KYKY. / 18. MDNI. she!her, unlabeled, mixed, cinephile, videographer, writer, lonely romantic, an aesthetic fiend and a chronic overthinker.
likes. / writing, editing, film, drawing, singing (terribly), submersing myself in media, GRAMMAR patrolling, being a girls girl.
letterboxd 4. / 10 Things I Hate About You, Sinners, Little Miss Sunshine, Lars and the Real Girl.
stfu if… / you are homophobic, transphobic, racist, a zionist, a downright shitty person, a plagiarist, an incel (yall need to watch Adolescence.), a p*do, and i have many more because im a professional hater.
synopsis: when freshly divorced frank takes his kids to soccer for the first time, he immediately makes friends with one of the mothers, you. when you come and pick your daughter up from a playdate later, it stretches into something much greater than both of you could've imagined.
pairing: divorced!frank langdon x single mother!reader
cw: 18+ mdni, smut, angst. discussions of divorce, mentions of frank's drug addiction and guilt, discussions of abandonment and single parenthood. unprotected p in v, fingers in mouth.
wordcount: 4.5k
taglist: @pittsick @inside--her--fantasy @voidsuites @lvve-talks @iloverodentmen @carpenfaist @nyxmoretti @kill3ill @meetmeatyourworst @coochiemama3000 @scariffs @thryn-the-destroyer @multi-fandom-bi-bitch (to be added)
the car was new. well, not new but unfamiliar. it was a station wagon, reminiscent of what your dad had driven around in the ‘80s, you didn’t even know they still made those. the puppy’s new too, sprinting out of the open car door before the engine had even turned off, all floppy ears and wagging tail. so was the man chasing her, with muttered curse words and failed grabs with veiny arms. the stubble, you noted, was definitely new and you swallowed, hard.
the only familiar part of the chaotic scene was the two kids, penny and tanner, dashing out of the car and onto the soccer pitch, joining nora, your daughter in a flurry of giggles.
the weary man had wrangled the overexcited puppy onto the leash and although the animal was still nipping at his ankles, he was too busy scanning the crowd of parents. following his eyeline, you recognised the judgemental looks and whispers behind hands, you knew what it felt like to be the social pariah. however, when his gaze falls on you, you make a point to look neutral, no indication of welcoming. shamefully, you’d worked hard to climb the ranks to a somewhat average position, break away from the single mother stereotype.
for better or worse, the man chooses to stand next to you, puppy jumping up wildly.
‘just ignore him.’ he says with a quick shake of his head, ‘apparently it’s just a phase.’
the puppy tilts it’s head as if to say this will definitely not be a phase.
you nod politely but he merely takes it as signal to continue.
‘it was supposed to be a surprise, you see?’ he clicks his tongue, ‘tanner was so insistent he’d take care of the poor animal.’
with a shake of your head, you reply wryly. ‘kids always say stuff like that, trick is not to give in.’
‘i’ll… remember that for next time.’ he laughs with a smirk, looking down at the puppy, who was now pushing it’s fluffy head against his shoes, begging for cuddles.
you look down too, and your jaded heart melts at the adorable sight and with a nod from the man, you’re crouching down to pet him and the puppy immediately bumps his face into your hand, licking your fingers excitedly.
it’s only when you stand back up, feeling weirdly warmed by the whole interaction that he introduces himself.
‘i’m frank, by the way.’ he presses his hand to his chest, ‘frank langdon.’
you’re at a loss for words, trying to keep your expression polite whilst your brain fires at a million miles per minute. abby had talked at length about her husband, his time as a doctor, his time in rehab, his lack of time for his kids. by the end, you’d envisioned some sort of monster who was jacked up on pills and only appeared in the depths of nighttime.
that is nothing like the fairly normal man stood beside you. he’s dressed a plain shirt that hugs his upper body, showing faint muscles and regular jeans that aren’t too baggy and aren’t too tight. his dark brown hair is flopping in his face slightly, obscuring his piercing blue eyes. his jawline is set but you’re drawn to the stubble covering it once again and the way his sturdy fingers stroke it as if it still needed some getting used to.
your eyes betrayed you, widening impossibly as you made the connection. he’d never brought the kids to soccer practice before, he was no longer clean shaven and he had a demented puppy with him. abby had finally divorced him.
thankfully, frank hadn’t seemed to take notice of your blatant shock so when you finally answered him, it was as casual as you could muster.
