with a roll of his eyes and a tired response of yeah, I’m fine. shut up.
Lois comes out of the blue up behind him and drops a fat stack of paperwork on Clark’s desk with a tight smile.
“New hire coming in next week. You got my email right?”
Clark nods and leans back in his chair, casual as he can muster.
“She’ll have to mostly rely on you for help and onboarding, since me and Jimmy have too much going on. Travel, deadlines, some new leads finally getting back to us for interviews. So you’ll take her under your wing for us, yeah?”
“Of course. It’s not uh, it won’t be a problem,” he answers under his breath, taking another sorry sip of his lukewarm coffee. He hopes the thing in his pants won’t be a problem.
“You sure? Jimmy said you didn’t look well. You can’t call out and leave her all alone here on her first few days, it’s gonna be overwhelming in the start—“
“Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine. It’ll get taken care of,” he promised.
“Alright, then don’t get her sick, got it?”
Clark wants to slap Jimmy for even bringing up his frazzled state to anybody in the office, mortified over what had taken place barely ten minutes ago, and how unpredictable his dick was gonna act for a while. Or forever. Who even knows at this point.
“My germs are all mine,” he swears, hands defensively up in the air. “Count on it.”
Lois gives him another one of her hard stares that basically told him she’d make him eat his words if he dared showing up to the office coughing, sneezing, puking. Clark was only worried about leaving his desk for twenty minutes at a time to get his dick rode by the same tempting mystical source he had yet to fully identify, let alone begin to understand.
It never left his brain even while he worked, back of his pen stuck in his mouth to chew on while he wrote up more emails and forwarded ones from their general inbox. Hours had gone by until he had about forty five more minutes left until he could be freed and finally head home, and Clark really thought he was in the clear of having another accident during work hours.
That was up until the fucking tease went at it again. The warm, sopping wet tightness wraps around his tip and slips him in, no mercy given. His dick springs back to life effortlessly, and Clark wants to cry.
He holds his head by covering his face with both hands, scooting his swivel chair forward so his crotch was safely hidden underneath. He drools an ungodly amount at the tip, feeling how eager this round was for her, how quickly she ruts against him and has him crying softly into the sleeve of his shirt.
Clark’s mewling and groaning is muffled into his arm, too helpless to hold in any of his noise when they move in sways up and down, switching off between going deep and going shallow with their pushes. Clark is beat red all over again, giving up after several minutes of unabashed torture and shielding his wet crotch with his briefcase pressed up against him, running off back to the toilets this time to sit down and breathe while undeniably enjoying everything being done to him. Fuck the last thirty minutes of his shift. Fuck the emails and the phone calls and the scans and the letters.
Clark shuts his eyes and actually smiles for a change as he eggs on whatever higher power bouncing on top of him to keep going. Nods his head and can’t help his soft murmurings of please, yeah, yeah keep doing that, you do it so good.
It might be his new imaginary best friend, or it might be his first sign to go to a mental hospital. Whatever it was, since it’s made Clark cum this hard, he guessed it couldn’t have mattered too much if it always made him feel this good.
. . .
The weekend was spent the same way. Getting his dick milked while he lied back and screeched every time she squeezed on him some way, somehow. He doesn’t answer anyone that texts him for plans, doesn’t do the dishes or take care of his laundry like how he’d hoped. No. He whines and stutters and cries, barely able to get in the shower without his dick getting trampled on.
It’s not a long shot to think he could be developing something. A mental illness. A haunted curse that plagues him with orgasms at all times of the night and the day. He’s one more round away from calling somebody to perform an exorcism or splash holy water on him to escape this succubus that had to be laughing in his face at how easy he is to rile up.
When Monday comes around again Clark doesn’t want to take any chances traumatizing the new hire with all the blotches of cum stains littering his pants. With a scoff and a sigh he steps each leg into a second pair of boxers to make slightly more effort into covering up. Even packs a backup pair in case both pairs he’s currently wearing are soiled by the end of the day.
After a hectic first hour of scanning and distributing the stack of morning mail from the bin, he slips a stick of gum on his tongue and gnaws on the flavor with his mouth open when an unfamiliar silhouette teeters closer towards the edge of his desk from the entrance.
Clark doesn’t get to looking up until she’s clearing her throat, playing with a strand of her hair with a smile aimed at the ground.
“Hi, sorry if I’m interrupting your work. I’m actually starting today,” she explains, eyeing him up from head to toe. Clark rips his head up at the voice and clears his throat, sitting up straighter and pulls a polite hand out.
“Oh! Oh, yeah that’s right. You’re our new hire. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Clark.”
She takes his hand with a laugh. Clark wished he understood what was funny. He joins in on it anyway, anxiously chuckling while he doesn’t stop shaking her hand in his. Realizing it had been well over ten seconds of her soft palm held up in his own long, gigantic fingers, he slips his hand off of hers, lingering in the awkward air of the moment.
She nods and scans her gaze around, peaking at the state of Clark’s desk. The endless string of sticky notes, the protein shakes, the tie he’d already taken off his neck. “So am I in the right place, or—“
“Yup. Yeah, yeah you found where you should be. I’ve been tasked to uh, help you fill all this out. After that we can get you started on some basics,” he breathes out, pointing to the stack resting on the side of his desk, sticky note on top with her name on it. Clark finds himself trying a little desperately to keep himself more cool, more composed. She’s the kind of pretty that made him nervous, suddenly aware of his undone appearance, of every awkward move he makes. He stops chewing his gum with as much rigor, clenches his jaw and scratches the back of his neck.
“I started out in the position you’re in, it’s real easy to move up,” he mentions, gathering up the paperwork and attempting to straighten it out before a quarter of the pages fall from his grasp in a pile. Beat red, Clark doesn’t do anything but stare at the ground and sigh before sheepishly joining in on her laughs.
“You’re pretty organized, aren’t you?” she chuckles, bending over to pick up the few documents that landed on the floor. Clark’s jaw even drops when he catches the smallest glimpse of her hot pink colored thong poking up above from her dress pants.
“Yeah. Yeah I really am, you know. Organization is key,” he nods, tight lipped smile still on his face. He takes the pages she hands him over, watching her subtly arch her head to smell something in the air. Fuck. What the fuck? Did he even put on any cologne this morning after draining his dick for the hundredth time?
Before he could shoot himself in the head with more irrational insecurities his mind makes up she soothed his very visible worry with another laugh and a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Is it me? Do I reek like sweat or something—?”
“No, no. You don’t smell bad, you’re fine. I was just trying to figure out if you were chewing Spearmint or not,” she assures. “I like it. Promise. You do not reek of anything,” she snorted through another laugh. Clark beams, looking around everywhere but her face. Afraid his face could give his every fleeting thought away.
Thank god. “Uh, oh yeah. Yeah it’s Spearmint. You want a piece? I have a new pack,” he offers. To his surprise, she snatches up a piece out of his hand hardly before he gets to offer it to her. Blinks dumbly while she opens it up and tears the piece in half, stuffing one in her mouth and giving the other half back to him.
“Uh—“
She smiles at him, chewing the gum out of one side of her cheek. “I have this oral thing. A fixation I guess. Chewing or having something in my mouth really helps me.”
The thing about Clark is, he has manners. Has restraint. Thought he was a good boy that didn’t go on and chase any tail that came into his orbit. Especially not a new pretty co-worker. He doesn’t want to think about putting different parts of himself inside her mouth just to calm her down. Or the color of her thong. Or that wicked smile and addicting perfume to match. Something tries to draw him in closer, reason with his conscience like she’s teasing little signals, it’s not like you’re her boss or anything. if you flirt back no one would know a thing.
Clark stops his zoning out and nods his head to agree. “I get it. Having stuff in my… in my mouth cools me off too. Like—like stress.”
“You shouldn’t worry yourself that much. Seems like you’re wound up pretty tight.”
He feels like there’s this window into his thoughts standing clear as day right above his head, broadcasting every fleeting thought or mood. When he tries to look at her, stare at her back the same way she stares at him, he just wanted to run away before his own dick caught up with him.
Clark scratches his chin and sheepishly nods with his head down, agreeing with a gentle mumble, yeah you know, just normal stuff, kinda on edge. Not like he randomly cums in his pants or anything. He quickly finds a way to change subjects by directing his focus back to the work left in front of them and guides her to sit over at her new desk to fill out some new hire paperwork. She taps him on the shoulder and grins when she says his name to ask him questions. He dutifully answers everything he can, emails some higher ups to get her logins to some of their systems and trains her how they go through their mail and answer consumer’s inquiries over the phone.
She takes just about everything in a stride. Overwhelmed of course by certain things that have nuances and will take more time getting used to. Clark introduces her to more staff, waves to Lois, makes the new hire her own cup of coffee after showing her their break room. Jimmy tries to raise a brow, even wiggles both of them up and down at him from behind her back, but it only makes Clark kick him in the shin and gruffly threaten him under his breath as he’s passing by while she wasn’t looking.