‘oh! well it’s good to finally meet you.’ your smile is strained, not quite meeting your eyes as you try to quell your surprise. ‘i’ve heard so much about you!’
he seemed a little embarrassed by this, looking away slightly. ‘yeah… um… can’t’ve been good.’
you wave your hands rapidly, ‘no, no. trust me, all the moms here complain about their husbands, it’s standard.’
it’s a lie of course, and a bad one at that. there’s complaining about your husband not doing the dishes and there’s complaining about your husband almost losing his job for stealing painkillers.
despite this, it seems to appease frank and he looks back at you with a soft expression. it’s real, almost too real and as you hold his warm gaze, you feel your heart rate slowly increase and the sound of a plastic ball being bounced across the grass and screaming children start to fade into the background.
the moment is interrupted by three children running up to you.
‘mom! mom! mommy! mom!’ came the repeated cry, you’d barely had time to swivel your head to look at nora.
you take a deep regulating breath, ‘yes, sweetheart?’
‘can i stay at tanner and penny’s new house? pleaseeee?’ she whined, making her eyes wide with a grin stretching across half her little face.
‘well…’ you glance at frank’s kids, who were riling their new puppy up to no end and then to frank who was doing his best to keep it all under control.
at your non reply, your daughter doubled down. ‘please, please, please, please, please, please.’
‘okay, okay!’ you hold your hands up in defeat, ‘i just have to ask their dad first.’
nora erupted into cheers and immediately dove into the throng of child and puppy at your feet.
turning to frank with an apologetic face, you ask the question. ‘in case you hadn’t heard, nora wants to have a playdate at your house today.’
you’re half expecting him to say no, come up with some excuse about how there’s no space or he’s hardly unpacked but instead he brightens.
‘oh sure! they’d love that. here…’ he fumbles around in his jean pocket to pull out his phone and you notice the friendship bracelets adorning his wrist, a children’s creation that makes your heart swell. ‘i’ll give you my number in case anything happens.’
you smile slightly, it’s the most considerate a dad has ever been around here. ‘great, thanks.’ you say as you type his digits into your phone. ‘does 6 sound good? i’ll give her dinner at home.’
‘6 is perfect.’ frank replies with a warm smile, and once again his gaze is lingering just a beat too long.
you blink and look away first, ‘okay, nora. come say bye to your mom!’ you call.
‘bye!’ she squeals into your legs, little arms wrapped around them in a hug.
‘bye, honey. have fun.’ you whisper into her hair, pressing a kiss to her scalp before handing her her backpack.
‘be good!’ comes your final cry as she tears off with penny and tanner towards frank’s car.
as you trudged back to your own beat up sedan, you couldn’t help but stare at his contact open on your phone. even as you drove home, blasting music, you found yourself wishing that he’d call or even text. not that you wanted anything bad to happen to nora, far from it, you just wanted to hear his smooth voice again, read his words.
this was wrong, you thought as the key turned in the lock and you came home to an empty house. you weren’t exactly abby’s friend but you were friendly, she was friendly and everyone knew what went down over the last couple of years between her and frank.
and yet, you hadn’t been with someone since you’d given birth to nora, no time to balance a job, a kid and a man. nor did you have time for hookups either, lost track of how long it had been since you’d even had sex.
you were just pent up, you concluded, you saw an attractive man out in the wild and didn’t know how to act. there was no way you could possibly be interested in your friend’s freshly ex husband.
sitting down to watch tv to pass the endless hours, every channel was showing some sort of romance. whether it was cheesy romantic comedies or cringe reality dating shows, it didn’t matter. you were being haunted by your own conflicting feelings.
5:30 couldn’t come fast enough and you practically jumped in the car, surprised you didn’t get a speeding ticket as you pulled up outside frank’s address, your heart had skipped a beat when he’d texted it to you hours earlier.
although you’d convinced yourself you couldn’t possibly be attracted to him, you did reapply your lipstick and check your mascara before getting out of the car. the house was modest, small in a series of ramshackle houses on a street just outside pittsburgh. he clearly wasn’t short of money, so the divorce must not have come as a surprise.
even as you stood on his creaky wooden porch, you could hear the cacophony of chaos from behind the door. as you knocked, you heard shrill barking and the door opened just as golden fur dove at you only to be grabbed by the scruff of it’s neck and yanked back.
‘sorry, sorry.’ frank mutters quickly as he shooed the poor creature away, ‘like i said, still a lot of training to go.’
you blink, bewildered. ‘no it’s fine, really.’ you smile politely, suddenly at a loss for words just from the sight of him.
‘it’s um- nora!’ he shouts upstairs, ‘your mom’s here!’
there’s the sound of giggles and definitely no footsteps on the stairs.
frank pulls a face and runs his fingers through his hair, ‘they might be a while, do you want to come in?’ he gestures behind him.
before you can even think, you’re stepping past the threshold.
‘sure, thanks.’ you smile.
the interior is a mess, the furniture is simple, recent store items but it’s all draped in piles of laundry and children’s toys. everything has puppy height bites in it and you can barely see the living room rug, filled with torn up teddies.
‘i apologise for the mess, my job doesn’t give me a whole lot of time for housekeeping.’ he shrugs, it’s an excuse but a genuine one. even so, nora didn’t make half as much mess as this.
‘i understand, you’re a doctor right?’ comes your warm reply.
he brightens, corner of his lips quirking up. ‘yeah. emergency medicine.’
‘brave.’ you say wryly.
‘you said it not me.’ he joked as he opened the fridge door. ‘drink?’
you slide onto the dining table bench, flicking a transformers toy aside and adjust your outfit, which you admit was not your typical picking up your daughter get up but you couldn’t help yourself.
‘well if you’re-’ you regret the words as soon as they came out of your mouth.
his expressions hardens slightly, but it’s not directed at you, rather the portrayal of a million guilty memories.
his response is blunt, ‘i don’t.’
‘right- of course-’ you say quickly, swallowing down your embarrassment. ‘me neither.’
frank doesn’t say any more and you don’t want to push so you’re now stuck in this agonising silence, sipping respective glasses of water.
‘so-’ you both start at the same time, before he laughs and shakes his head.
‘you go.’ he nods, earnest.
you press your lips together, ‘it’s a nice house.’ you sidestep, not wanting to say what was actually on your mind when he was being so hospitable.
frank looked around, as if seeing it himself for the first time. ‘yeah… my parents helped me out a bit.’
‘that’s good.’ you reply, awkward and a little too fast and he eyes you slightly.
with a sly smirk, he puts you on the spot. ‘why? what’s your house like then?’
almost choking on your water, ‘it’s not that much different if you must know. just a lot…’ your eyes twinkle with mischief as you add the last word, ‘cleaner.’
the laugh erupts from frank, a broad smile stretching across his face as he watches you with mock surprise.
‘oh yeah? well i suppose you’ve got half the kids and…’ he tilts his head to the side, ‘what do you do? for work i mean.’
‘right. i’m a consultant, it’s boring, trust me.’ you shrug.
‘so half the kids and half the hours then.’ frank jokes and you feel your cheeks grow hot.
‘alright, alright.’ you shake your head, staring down into your glass.
‘hey.’ he murmured quietly, ‘i was joking.’
‘i know.’ you retort but as you look up, you can see the way his piercing eyes had softened.
his gaze was lingering again, that beat too long that made your breath quicken. you didn’t want to look away until your phone screen lit up and it jolted you out of the moment.
‘shit is that the time already? it’s almost…’
frank was already standing, opening the fridge. ‘dinnertime?’
you move to follow immediately, ‘you don’t have to. i can take her home and feed her, honestly.’
he didn’t miss a beat, ‘stay. i want you to.’
his tone was gentle but authoritative, the words simple but they struck a chord anyway, your heart swelling as you leaned against the kitchen counter.