Clark sends her off to her first break, telling her to meet him back at her desk for more training later. Watches absentmindedly as she picks up her purse, snatched up a lighter from one of the pockets and stuck a cigarette behind her ear, waving goodbye and strolling out to the elevator doors. Before the elevator doors close he could see her take the stick from her ear and put it between her lips, probably a habit she’s picked up from that oral thing, Clark figured. He wants to stop himself from picking apart her business but he’s too intrigued to stop, still lost in thought at his desk while he takes a break of his own.
After spitting his piece of gum out he chugs a few thick swigs of his protein shake, spaced out in blank thought. A corner of his mouth smiles when he feels the other half of that stick of gum she’d torn off and given back. His dick twitches but ultimately stayed soft, undetected in his pants. He’d shamefully started wondering how the hell his dick was so well behaved, so normal today of all days. Not that it was a bad thing. He just found it curious. Why was this the first time in days his dick wasn’t getting swallowed, rode, or came on by whatever invisible force that clearly had been having its fun tormenting him? And will it ever come back to fuck him again?
Once Jimmy finds Clark alone at his desk wiping fingerprints off his glasses, he swats his shoulder and bashed one of his knees to his swivel chair, causing him to start spinning.
“What the hey, dude—don’t—“
“This could be your shot. All’s I’m sayin,” he shrugs. Sees Clark stop his chair and shove his friend forward, only enough power to knock him off his feet a little bit. “Hey, hey! That’s all I’m saying, I said!” he laughs and defensively puts both his palms up to shield himself from any more of Clark’s wrath.
“You can’t say that stuff. Don’t. She’s new, okay! And… and she needs my help learning everything around here. She doesn’t need some big oaf getting in her business, abusing power, or being… being weird towards her,” he concludes.
“Hey, opportunities sometimes fall right out of the sky. This one just fell right into your lap. And you’re not a fat oaf dude. Pfft, you actually think being her co-worker is gonna affect anything?”
“Uh, yes it does in fact. It will literally affect everything. You think it’d be appropriate for me to treat her like that?”
Jimmy shrugs again, ruffles Clark’s curls and says he should think about reconsidering some of his rules and start breaking them in order to finally get something he wants.
When she’s back from her break her hair is damp, fresh perfume sprayed on her coat to get rid of some of the stench from her cigarette. She looks refreshed, albeit a little more flustered than she was before she left. Her boots squeak slightly on the floor from stepping out on the wet ground outside. He thinks about complimenting her boots, her coat, her hair, thinks about complimenting her everything. But his words fall short after his voice cracks from the very simple greeting of hey, welcome back.
“Hey, can I ask you for a favor after work? It’s totally fine if you say no or if you can’t. You don’t have to give me any reasons,” she assures.
Already eager to know what she’s going to be asking of him, his ears perk and his posture straightens up as he scoots his chair over to her desk.
“Yeah of course. What’s up?”
“It started raining pretty hard and the forecast says it won’t stop until tomorrow morning. I actually walked here to work, and if it’s not any trouble, would you be able to give me a lift back home?”
Clark swallows an upcoming lump in his throat, feeling his palms start to get clammy. The mere thought of the proximity was enticing. Having her next to him, in his car. Her trust in him helping her with something as intimate as having her get back home safely. He tries to answer casually, like he’s a nonchalant guy — as if the offer wasn’t any big deal, wasn’t making his heart start to beat a little faster.
What comes out though is a horribly rushed, clumsy, stuttered —
“Ohyeahofcourse, you don’t even have to worry about it!”
Jimmy’s teasing still echoes through the hallway of his brain. About opportunities. About how sometimes they seem to fall right out of the sky. How this one has fallen right into his lap.
“Thanks so much Clark, I appreciate it. You’ve been the sweetest guy. I’m really lucky to have you here to teach me everything,” she praised. Turning his cheeks pink in all of two seconds with a flat palm on his broad shoulder, squeezing gently and holding the warmest smile.
“We’re lucky to have you. You’ve been— you’ve been great,” he gulps, trying to bring the focus back to her. “We don’t have too much more to fill out, but um, I don’t wanna overwhelm you with any more new things today. Let’s wrap up this paperwork then we’ll hopefully get you on those phones to practice the last hour.”
“Great! I’m almost finished with those. And for the record I do promise where I live isn’t far, I don’t wanna be too much an inconvenience,” she laughs. Clark shook his head again, ready to protest the very idea that she was asking too much. In truth, she was so stupid pretty that if she asks him to say his ABC’s backwards he’d still give it his best shot. She almost cuts off his attempt to deny it, straightening up some of the last pages left to read over and sign.
“You are not any inconvenience. If you are, then please keep inconveniencing me,” he says, flashing a toothy smile at her. He prays to himself that it comes out right, and to his delight, she grins back, adorable face expressing back to him, well, then don’t mind if I do. “with anything you need, I’ll be here.”
Is he being too much?
“Thanks, Clark. I owe you.”
Oh? What should you owe me?
He shakes off any perverted thoughts and spares a glance at his watch.
“Are you hungry? It could be lunch time. Up to you. We don’t clock in and out, we just have timesheets, so breaks are pretty flexible.”
“Yeah, I could eat.”
Clark’s head screams well there’s a full meal right in front of you.
“Great.”
. . .
He sees her head off to the break room and start chatting with Lois, smiling at her welcoming disposition while she checks in on how her training is going. Clark knows he has the option to stay, to ogle while he ate at his desk, but he feels like he has too much steam to blow off before handling the rest of the day. With a long final exhale, he adjusts his glasses and snatched up his keys to head back home for his lunch hour.
Once he’s back at his apartment he immediately sheds his god awful shoes and his suffocating button down before he’s lying flat on his back in bed, staring up at the wall. Trying to manifest that magical touch and beckon it to come back. Beg for it even. Wonders to himself if there’s some hidden way he hasn’t figured out yet to trigger it, or if it’ll always remain spontaneous.
Clenching his jaw he angrily starts groping his crotch, trying to feel himself out. He opens one eye to peer down at his dick and see if he just thought about it hard enough he’ll bring it back to life, feel that beautiful all consuming weight drip on top of him again.
“C’mon. C’mon, please… You… you’ve fucked me every day and I took it all last night, now I want it, I need it. Right here, please?”
Clark strokes his cock while it sways back and forth against his belly, mind already feeding into an idiotic fantasy of his new hire bending over, showing him her pretty colored thong. Maybe she’d pull her panties up higher so they’re peaking out further above her waistline, or maybe she’d pull them over to the side….
He raises his hips off the bed to thrust into his fist at the thought, pants still strung down barely past his groin. Figures if he shows back up to work the rest of the day in different pants, it’s his business and his business only, and so be it.
“Oh god it was so good last time, wish you could touch me like that again…”
He knows it’s pathetic. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s saying. While he grips the tip and twists particularly tight, he shamefully whimpers out his new hire’s name while his dick starts to drip into pubes. Messy, sticky, but gosh he needed this. Clark deeply misses the warmth on top of him, the hot teasing, the bouncing, and the thrill of not knowing what will happen next—
“Oh my god….”
. . .
posting this cuz I’m so done looking at it already dear jesuslawd. if I should keep going somehow let me know I love coworkerXcoworker getting down and nasty. I like the idea of clark not knowing what’s going on and getting slobbered on by his work crush. fully no clue when/if the next part comes out oh my lawd. thanks soooo so much for all the love on the first little prelude:( im so obsessed with every reblog+comment
synopsis – working in the pitt is already chaotic, but do it on the valentine's day week is even worse, especially when a pink box covered in glitter suddenly appears in the nurses' station, inviting everyone to drop an anonymous note. you never expected to write one, not for your attending, jack abbot. what you expected even less was jack writing one too.
c/w – medical inaccuracies !!
fluff
dana and emma had gone completely insane decorating the er.
pink and red heart balloons floated from the ceiling, curling ribbons dangled low enough to brush people's heads when they walked by, paper hearts were taped onto computer monitors, chocolate bowls appeared at every nurses' station. emma had been sticking tiny sticker hearts onto everyobody's id and dana had decorated the wheelchairs with pink bows.
the whole er looked aggressively cheerful against the usual chaos of the place.
and there was also a box.
a pink glittered box sitting right in the middle of the nurses' station that looked at you with guilt every time you walked by it. it shouldn't have been possible for a inanimate object to look judgmental, but somehow dana had managed for it to do so. there was the name written across the front in giant letters:
PAGING DR. VALENTINE
you laughed the first time you read it, and santos looked at you like you had officially lost it. next to the box sat different stacks of heart shaped little papers of three colors. pink for doctors, red for surgeons and white for nurses. underneath the tittle, in smaller handwriting, were the instructions:
pick a color.
write your anonymous love message.
drop it in the box.
half the er pretended not to care yet everyone was always paying attention to anyone that came close enough to the box. people slowed down when they walked past it and lingered at the nurses' station longer than necessary to have an excuse to stay close while someone folded a heart shaped paper and dropped inside the box.
javadi had been its first victim, she was pacing around it like a lost deer when everyone saw her picking a white paper heart and the entire day everyone spent it talking about her and, apparently, mateo. after seeing javadi mortified the whole day, nobody approached the confession box without witnesses which was exactly why you hadn't touched it.
since you first noticed the box, your eyes caught on it, and every single time, dana caught you looking.