‘god i can’t see why abby divorced you.’ you mutter under your breath, your tone is joking but his head snaps up regardless, he heard you.
frank freezes, and you can see his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he processes what you just said. you can’t apologise, it’s too late, the words hanging in the air
‘i messed up, bad.’ comes his stoic reply, though his voice was wavering. ‘i worked really hard to atone for what i did, but it wasn’t enough for her.’
‘i know i-’ you cut in, swallowing.
he shakes his head, ‘and that’s okay. i’m just grateful she lets me see my kids.’
you sigh, following his sorrowful gaze upstairs, ‘frank i-’
he turns to look at you then, eyes hard but again, he’s not mad at you but rather himself. ‘i let a lot of people down, abby included and i’m not asking for forgiveness from anyone, i just want to prove that i can get better, be better.’
it was the most honest thing you’d heard about the whole situation and it made your heart ache. you couldn’t hate abby for how she felt, far from it but there was something in frank’s expression that meant you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him too, whether he wanted it or not.
‘do you want a hug?’ comes your quiet sympathy.
he doesn’t say anything so you step closer, arms enveloping him warmly. frank is broad, not outwardly muscular with bulging arms but his chest is rock solid, sinewy arms working their way around your waist. the hug stretches from seconds into minutes, neither of you want to pull away and his chin starts to rest atop your head.
eventually, you step apart but his arms move to slide on top of yours, each of your hands gripping the others elbows. frank licks his lips and you think it’s going to happen, that he’ll lean in and-
‘can you get the plates out of the cupboard, please? on the left above the microwave.’ he whispers, tone almost too casual and you nod, pulling away.
you don’t notice how he watches you, ass bending over slightly to reach up and grab a stack of porcelain.
as you start to lay the table, frank calls. ‘don’t worry about that, the kids can eat outside, it’s nice out. penny and tanner are always begging me to let them.’
your brow furrows, ‘you sure?’
he’s already piling fries on each plate, ‘yeah, i’m sure.’
doing your best to suppress your smile, you nod in agreement.
‘kids!’ frank bellows, ‘dinner!’
they all come barrelling down the stairs, crowding the kitchen like feral creatures, the puppy attempting to climb the counters to get to the chicken nuggets.
‘come on, go eat outside please.’ he shooed them away.
penny and tanner’s faces lit up before scrambling to open the backdoor and tumble into the fenced in grass, puppy running laps. nora hung back, holding her plate but looking at you expectantly.
‘go on, honey. it’s okay, frank and i are having dinner too.’ comes your gentle confirmation and she brightens once more.
‘sweet!’ she cheers before dashing out after them and plopping herself down with her plate.
‘now…’ frank slides the door shut and the kitchen falls quiet again, a soft domestic quiet that you could certainly get used to. ‘where were we?’
you don’t miss the flirty undertones in his words, so your reply is equally salacious, ‘i believe we were about to have dinner… together.’
he smirks and sits down opposite you, fork stabbing a forlorn fry. ‘so, what’s your story?’
you tilt your head to the side, ‘oh i don’t have one.’ comes your quick, polite response.
‘sure you don’t.’ frank retorts, staring at you so intently that you can’t avert your gaze.
shrugging, you exhale. ‘i picked the wrong guy to be the father of my child.’
frank doesn’t push, but he doesn’t say anything either, just continuing to study you.
‘he didn’t- he wasn’t… abusive like that.’ you shake your head quickly, focusing on cutting a chicken nugget into tinier and tinier bites. ‘he wasn’t ready, even though he told me it was what he wanted.’
‘so he ran? took off?’ frank prompted, though his words were barely audible.
your neck snapped up then, ‘oh yeah, he was long gone before she was even born. ran off with the girl he’d been cheating on me with for the last nine months.’ your tone is wry, joking even but there’s an undercurrent of hurt that still lingers.
he deflated slightly but his hand enclosed your own across the table.
‘i’m sorry.’ was all frank said but something inside you split open.
‘it’s fine, he doesn’t deserve to know her anyway.’ you suck your teeth, gazing out the window at nora laughing with penny and tanner, that laugh where she snorts so loud it only makes her laugh harder and your eyes fill with tears all of a sudden. ‘although… sometimes i wonder if she knows what she doesn’t have, whether she misses having a father despite everything. i do my best to provide for her but- it’ll never be the same.’
he falls quiet, watching you watching her for what feels like an eternity. the tears are flowing now, irregular and small but there, so when frank finally does speak, the first thing he does is wipe a wobbling tear from your cheek with a calloused thumb.
‘the fact that you think that tells me you’re better than two parents combined.’ he whispers sincerely, brow furrowing as he looks you over gently.
‘you mean that?’ you whimper, it’s almost childish how your bottom lip starts to wobble.
he seemed amused by that, ‘wouldn’t say it if i didn’t.’
swallowing down your tears, your answer is soft, broken. ‘thank you.’
maybe it was your heightened emotional state, or the childhood food in front of you both, but you found yourself leaning in. frank didn’t pull away and when your lips finally met, all your heartfelt confessions faded into the background. it was hard to get closer with the table in the way, but it didn’t matter, the kisses were rapid, barely time to breathe between lips crashing into each other.
when you do break away, you giggle in embarrassment as frank’s whole face reddens, right to the tips of his ears.
‘i’m sorry.’ frank grins as he repeats those two words, meaning so different from just a few moments ago.
‘no you’re not.’ you retort with narrowed eyes and a chuckle.
‘no i’m not.’ he concedes, grin only widening.
his hand is still in yours, and now he turns it, so your palm is facing upwards. your fingers interlock with his own and you both just watch it, the connection forming between you.
‘it’s been so long since i-’ you start, wide eyes finding his sure ones.
‘i don’t care.’ frank shrugs, tone breathy and light.
you press your lips together and slide out of your chair. ‘fuck it.’
frank follows you as you open the backdoor, curiosity written all over his expression.
‘nora!’ you shout across the yard and her head swivels, ‘do you want to sleep over?’
she jumps up immediately, ‘yes please!’
none of the kids notice frank’s muscular arm snaking around your waist but you do. the unfamiliar warmth of his chest pressed against your back and his chin fitting perfectly into the crook of your shoulder.
so?’ you whisper in his ear with raised eyebrows.
frank shut the backdoor with ease, one handed so he didn’t have to be separated from you.
sprinting up the stairs like children, you didn’t even make it to his bed before he was all over you. pressed up against the door, frank’s kisses were passionate and fast, hands roaming all over you. your hands slid down to his ass, resting there and your tongue prodded his bottom lip, encouraging him to go slow and savour this as his tongue slid over yours.
as the kisses grow longer, stretching into minutes since you’d come up for air, your hands snake round from his ass to the zipper on his jeans, tugging it down and feeling the bulge hiding behind, spring forward.
frank groans into your mouth, before pulling away to break for breathless panting.
‘fuck.’ his face screws up as he tries to calm his body that’s thrumming with desire.
without warning, he grips your hips and turns you around so your stomach is pressed against the door, back arched and he laughs deliciously.
‘please… oh god.’ you whimper, grateful you wore your shortest and tightest skirt for the occasion.
frank wastes no time in pulling it down over your ass till it falls to your ankles. you can hear the sound of his belt unbuckling and denim kicked across the floor. he plants his hands on either side of your head against the door frame and torturously starts to rub his clothed bulge against your clothed pussy.
‘frank…’ you plead shakily, already aching with need.
‘yeah? you want this?’ he growls, right in your ear and your whole body shivers.
‘so bad. so- so bad.’ you reply with a sharp moan as he presses right against you.
his fingers dip into your panty line, and the skin there comes up in goosebumps instantaneously, just from the briefest of touches. he slowly pulls them down to reveal your hungry pussy.
‘holy…’ he breathes, running his finger along one of your folds teasingly, making you clench.
‘frank!’ you gasp, as cold breeze hits your hole.