—you still haven't put one in, —she accused you behind a chart.
you let out a laugh, leaning against the counter, —not planning on doing it.
—smart girl. this is hr paperwork waiting to happen, —jack appeared behind you, dropping a new chart onto dana's desk without slowing down.
—excuse you, this is team bonding, —she scoffed to him.
but jack was already walking away, barely glancing back, —this is exactly how lawsuits start.
—you still need to participate, abbot! —dana called after him
—hard pass!
you watched him leave. fresh out of trauma one, navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up his forearms, moving through the er with all the confidence in the world. he gave a single nod to a nurse as she passed him, said something to a patient that made her laugh, then disappeared around the corner.
dana looked up from her chart and you realized that maybe you'd been staring at jack too much. she smiled, then slightly pushed the glittery box toward you, —you know it doesn't have to be a love confession, most of these people have written words of encouragement to fellow coworkers...
you hummed like you weren't listening.
—but... —dana continued, moving papers around like she wasn't actively trying to ruin your life, —if you happen to have something to say to someone... —she looked at you over the top of her glasses, —this might be a good opportunity.
you shook your head, trying to ignore the sudden warmth growing on your face, —you can be incredibly nosy, you know?
she hissed through her teeth and nodded, —been spending to much time with perlah and princess. now i notice tension everywhere.
—there's no tension.
dana looked at you dead in the eyes.
—on your way out? —jack asked.
he spotted robby leaning on the counter at the charge nurse's station and assumed he was signing paperwork before living for the night. the er had finally fell into the night shift's pace, the waiting room was almost empty, lena had taken over dana's place and you left not long after the shift change.
but when jack got closer to robby, he realized his friend was writing carefully on a little heart shaped paper next to the glitter box.
—seriously?
robby didn't even look up, —don't distract me now. this is actually turning out beautifully.
jack noticed the color of the paper heart. despite acting like he couldn't care less about the whole valentine's day, he unfortunately knew what all colors meant.
—why's it white?
—well, i appreciate nurses, and dana put a lot on effort on this, i don't want her to not receive any messages.
jack crossed his arms against his chest, —i also appreciate nurses.
robby laughed and jack frowned. he finally folded the heart made of paper and dropped it into the box. robby clapped on jack's shoulder.
—we all know you appreciate residents more. so grab a red one and write something nice, okay?
what if you did it? the thought appeared one afternoon as you helped jack. he had just arrived for his shift and was catching up on cases before the change to the night shift. you stood beside him, updating a chart while he spoke to a patient, asking how he was feeling. jack walked to the check the monitor, grey curls perfectly messy and stethoscope hanging loose around his neck.
your eyes moved to the nurses' station for a second.
it wouldn't even have to mean anything serious, he hated that damn box anyways, maybe he wouldn't even bother reading it. besides, no one would have to know it was you. you could pretend you could pretend you accidentally dropped the stack of red little heart shaped papers and grab one while you picked them up.
what if he did it? no. it was stupid. he was too old for this. he should just ask you out like the grown man he was instead of thinking about anonymous valentine notes like a teenager. and yet, he imagined himself writing something simple, something that would make you smile when you read it. you were focused on the chart in your hands, humming at the patient's words. your eyes looked a little darker, tiredness sitting under them after a long shift and a pen tucked behind your ear because you kept losing it every other hour.
jack's eyes moved from you to the nurses' station.
nobody would have to know he did it. he was sure that you'd receive more than one note and that was why he was so pissed off about that pink glittery box. he noticed how the patients your age looked at you, how new residents followed you around and how nurses and paramedics said something nice while handing over patients.
his note would disappear into a pile of other anonymous notes from people who noticed the exact same things he did. it irritated him more than it should have. he was too old to be jelous.
except, apparently not.
—this is all yours, —you handed jack the updated chart, — and i'm leaving, my shift ended like an hour ago. if you see robby, tell him to not stay any later.
he took the chart from your hands, fingers brushing yours, —you sure you don't wanna stay?
—you asking me to work overtime or hang out with you?
—which answer gets you to stay?
you laughed and jack seemed pretty satisfied with himself for causing it. you shook your head, —goodnight, abbot. have fun.
jack watched you disappear, heard your quiet goodbye to lena at the front desk, caught one last look of you pushing your hair back as you stepped outside. then you were gone and he almost tripped walking to the pink box, as if he hesitated a second long, he'd talk himself out of it.
he left the chart in his hands on top of the red paper hearts and grabbed a couple, even though jack only needed one. he moved to his desk with the chart and the heart shaped papers, quickly, before somebody saw him, or worse, before he came to his senses.
jack dropped onto the chair at his desk and shoved one of the red paper heart from under the chart.
—damn abbot, you took multiple. how many people do you plan to write, —robby slid with his chair from his desk to jack's, —or how many notes do you plan to write to her?
jack didn't look up, pen almost freezing on the paper, —i have terrible handwriting.
—that's the excuse we're using?
—it's the only one you're getting.
what the hell was he even supposed to write?
he could't do a full love confession, not on a tiny piece of paper without his name on it. jack didn't want to say something that could've come from literally anyone in the department. anyone could tell you you were pretty, anyone could say you were kind, and smart, and... jack groaned and dropped his head into one hand. the problem wasn't writing the note, it was that when he started to think about what he truly wanted to say to you, it stopped sounding anonymous.
you arrived the next morning. february 14th.
dana and emma planned to open the box and hand out the notes to their owners during the shift change at 7 pm, when everyone was there, and yet you still hadn't gathered the courage to write something for jack. all week you'd al most done it but every single time, fear won, but today you woke up differently, braver, maybe because after today the box would disappear and everything would go back to normal.
before you could overthink it, you walked straight to the nurses' station and sat at dana's desk. god knows where she was but she'd understand. she's been a pain in the ass about it all week anyway.
you were analyzing the er from the charge nurse's place, half hidden on the spot. everyone was distracted enough for nobody to notice when you slowly dragged the heart shaped red paper from the counter and slid it in front of you. it shouldn't take you long, you knew exactly what you wanted to write, it's not as if you hadn't been thinking about it the whole week.
—i've been replaced as the day shift charge nurse and nobody had told me, —dana said, leaning on the counter, coffee in hand, as you sat half hidden in her station.
you tried to cover the red heart you were writing in as if you'd been caught doing something illegal. dana laughed.
—you know? it's good you decided to finally do it, honey.
—i don't know, i still might throw it away.
—oh, you better not. he's a little grumpy but he's gonna love it.
you lowered your eyes back to the note. the words you wrote felt too vulnerable now that somebody beside you knew they existed.
—breathe. it's cute, —dana's expression softened as she showed you a smile, —and now finish it, give me back my seat and get back to work.
you laughed and mumbled a yes, boss. you read the words on the heart paper one more time, checking that they weren't too cheesy or too obvious they were from you, which felt impossible because every sentence sounded like you. if you could hear yourself in those words, maybe jack would too.
before you folded the paper, you added a tiny heart by his name.
—okay, everyone, just a minute of your precious time!
dana's voice cut through the noise of the er loud enough for half of the department to turn around to look. she stood holding the glitter covered box and emma stood beside her. you came out of a patient room just as everyone stated gathering around them because despite all the mocking, everyone wanted to know.
across the er, jack looked at the scene leaning against a wall, robby next to him, looking far too entertained by what was about to happen.
emma started sorting the little papers by their colors on dana's counter. pink into a plie, white into a another and red...
—oh, —emma said. the entire er watched, waiting to see what caught her attention. she stared down into the box for another second before reaching inside. then, she pulled out two folded red hearts , —there's only two red.
dana exclaimed something about people in the department being boring and then something about nobody being in love with doctors because they are so emotionally exhausting. you wanted to run, preferably straight into oncoming traffic. somehow it felt like every single person in the department had already figured it out. your face burned hot yet you crossed your arms to stop yourself from visibly panicking.
—one is definitely abbot's, —trinity mumbled beside you, —if not the two of them.
—huh?
—abbot. everyone is crazy about him.
you nodded because yeah, you weren't definitely one of them. trinity kept staring across the er toward jack where he leaned against the wall beside robby, looking unimpressed by the entire valentine situation. which, unfortunately, only made him more attractive somehow.
—what do you think? —trinity asked
you swallowed, —i mean... he's cute and always nice, and...
—about the notes, —she clarified, trying not to laugh, —who do you think they're for?
—oh, —you cleared your throat, moving your eyes away from jack across the er, —yeah, one could be for dr. abbot, and the other one...
emma called your name with a smile.
several heads turned immediately to look at you, including dana's who looked moments away from ascending spiritually. you, on the other hand, were moments away from cardiac arrest. your entire body went stiff, heart hammering so hard against your chest.
emma still held the heart shaped note between her fingers, smiling, waiting for you to go an get it.
trinity gave you a little shove forward and your feet obeyed her. you showed emma a small smile back and mumbled a soft thank you as you grabbed the paper from her hands.
—well done, —robby mumbled next to jack side, a little teasing.
jack didn't answer. he just wished he could see your face as you read the note. unfortunately, you went back to your place back to santos and now all he could see was your back, though he wasn't gonna complain. santos had tried to peek once and you'd elbowed her and put the note inside your pocket. jack was trying to keep his composure, he tried not to think about whether if your silence was good or bad.
—dr. abbot, —emma announced next. again, the biggest smile on her face. in her hand sat the last red heart.
he pressed his lips together to everyone looking at him. as he approached emma, dana and robby exchanged a look. dana tilted her head toward you and robby immediately nodded toward jack. and at that moment they both knew, you had written jack's and jack had written yours.
—okay! fun for the doctors is over! now get back to work! —dana said as emma keep calling nurse's and surgeon's names.
you grabbed the note from your pocket as you walked to see the next patient, checked that nobody was paying attention and then you unfolded it:
i don't do valentine's day, but i'd love to take you out for dinner,
it was simple, just a few words, but they made your heart did a little jump after reading it. you stared at the note for another second while walking down the hallway, rereading it and biting back a smile while you tried to regain some professionalism before seeing your next patient. at least this had helped you to ease the panic of being one of the two people that had written to a doctor, to jack nonetheless. you put the note inside your pocket again as you pressed the hand sanitizer dispenser.
—oh! —you said when you stepped into the room, —dr. abbot.
—hi, —he said, turning off the monitor.
—where's the patient?
—robby took her to the scanner
you nodded, —i wanted to check up on her before leaving.
—well, she should be here in... fifteen minutes, —he checked the watch on his wrist.
you hummed. there were a few seconds of silence as you watched him work. you'd seen him like this hundreds of times before but you could never get used to jack abbot doing the most ordinary things because somehow he remained so attractive.
—someone wrote you, —he pointed out.
you pressed your lips together and nodded. you couldn't deny your heart did a little something when jack mentioned it, —yeah, —you murmured, —apparently.
jack frowned a little, —you didn't expected it?
you let out a breath, —well, not really. but let's talk about you, someone also wrote you, it's surprising that only one person did though... —you laughed, —i thought you'd receive like at least twenty of them.
—i don't think it's surprising you received a valentine letter.
you blinked, jack continued rearranging the tray with everything he'd need to treat the patient once she arrive but he lifted his eyes to yours from what he was doing.
—everyone likes you, —he added.
—jack.
—what? it's true. patients ask about you when you're off shift, nurses fight over schedules with you, half of the department looks happier when you walk by.
you shook your head, trying to laugh it off despite the funny feeling in your stomach. did he really notice all of that? —you're being dramatic.
—you also draw little hearts everywhere. on langdon's coffee cup, on kids charts sometimes, on your own name on the schedule...
heat rushed to your face, making your earns burns. god, how could you have been so stupid?
—and on my valentine's note too.
you covered your face with your hands, groaning into your palms as the memory hit you again and it physically hurt you. sitting at dana's desk this same morning, looking around to make sure nobody was watching, carefully writing jack's name on the note and then adding the tiny heart beside it like an idiot. you had literally signed your own crime scene.
when you removed your hands from your face, still visibly embarrassed, you saw the look on his face. jack was watching you with a little sparkle on his eyes. got you, he thought.
—i'm sorry, jack. it was just... some stupid thing i did without thinking. i didn't mean it to come out weird or...
—it's okay, —he made a little gesture with his hand, brushing the apology like it didn't matter at all, —i wrote yours anyways.
you blinked, the words taking a second to register through the panic, —wait. you... what? —you reached inside the pocket of your scrubs and pulled out the note, —you wrote this?
—i do hate the box, i must say, —jack admitted, —and i am way too old to be dropping anonymous notes into valentine boxes like a teenager, but as much as i tried to ignore it, i couldn't stop thinking about you.
you wanted the room to open a hole in the floor and swallow you whole, just because you've been wanting to hear this for such a long time that now you didn't know what to do with the fact that jack abbot was standing just a few feet away from you admitting he thought about you often. your heartbeat was so out of control you swore he could heard it.
—sorry, i didn't mean to corner you with it, —jack said after not getting a response from you, —you don't have to say anything back.
—i'd love to go on a date with you.
jack frowned, a bit confused, and it made your stomach drop. oh no. you looked down at the note in your hands, —the dinner, —you clarified, —oh, i mean... if you didn't think about it like a date, i'd still...
jack didn't let you finish.
—i totally thought about it as a date.
you smiled, relieved, the tension leaving your body finally, —okay, —you laughed under your breath, —good.
—good, —jack repeated, —but now you should probably go home and sleep. i'd inform you tomorrow about your patient.
you nodded. he removed his gloves and tossed them into the trash. jack reached past you, his shoulder brushing yours as he grabbed the handle of the door and opened it, the chaos of the er on the other side of it but neither of you moved. you stood there, trapped in the space between him and the door frame.
with jack standing closer than ever, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the sexy wrinkles under his eyes, the scruff at his beard matching his salt and pepper hair... your eyes dropped, moving to his lips for just a second. a small smile appeared on them and jack looked outside the room to check if anyone was looking at both of you. after making sure that everyone was busy, he gave you a nod.
you bit your lip and also gave a quick look outside before leaning in and pressing your mouth against his. one of your hands landed against his hard chest for support and his instantly left the door handle and wrapped around your waist, even if the kiss only lasted a couple of seconds.
when you pulled away, you smoothed down your scrub and finally stepped back into the hallway. jack followed you out of the patient room, one hand rubbing his jaw as if he was also trying to collect himself too. he watched you very closely as he walked to the nurses' station. jack actually couldn't stop looking at you as you stopped santos on her way out and told her to wait for you.
jack leaned against the counter, eyes still locked on yours as you disappeared down the hallway to the lockers. dana looked at him over the top of her glasses.
💭 Thinking about doing pottery with Jack Abbot ᝰ.ᐟ 18+ it’s a little suggestive… my bad
“Baby, you’re wrestling with the clay, relax.” Jack's voice breaks the silence from behind you, a grin playing at his lips like he knows all about the art of pottery— and maybe he does, the man and his infinite wisdom.
You huff, twisting slightly to look up at him with a helpless pout that screams, help me, with clay smudged over your right cheek, and there’s somehow even a patch above your eyebrow. It’s endearing, really, and he can’t help but chuckle at you.
“Don’t just laugh at me… help, please.”
His smile broadens, charmingly so, and he moves without hesitation to sit behind you— now sandwiched between his chest and the pottery wheel. You’re instantly surrounded by his warmth and the smell of his cologne, something earthy… rich and so undeniably him.
“You gotta ease into you… slowly, so you’re guiding it, not forcing it.” He says in that low timber that makes your skin tingle, his breath fanning against your neck, stubble ghosting over your shoulder.
His hands gulf over yours, helping you move the wet clay into a more manageable shape than whatever lumpy monstrosity you were working with before— his fingers slipping between your own, his palms framing the back of your hands warmly.
You watch how effortlessly he guides your hands against the dirt— slow and precise, like he’s got years of practice under his belt.
“Since when were you so good at this?”
Jack all but grins, dropping a light kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “What, with my fingers?” his voice drops to something more teasing as he tilts his head to brush his lips to your jaw.
You roll your eyes as you slump back against his strong chest, craning your head to catch his gaze and shooting him a knowing look.
“Well, no. I know how good you are with your fingers, you tease,” you reply, a playful lilt to your tone.
Jack hums, the sound vibrating against your back, and he ducks his head to drop a kiss to your hairline whilst his hands continue to help yours mould the clay into something that could almost pass as a bowl if only it wasn’t getting progressively more lopsided because, if we’re being honest, neither of you are really paying attention to the clay anymore.
“Cheeky,” he chuckles, stubble tickling your cheek as he presses another kiss there. “I watched a video on TikTok,” he confesses, sounding almost proud of himself, as he nudges his nose against your jaw to coax your attention back to the wheel, “Eyes on the clay, gorgeous.”
You very reluctantly turn back to the dirt, shifting a little against him to get comfortable as he hooks his chin over your shoulder.
“What’re we making anyway?”
“No idea yet, maybe a bowl… or a mug? Hopefully something useful.”
Eventually, the lump of mud forms into something more recognisable, a cute little mug, made entirely by both of your hands and a whole lot of love— as cheesy as that sounds. Dried clay now clings to your hands and forearms, a complete mess, but those stolen kisses and the way he’s pressed oh so snugly behind you make it all worth it.
“Now what?”
“Now… we wait for it to dry then we put it in the kiln and hope it doesn’t crack.”
“Mm, then I can paint it?” You ask, tipping your head back against his shoulder to look up at him.
He smiles tenderly, ducking to press a kiss to your mouth, lingering for a moment before pulling back just enough to whisper a quiet, “Yeah, baby, then you can paint it after we sand it.”
Before you can get another word in he lifts his hand and suddenly smears clay over your cheek, and you gasp, face dropping in disbelief. “Oh my— Jack!”
“Shhh, c’mon… let’s go clean you up, baby.” He chuckles warmly, tugging you up from the wooden stool with a faint grunt and a scheming smirk, guiding you upstairs to the sleek bathroom with plans of getting you naked and soapy.
AN: finally got around to watching the Pitt and I’m obsessed hehe 😛
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓 — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. — May 24th
PART THREE — May 28th
PART FOUR — June 1st
PART FIVE — June 4th
PART SIX — June 9th
More chapters TBD
If you'd like to be tagged in posts for this series, let me know!
Summary: On slow mornings in their oceanside apartment, Andrew forgets to be dangerous for a little while. Wrapped up in warm sheets and half asleep beside you, the only thing he wants is to keep the rest of the world outside the bedroom door for another hour.
Wc: .9K
Cw: established relationship, implied violence, mentions of injuries/bruises, possessive behavior, themes of hypervigilance and paranoia, soft domestic intimacy.
An: soft pope to fill my soul!! Also I love writing in second point of view. I had an English teacher in school who told us it was a poor form of writing…. Girl stfu
⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹
You woke up because Andrew was moving.
Not suddenly. Not in the sharp restless way he usually did when something outside pulled him awake. This was slower than that. Heavy sleepy shifting beneath warm blankets while dawn crept pale and gray through the curtains.
His arm tightened around your waist before you even opened your eyes properly, like instinct reached for you before he was fully conscious enough to think about it.
The apartment was quiet except for the distant sound of waves somewhere beyond the buildings and the low rattling hum of the ceiling fan overhead. Andrew had fallen asleep with the balcony cracked open again despite complaining every single night that the ocean air made the apartment cold.
You could feel the chill against your bare legs where the blanket had slipped down during the night. Andrew apparently noticed too because a second later he dragged it back over both of you without opening his eyes.
“Cold,” he muttered.
“You’re the one who opened the door.”
“Mhm.”
The response barely counted as a word. His voice was rough with sleep, warm against the back of your shoulder where his face was pressed.
You smiled a little and settled deeper into the mattress. Andrew was practically sprawled over you at this point, one leg tangled between yours and an arm hooked firmly around your middle like sometime in the night he had decided distance was personally offensive.
Outside this room Andrew never really relaxed.
You had watched him sleep on couches with one eye half open during jobs. Watched him clock exits automatically whenever he walked into restaurants. Even at home there were nights he woke instantly at sounds you barely noticed. Car doors slamming downstairs. Footsteps outside the apartment. Phones buzzing at banshee hours.
But mornings were different.
Mornings were the closest thing Andrew had to peace.
He made another quiet noise when your fingers slid into his hair, not quite awake enough to react properly but leaning into your touch anyway. The curls at the back of his neck were soft from sleep, flattened unevenly against the pillow.
For a long moment neither of you moved.
The light kept shifting slowly across the room. Andrew breathed steadily against your shoulder. Somewhere downstairs a motorcycle roared briefly through the street before fading into the distance.
You thought he was asleep again until he spoke suddenly.
“What time is it?”
You reached toward the nightstand blindly until your fingers found your phone. “Eight thirty.”
Andrew groaned immediately and buried his face deeper into the blanket.
“That’s disgusting.”
“It’s morning.”
“Nobody should be awake at eight thirty.”
“You are.”
“I’m not participating in it though.”
You laughed softly at that. Andrew cracked one eye open just enough to look at you, clearly pleased he’d managed it.
There was a faint bruise shadowing the line of his jaw from a few nights ago. You touched it lightly without thinking and watched his expression shift immediately softer around the edges.
“Does it still hurt?” you asked quietly.
Andrew shrugged against you. “Not really.”
That probably meant yes.
He caught your hand before you could pull it away and pressed a lazy kiss against your wrist, still half asleep through the motion. Affection came strangely easy for him here. In private. Curled into warm sheets with no audience and nowhere else to be.
Other people got the version of Pope that felt dangerous even standing still.
You got Andrew.
The sleepy version with messy curly hair and tired eyes who complained every morning about getting out of bed like it personally offended him. The one who held you automatically during the night. The one who softened every time you touched him like his body had learned you meant safety long before his mind did.
His phone started vibrating somewhere in the room.
Andrew ignored it.
A few seconds later it buzzed again against the dresser.
You felt the tension creep briefly back into him this time. Small enough most people would miss it. His shoulders tightening slightly. His breathing changing.
Work, Smurf,trying to claw its way back in.
You turned carefully in his arms until you were facing him properly. “You gonna answer that?”
Andrew looked at you for a second before dropping his forehead against yours dramatically. “If I say no enough times eventually everybody should leave me alone.”
“That’s not usually how crime works.”
A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it, low and sleepy, in his groggy morning voice.
“You’re funny this early in the morning. It’s suspicious.”
“You love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.”
His hand slid beneath your shirt absently, warm against your waist while he looked at you with that exhausted softness he never let anyone else see. The phone finally stopped vibrating. Silence settled back over the apartment again.
Andrew visibly relaxed.
“There,” he said quietly. “Problem solved.”
“You ignored it.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head a little, smiling despite yourself. Andrew only pulled you closer in response until there was barely space left between you at all.
“Stay here a while,” he murmured.
It wasn’t really a request.
You could feel sleep still dragging at him around the edges, making him slower and softer than he ever allowed himself to be during the rest of the day. As you continued to runyour fingers through his curls you know that in a few hours, he’d get up and pull himself back together again. Sharp eyes. Careful voice. Guard back in place.
But right now he was just warm and heavy against the sheets holding you like he had nowhere else in the world he needed to be.
cw: none really, kind of written with fem!reader in mind that has hair long enough to be styled a bit and loves to dress up but other than that no pronouns or genders are mentioned!
-while he would definitely love quiet nights in, i also think he’d love to take you out!!! little date nights walking around town, holding hands <3
-he’d love to help you get ready! help you style your hair (braid it for you, do it up for you, etc.), pick out which accessories go best with your outfit, tie your shoes so you don’t have to bend down… the whole nine yards.
-on that note, he lets you style his outfit too. he thinks it’s adorable. he’ll wear whatever you pick, even if it’s something he’s never imagined himself in. if you want to match, great! he’ll wear whatever pretty color combination you want if it means people will notice you’re together.
-pope totally spoils you. a lot. if you go to the mall or the outlets, you’re dragging him around and trying on clothes for him so he can buy them all for you. you want a new pajama set that ‘no one will see?’ well, he’ll see it. you want a new hair clip that looks just like the one you have at home? he’ll buy five.
-he loves to follow you around while you shop. he makes sure he’s always holding your hand, and when his are too full from the bags he’s holding, he stands right behind you like a guard dog because that’s what he is! you’re his, everyone should know he’ll protect you.
-after you’re done buying your things (with his money, of course), he’ll take you to get some dinner or dessert. his favorite is when it’s late and you just want ice cream— you always get different flavors so you can try both. he’d let you eat all of his, if you wanted to.
-also, cinema dates!! he loves the intimacy of watching a film together while leaning against each other, and you often fall asleep on him if it’s a late-night showing. he doesn’t mind, just lets you sleep, and you go back to the cinema the next week so you can fully enjoy the movie!
a/n: oh my gosh, you guys are all SO KIND. this account is my first time writing for fandoms so it makes me so unbelievably happy that everyone likes my writings so much!! again, i appreciate all the asks, reblogs and comments, i try to take a look at all of them as much as i can! i’m done with exams so i should be more free to write now, but i do (surprisingly) have a lovely boy in my life that i’ve been focusing on recently <3 i’m gonna try to write as much as i can, thank you all sososo much! i love you all xoxo
warnings . . . this is going to spoil it but i haaaave to… SMUT! MDNI!!! being on tinder is a warning of its own i hate that place, fingering…………..
word count . . . 2.1k
You can’t say you don’t want him in the same car as you, but you’re definitely surprised to see him. But if there’s one word to truly describe you, it's stubborn. Lena’s sitting in her booster seat, wrapped in her pinky hoodie and zip up, headphones in as she watches her favorite show on her iPad. And Pope is sitting right beside her, watching you.
“What is he doing here?” You turn to J, who’s driving the van.
“He is the adult for the trip.” J shrugs, “just hurry up and sit. We still have to pick Sammy up from her last class.”
You huff, turning your chin at Pope whose eyes have yet to leave you. And despite the tingle that runs through you, you have to stay strong. You move to the farthest seat in the back, tucking yourself into the corner.
Nicky is next. She’s still half asleep as she slides into the passenger seat, snoring the second she settles down. Sammy, despite it being so early in the morning, is beaming as the van door slides open. Lena tugs her headphones off immediately. “Sammy!” She giggles happily. And then, she turns to her uncle. “Uncle Pope, move.”
Nicky snorts out a laugh, now gouging down a hashbrown. J jumps in though, “manners, Lena.”
Lena huffs dramatically. A habit she’s only picked up on since you’ve been around her. “Please.” She mutters out. “Sammy promised to hold my hand when we go up the scary hills.”
You expect him to put up a fight. Because the only other spot is on the same cushion with you and you’ve decided that Andrew Cody hates you. So why would he want to sit next to you?
Your eyes widen as he easily slides out of his seat and crouches his way to the back. “W-wait!” You push forward, desperate to get this to stop. “Lena, baby, Sammy can’t do anything to help you. You need a strong man. Or… a man. He doesn’t even have to be strong.”
Lena gives you a bored expression, “that’s not very nice.” The furrow in the little girls thick brows makes you hesitate.
You sigh, “sorry.” You press yourself up against the side of the car as Pope plops down next to you.
“The hell are you doing?” He asks gruffly.
“What are you doing?” You huff, “sit at the corner.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m telling you to.”
“Why do I have to listen to you?”
“Pope, move.”
He’s childish, you’ve come to realize. Instead of scooching to the other side of the seat, he moves closer to you. “No.”
“Pope.” You groan loudly.
“Uncle pope,” Lena calls from her seat. She’s tapping away at her tablet with one hand as Sammy holds the other. “Are you being mean?”
“Yes.” “No.”
“They just like each other, mama.” Nicky chimes in, turning in her seat to grin at Lena. “You tease the people you like.”
“I do not like him.” You hope they believe you, since it’s a complete lie. But your friends know you better than you know yourself.
Lena laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “They do like each other! So gross!”
The drive is incredibly long. Your body was aching from the way you were pulling from him and you had to give in. His leg is nudging against yours, pressing harder at turns.
“Move.” You groan, nudging him away.
“No.” He nudges his knee against yours again.
“Pope…” you huff, glaring at him. “You’re being annoying.”
It’s his turn to huff, “you annoy me all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Do too.”
“Kids…” J chimes this time, “settle down.”
“Ain’t a kid.” You toss a napkin at him from the back seat.
Pope decides to keep going, “sure act like one.”
“Sure act like one.” You mock, deepening your voice.
“I don’t sound like that.”
You mock again, “I don’t sound like that.”
“Quit it.”
“Quit it.”
Sammy groans this time, “both of you shut up.”
Lena is out cold when you all get to Sammy’s family cabin. It’s nice, sleek. It doesn’t look like it belongs in the deep foliage, too modern. Her mother has expensive tastes though, so it’s not a surprise that there’s technology all throughout the place.
J and Pope argued for a minute about taking Lena in but J ultimately won, now heading in with the lolling girl in his arms. Nicky follows suit, already complaining about needing a shower and the bugs all around. Sammy chimes in about the high tech bug zappers her mother has in every room.
You’re stuck behind with your bags in your hand. “Hello?” You call out to Pope as he starts walking to the cabin. “Where are you going?”
He turns, his own bags in his hand. “Inside?”
You wiggle your bag around. “What happened to chivalry?”
He glances at your bags and back at you, bored. “It died.”
“Pope.”
“Yeah?” He hums, uninterested.
“Help me.”
There’s a grin tugging at his lips, one he’s trying to fight as he turns back to you. “Where are your manners?”
“Pope!” You sigh, “really? I’m too pretty to do this.” But he’s not budging. “Fine. Please.”
That’s enough for him because he’s moving over to you, grabbing your bags with a triumphant smile, “good girl.”
You think about his words long after. You hate that you want him so badly. No matter what’s said or done, nothing pulls you from this aching need.
You wonder if he’s being intentional. From what you’ve gathered, he doesn’t have much female attention. Not because women don’t want him, you see the way eyes trail over him. But he’s awkward. You’re not sure if he even notices the way he’s lusted after.
He spends so much of his time acting like he doesn’t want you, when he makes a move that he is interested, you find yourself dissecting it for hours. It’s hard not to, especially when his softer acts are rare, in text or person.
“What are you doing?” The strong voice makes you jump in your spot.
You pull your hand out of the hot tub, the water dripping down your now cold arm. You turn to him, leaning against the tub. “Letting it warm up.” A pause. “Are you getting in?”
“No. I hate hot water.”
You roll your eyes, turning away from him. “Whatever.”
You don’t hear his feet shuffling away, so you know he’s still here. And you can feel him. Feel the way his eyes are on your backside.
“Whose shirt is that?” You’re wearing a huge t-shirt, practically a dress as it sits right beneath your knees, and the neck falls off your shoulder, showing off your collarbone.
The idea is immediate. You bite your lip to stop yourself from cackling and giving yourself away. You dip your hand back into the bubbling water, humming, “why?”
“It doesn’t look like it’s yours.”
You nod, “it isn’t.” You’re grinning, wanting to turn around and watch him. Watch the way his face twists in confusion. “Absolute truth?”
He hesitates but agrees. “Yes.”
The lie is easy as you turn to face him, face back to neutral. He doesn’t know that you’ve been celibate almost three years. He doesn’t need to know that the T-shirt is J’s which you stole from Nicky a while ago.
You shrug, continuing, “an old fling. Met him on Tinder.” You can’t tell what he’s feeling. You hate that you can’t because he always looks serious. Always looks stoic. “We went for drinks and ended up back at my place.”
“But you live with your parents.” He’s trying to get you to say more, that much you can tell.
“I’m not gross, Pope. I didn’t let him touch me until they were gone for the night.”
“Okay.” Is all he speaks.
You shrug, turning your back to him once more. You’re scolding yourself because of course it didn’t work. He’s not into you. He doesn’t want you. You’re the one who wants him. You’re the one who is chasing him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“What did he do to you?”
His question makes your breath hitch. Slowly, you turn around to face him again. You flinch softly at how close he is to you now, chest practically pressed up to yours. “I don’t think you want to—“
He doesn’t let you finish. His harsh tone cuts you off, “Tell me.”
“He…” you’re scrambling. Nothing is coming to mind because this isn’t remotely close to being true. There’s no other guy and there’s definitely no Tinder. You mumble out the first thing that comes to mind. “He fingered me.”
His body close to yours tells you a lot more than you’ve ever seen on him. His breathing is labored, chest rising and falling from what you’re assuming is jealousy. His hands are ghosting at your hips, scared to touch you. Now you know what you need to do.
“Didn’t let him fuck me, Pope.” He backs you up fully against the hot tub, nose trailing down your cheek, to your jaw, and to your neck. He inhales you. Smells the mixture of your faint perfume mixed with the light sheen of sweat from the heat emanating from the hot tub you’ve been hovering over. “Couldn’t let him.”
This solidifies what he wants— what he needs from you. His hands fall to your hips, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His rough hands slowly move from your hips and to your thighs, letting your t-shirt scrunch up as he desperately searches for your soft skin.
You can’t take a full breath. His hands are tugging at the bottom of your bathing suit beneath your shirt. You expect him to tug them off of you but that doesn’t come. He pulls it taut to the side of you, letting it sit awkwardly. But you can’t focus on that when a single finger pushes between your lips, letting the tip of him press at your bundle of nerves.
A soft gasp leaves you as he begins to rub circles at your clit. “Fuck…” you whimper softly, brows furrowing as the little waves of pleasure course through you.
Your hips grind into his hand, desperate for more from him. He adds another finger, and another. He’s moved his face from your neck, his intense eyes watching your face twist in pleasure. “Pope, I…” you whimper softly, letting your forehead fall to his shoulder.
“Hey, hey,” his free hand grabs your chin, forcing you to look back up at him. “Don’t look away from me.”
And that’s all you need to listen to his command. His eyes won’t leave yours. You’re embarrassed. Embarrassed with how vulnerable this feels, having him watch you.
You almost cry when his fingers stop the motion at your clit, but you’re quickly shut up when his hand slides a little ways down and a single finger pops into you. You try to hide your face against him again but he doesn’t allow you to. The grip on your chin tightens, fingers spreading to your cheeks, lips puckered out, and keeping you still as he pumps the single finger inside of you.
You can’t speak. You’re a whimpering mess as he adds another finger. And another. You’re riding his hand desperately, completely flushed and flustered by his utmost attention. He’s captivated by you; by the way your face twists and turns in absolute pleasure, the way you’re rutting into him with a desperate need.
“Are you going to cum?” If this were anything else, you’d cackle at the serious way he speaks those words but you can’t talk. You nod wildly, hips stuttering. He’s smug. You’ve never seen him look so smug before. So damn proud of himself at the way he’s got you.
You’ve never cum so hard in your life because he refuses to let you look away. Your eyes have to be on him as your orgasm crashes over you, spasming around his fingers as your hips stutter and slow.
The grip on your face turns soft, thumb caressing your cheek. Your chest is rising and falling, catching your breath. You choke softly when his face moves closer into yours. His nose nudges yours, lips ghosting your softly painted ones. You close your eyes, lifting your chin softly to try and meet his lips. He doesn’t let them, instead, he’s pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.
You’re sure you could have taken more from him but Sammy’s familiar voice is heard. “I can’t find the shorts I bought!” She calls out your name. She’s getting closer.
Pope pulls away from you, tugging your shirt back down your legs, hiding your body again. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at you as he walks out of the room, rushing past Sammy as she makes her way onto the back patio. She watches him curiously before turning back to you. “The hell is his issue?”
Your eyes are wide, “oh my god, Sammy. He just fucking fingered me.”
☆ ☆ ☆ authors note . . . hey… hey… what yall doing… okay deadass honest opinion. tnd and ino is my first “real” smut and it’s not my forte AT ALL so i hope you all love it hehehehe (this is also not edited… bear with me)
warnings: age gap, reader is twenty one, pope being possessive
word count: 913
summary: only a little thought... just sexy makeout session by the pool and that age gap for extra danger
masterlist here
now playing - 'you're so dark' by arctic monkeys
the first thing you noticed about andrew cody wasn't the way people avoided looking at him for too long - it was how quiet he could be in a room full of chaos.
the cody house was loud even on good days: drawers slamming, televisions humming, someone arguing out by the pool while cigarette smoke curled through open windows. but pope sat at the kitchen counter like he existed somewhere outside of it all, broad shoulders hunched forwards, fingers tapping slowly against a coffee mug gone cold hours ago.
you were younger than the rest of them, too young to understand why everyone treated him like something dangerous left unattended, but old enough to notice the way his eyes always followed you when you walked into the room - careful, unreadable, almost protective. and maybe that should've scared you.
instead, it only made you stay longer.
one afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of the pool, picking at a scab on your knee, when pope came out with a beer in hand. he didn't say anything at first, just leaned against the wall and looked out at the backyard.
his eyes landed on you, watching your legs kick idly in the water, and after a long sip, he murmured, "you're gonna be trouble, kid."
not a warning - almost an acknowledgement. he pushed off the wall, closing the distance in two slow strides, then sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed warm against yours.
"why's that?" you asked, turning your head to look up at him.
his jaw tightened. "because you're the only one who doesn't run when i walk into a room."
you smiled, unbothered. a mistake. his gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat too long. "that a problem?" you asked, dipping your toes further into the water.
pope didn't answer. instead, his hand found the small of your back - not gripping, barely touching, really - just resting there like he was testing whether you'd let him. when you didn't pull away, his fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt.
"only when people start talking," he said low, his thumb rubbing an absent circle against your spine. "craig's got a big mouth. deran's got eyes everywhere. you keep looking at me like that, they're gonna notice."
"let them," you replied, turning your body toward his, knees bumping against his thigh.
pope's breath hitched, just barely audible, and his hand flattened out on your lower back, pulling you closer. close enough that his arm brushed your side with every inhale. close enough that you could see the dark rings around his irises, the way his adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed hard.
"fuck," he muttered under his breath, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck. his fingers curled into your hair, not pulling but holding you there, his forehead resting against yours. the beer bottle clinked against the pool edge as he set it down without looking.
"you know i'm not good for you, right?" his thumb traced your jawline, his voice a low, rough whisper. but instead of pushing you away, he closed the distance between your faces until his lips brushed yours in the barest of touches. a warning. a question.
you closed your eyes. let him feel your breath hitch against his mouth.
that was all the permission pope needed.
the kiss was nothing like you expected - gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid he'd damage you. his other hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing your temple as he tilted your head back, deepening it.
it was slow and drowning, tasting of cheap beer and dark desire.
the fingers in your hair tightened, holding you in place as he explored your mouth, the kiss turning less careful and more desperate, his breathing catching when your hand came up to grip his shoulder.
from inside the house, you heard everyone arrive home, laughing loudly, but pope didn't pull away - he just kissed you harder.
his lips moved to your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly as he marked a path down your neck. he knew his family were about to walk outside - he could hear their voices getting closer.
but instead of stopping, he pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you like he was trying to hide you from them.
"pope? you out here, man?"
he froze for a split second before his mouth found your collarbone, sucking hard enough to bruise. his hands held you tighter, possessive, as if he could make you disappear into his skin. the footsteps came closer on the concrete.
"pope-"
"yeah, yeah, i'm here."
pope finally pulled back, your lips swollen, neck already blooming with purple marks. his eyes were dark, his breathing ragged, but he gave you a look that made your stomach drop - a silent promise that this wasn't over. he wiped his thumb across your bottom lip, smearing your lip gloss, before turning to face his brother with a smirk.
"took you long enough," pope said casually.
craig stopped short when he saw you. his eyes widened briefly before he grinned mischeievously. "what the fuck are you two doing?"
"nothing you need to worry about," pope shot back, his thumb still tracing your lips like he couldn't bring himself to stop touching you. craig's eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the fresh marks littering your neck, and he let out a low whistle.
part I: jack abbot x f!reader, jack abbot x late wife
cw: angst, fluff, eventual smut (?), mentions of untimely death, drinking, cancer
synopsis: there is life and then there is... eternity. jack thought the hardest thing in the world had already happened to him once... then, twice? and now one more time for good. here in the after life, he can only chose to spend eternity with one: his first or his last love.
a/n: this is all very inspired and based on the movie eternity with just small twists and adjustments!
part ii coming soon...
Every morning was the same. Jack would wake first, and after some struggle, he'd get to the kitchen. The two of you had stopped drinking caffeinated coffee some time ago, but you still enjoyed the taste; that's where decaf came in. Too many mornings, Jack would accidentally drop the mug on the way back to the room, struggle to find balance between his crutches and the cups in his hand. After reassuring Jack with sweet kisses to his cheek that he didn't have to do that, he'd instead get the machine brewing before making his way back to the bedroom to wake you up.
The bed dipped beneath him as he leaned over your sleeping form. There was a peaceful look on your face, but this morning it felt off. Too still. He leaned over, kissing your cheek and murmuring softly,
"Wake up, honey. Got the coffee brewing..."
When his lips pressed to your cheek, he should've known. All those years of being an ER attendant were ingrained in his brain, his bones. Yet he couldn't rationalize why you were so still, so cold. Panic seeped in as he began to jostle your shoulder, crying out your name in fear. He couldn't believe it. You were just here. In his arms last night, a warm body pressed against his. Footsteps bounded the stairs as his yelling grew louder, your son and daughter-in-law rushing to check what was wrong.
It wasn't until Jack, your son & daughter, their spouses, and grandkids surrounded your bedside at the hospital that reality had sunk in. It sat in his chest, heavy and aching. Cardiac arrest, the silent killer. It had taken you away from him in one swift blow. His hand gripped your hand so gently now as he pressed his lips to the wrinkled skin atop it, your ring still glinting and shimmering the way it did the day he proposed. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. Jack was the one with the terminal illness, not you. No, you were supposed to be the one who held him in the night and let him pass peacefully. It was supposed to be him who went first.
Head hurts. The jolt of what felt like a train coming to a stop made your eyes fly open. You gasped for air as you sat up, hand pressed of your heart.
Where the fuck-
"Let me guess, you weren't expecting it?"
The kid sat in front of you, swimming in a suit made for an adult.
"Who- Who are you?" You searched around in a panic. "Where's Jack?"
The kid was gone, and the aisle of the train car you were in was filled with people finding their way to an exit, many of them in nurse gowns. You contemplated staying on the train, but there was a gnawing feeling telling you to get off now. Outside the train was a platform station, with only one set of escalators that ascended to who knows where. Following the mob of people, all equally as confused and disoriented as you were.
You entered a lobby filled with people; a few were hounding you with brochures and promises of parties. A help desk was in front of a flipping marquee with times and destinations for places that made no sense to you. A young girl was working behind the desk, headphones over her ears, a white blouse, a brown skirt, her hair pulled back with a red ribbon.
"Hi.. Do you.. work here?" You approached the desk hesitantly, the young girl rolled her eyes at you.
"No, honey, I just like to sit back here and pretend I do." Great, sarcasm.
"Look I don't what I'm doing here I was just-"
"This is the junction. Now, take a seat, and your AC will be with you shortly." She cut you off with a wave of her hand.
You walked away from the desk with your tail tucked between your legs, finding the first seat. You sat there watching the room slowly dwindle in numbers. You were still in your pajamas from the night before, the soft baby blue cotton pajama, the sight of your hands caught you off guard. They were soft, smooth, with no signs of age or wrinkles as you turned them over. Your nails were even perfectly manicured with a baby pink polish, before you could even question it, when a woman in a similar suit to the young girl at the help desk called your name as she looked around the waiting room.
"T-That's me.." You shot up out of your seat. She approached with a soft smile.
She was beautiful, with deep skin, complemented by blonde hair pulled half up with a red ribbon. She held out her hand, long almond nails with a French tip. She shook your hand.
"Sorry about the wait. I'm Anna, your AC."
"AC? What does that stand for?"
"Your afterlife coordinator," Her voice soft, all too familiar with the typical reactions with souls who've crossed over.
"That's not.. I'm not dead! I-I can't be I was just sleeping-" Panic started to settle in. Anna flipped open the folder in her arms.
"Cardiac Arrest, in your sleep, it was peaceful. You should be lucky; most people don't get that. Follow me." She was picking up pace with her back turned now.
"Look I was at home in bed, with my husband- Oh my god, Jack--"
"And you died, hun. Look, here," She pulled out a handheld mirror, holding it up to you.
There you were but... you were 25 again. How was this possible?
"When people get here, your form reverts to the version of yourself that was happiest. That's why we get a lot of kids around here, though not many teenagers," She walks off again with the mirror
"My husband Jack, he's still on the other side I have to get back to him."
Anna keeps walking until she's lead you to a balcony overlooking what was essentially a convention center, endless booths offering various things.
"This is the junction, the trans between life and eternity. Your husband is still alive, so he is still in the life part; you, on the other hand, are here. You can't go back. I'm sorry." She's somewhat sincere, but there's a hint of exhaustion. You're sure she's had this talk numerous times. "Let's get you to your room."
She leads you to an elevator with a gentle hand on your shoulders. Your mind was reeling. In the blink of an eye, you had died in your sleep beside your terminally ill husband. You had promised to stay by his side through it all, and now here you were, in the afterlife. Your heart ached for him, hoping he was okay.
"This is where you'll be staying until you choose the right, eternity for you. We'll get into that later." The room had a queen-size bed, an upscale kind of hotel set up with a sky view.
"I'm already dead, what kind of later is there really?" You muttered looking out the window.
"Acceptance is a good step," Anna said cheerfully. "We have some of your favorite clothes in the closet for you to check out. Maybe it'll do you some good to change."
Anna had disappeared after that. You approached the closet, which was filled with your favorite clothes throughout your life. You reached for the long burgundy dress, memories flooding back of the night you wore it out for Jack on a date night. It was fitted and flattering in all the right places. You slipped it on with the black kitten heels.
You wandered out to explore the Junction. You quickly found your way to a bar; at least there was alcohol in the afterlife. The bar only had two other people sitting in the booths, and the bartender was a young woman. She was pretty, with mousy blonde hair clipped back; her bangs were perfectly imperfect.
"What can I get you, hun?" She spoke without glancing up from the glass she was cleaning.
"Vodka-anything.." You leaned over the bar top.
"First day?" She finally looks up at you. Her hazel eyes looking over you with a soft smirk.
"Yeah... So are you an angel or something?" You asked quietly, a bit skeptical of everything.
"Oh no. Just a bartender,"
"You gotta have a job in the afterlife then?"
"Only if you want to stay here," She slides the drink over. "So what are you thinking about? Where do you want to go from here?"
"I'm not sure. Somewhere sunny, maybe, then again, my husband never really liked the hotter climates. We couldn't stay there long." The bartender looks up at you with curiosity.
"Did your AC tell you the rules?"
You shook your head as you threw back the whole drink in one go; you hadn't done that in quite some time. She smiled softly watching you face twinge in disgust a bit before pouring another drink.
"There are only a few. You can only pick one eternity, no switches or visiting other eternities. Eternity is eternity. Go against the rules, you end up in the void."
"Is that hell?"
"Close, just an empty black hole of space."
You sighed, throwing back the 2nd drink, a slight but beginning.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I died in my sleep. My husband is terminally ill with cancer. I was supposed to take care of him through it till the end..."
"Sorry to hear that. The worst part of death is the guilt you have for the ones you left behind." She gives you a soft smile.
"You been here long?" You ask her. The smile never reaches her eyes, something in it.
"38 years, I think, time works kinda funny in here. Once you've been here as long as I have, you get used to it."
"You waiting on someone?" You asked, the alcohol was hitting harder now.
"Yeah... my husband." She turned back to cleaning glasses.
It had only a few weeks since you had passed, Jack's health had deteriorated rapidly. His diagnosis had predicted he had at least another year. He never left that hospital the day you passed; the stress of your death weighed too heavily on him. Your daughter held onto his hand as the stayed by his bedside,
"You can let go, Dad. Go be with, Mom. I know she's waiting there for you." Those were the last words he heard before the darkness settled over him.
Jack Abbot died approximately 3 weeks after you.
"There's no way to know, right? You're not hiding some magical time keeping clock that will tell me when my husband is gonna die just so you can get rid of me sooner?" Anna laughed shaking her head.
"No, believe me, I think something like that would make these things easier. You just gotta do you. I have no doubt he'll come find you when the time is here." Anna says sincerely with a gentle hand on your shoulder. "I think you're really gonna like this eternity, I think you'll love it even more once Jack is there to join you."
"Anna, can I ask you something?" You had grown quite fond of her company; you're not sure if this was her life's calling, but it certainly felt like it. "Is it possible to just stay one more day? I just have this gut feeling telling me he's gonna..."
She gives you that look, the same look when you initially got here, in denial about death.
"Honey, you don't want to spend your afterlife waiting for him. He will get here when it's time... Trust me when I say he will. Now, your train leaves in-"
You began to tune out her voice when you saw him. It had to be him. It looked exactly like him, 40 years younger, but it was Jack. It was him.
"Jack... Jack! Anna that's Jack, Jack!" You rushed past her.
Jack was looking around, confused, his head whipped around in your direction. He was here, really here. You pushed past the numerous people who grunted in annoyance.
"Oh my god, you're here, Jack, god I missed you so much-" You smothered him in a hug, he held you back just as tightly holding back tears as he pet your hair.
"Is this real? Is this heaven?" He mutter hoarsely into your hair, tears dripped onto your bare shoulder.
"Not exactly, but right now, close enough," You laughed into his neck, peppering his face in kisses. Anna watched, her own heart was overjoyed to see this couple reunited.
You pulled back to really take in Jack. He looked so young again, he didn't even look this young when you met him. His salt and pepper curls had been traded in for a deep auburn you only ever saw in photos. So this is what he looked like at his happiest...
"So you must be the famous Jack Abbot? Your wife here has spent every moment wondering and waiting for you to get here."
"I have, every moment apart from you felt like an eternity waiting for you to get here. I missed you... Did you miss me?"
He was taking in your appearance now. You were a spitting image of the version he met on your first day at PTMC. His hands were warm as they gripped your waist and face.
"You can't even begin to imagine. So, what is this place?"
"It's-"
"Anna, back away from my client"
"I'm not near your client." Anna bit back at the preppy man approaching.
"Back away, I've been waiting 33 god damn years for this one to show up," The man pulled Jack away by the shoulders.
"Excuse me- What are you doing?" You asked as the man led Jack a few feet away.
"That's my-" Jack was cut off.
"I'm Ryan, I'm your afterlife coordinator. I know this can be overwhelming, so just take a deep breath, and just breathe in and... out." Jack was put off by the man in front of him, who was gently nudging his head in the direction of the crowd.
That's when Jack saw her... There she was, walking steadily towards him, in a cotton sundress. Her blonde hair was perfectly tousled, and their eyes locked. The idea of ever seeing her again had never crossed his mind until now. You watched with a scowl, anxiety and confusion pumped through you. Why was the woman from the bar walking towards your husband with such determination?
And why was Jack so stunned to see her....?
She stopped in front of him, hands reaching up to his face with tears in her eyes. You approached from behind Jack.
"Isabel..." His hand cupped her face, stomach doing back-flips as he looked at her.
Your stomach dropped; it was her. The wife he lost. Here she was, more beautiful than you could have ever pictured, perfect. Her eyes shone so brightly as she looked up at Jack, like her missing piece had finally come.
"Jack?" Your voice wobbled as you spoke. He broke his grip on her face, remembering you were here too. His hands trembled as he backed away, looking at both of you. His first love and his last love.
"Jack, I've waited 33 years for you..." Your head whipped in the direction of her voice.
"Is this-"
"First wife and second wife, rough." Ryan muttered to Anna
"I prefer 'current wife', thanks." You turned to the two gossips behind you.
Jack was frozen in place, trembling, eyes flitting between the two of you. Ryan and Anna looked between the two of each other.
"I think Jack needs a breather and a change of clothes, uh, Ryan can you-" Anna spoke up as Ryan ushered Jack towards the elevator.
You turned to Isabel, the woman whose ghost you spent a chunk of your relationship with comparing yourself to, living in her shadow. She turned to you, seeing her replacement, the woman who had filled the space she had left behind when she passed.
"So... your Jack's ex wife?" You asked, unable to help size her up. She did the same to you.
"No, I'm his wife."
"I'm his wife," You said, shaking your head, laughing like a psycho. This was probably the closest to a psychotic break you'd experience.
Isabel huffed as she made her way to the elevator. You turned to Anna, a pleading look for help on your face.
"Okay... so I think we could probably work something out so you can get that extra day of stay..." She says giving you a nervous smile and nod.
The reality had hit you like a truck, knocking the wind out of you; Jack would have to choose between you and her. Who would he want to spend eternity with?