‘okay… okay…’ he mutters, pulling down his own underwear.
you feel his throbbing erection brush up against your cunt, but he doesn’t enter, not yet. the teasing is killing you and it’s hardly been that long.
a large hand taps your inner thigh, ‘further apart, come on.’
you comply immediately, shuffling your legs out as far as they can go without you toppling over and that’s when his sensitive tip breaches you.
it’s slow at first, barely inside before he’s pulling it out again, only to re-enter with an extra inch. your breath catches in your throat as he continues this game of in, out, in, out.
‘for fuck’s sake!’ you groan, forehead slamming against the word.
‘easy, i don’t want to hurt you.’ he mutters, kissing at your neck.
‘i’ve pushed a whole child out of there, just fuck me already.’ you whine and frank’s startled by your forwardness.
happy to oblige, he starts slamming into you like a mad man, balls slapping against your ass. frank’s hands are digging into your hips like he’s kneading dough, and you relish the thought of the bruises there in the morning.
‘oh yes- yes- god-’ you moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head.
‘we gotta be- ngh.. quiet.’ frank grunts as his dick slides in and out of your soaked hole.
you can barely hear him over the sloppy sounds your pussy is making, it’s obscene the way the spongy walls grip every vein of his girth, even when the tip brushes that sweet spot inside you that makes you see stars.
‘fuck- please- please!’ you gasp and cry, trying to grind into his dick but you're sandwiched between him and the door so it’s near impossible to move, apart from your shaking legs.
‘i said-’ frank panted, ‘quiet.’
as he speaks, his fingers slide into your open mouth and you almost finish on the spot. the combination of his digits inside your drooling mouth, pressing against your teeth and tongue and his cock plunging in and out of your pussy is too much, too overwhelming in the best way.
‘ugh- close-’ you garble and frank doesn’t even pause, increasing his pace.
your orgasm comes just seconds later, crashing over you like a tidal wave. everything is blurry, except his hand in your face and his length buried somewhere deep in your cunt. you’re certain your juices are soaking the carpeted floor, spraying out and lining his dick like a sheath. garbled moans and sordid cries, it’s just as you’re coming down from your high that frank reaches his pinnacle.
perhaps it was the sight of you, shaking and writhing that made his load squirt directly into your pussy, or perhaps it was the feeling of you drooling over his fingers and coating his dick in your cum. regardless, frank was now shuddering just as intensely as you, forced to lean his whole body weight on you just so he could stay upright. his moans are filthy, whispered directly into your ear along with broken variations of your name.
eventually, frank removes his cock from inside you and it falls flaccid between his legs. swallowing, you right yourself and dust yourself off, licking your lips.
‘go pee.’ he urges, pushing his floppy brown hair out of his face in a way that is utterly endearing. ‘i’ll give you one of my shirts to sleep in.
he stayed true to his word. even though you contemplated what on earth you were doing as you sat on the toilet, the moment you slipped on his shirt, everything felt right. sliding into the warmed sheets beside him, frank’s arm fell over yours and you dozed off almost immediately, feeling a sense of safety you hadn’t realised you’d missed with all those years alone in bed.
the next morning, nora’s too sleep deprived to realise you stayed over too, and penny and tanner are also too exhausted to notice their dad looks a lot more chipper this morning, not scolding the puppy as much, rather sneaking a lot more glances at you as you sip coffee in his shirt.
you could bathe in the domesticity of it all, the kids amicably chatting mixed with puppy chowing down on food as background noise to you and frank washing up together, talking about everything and nothing and kissing between each dried dish.
nora falls asleep on the drive home almost immediately, so she doesn’t clock you’re in the same clothes as last night. your phone pings with a text message from frank and for the first time in an age, you feel more than satisfied, you feel complete.
a no-touch rule sounds smart on a beach vacation with your secret boyfriend, especially when he happens to be your brother's best friend and twenty years your senior. unfortunately, neither of you is very good at keeping your hands to yourselves.
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
PAIRING jack abbot x robinavitch!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI explicit smut, age gap (reader is late 20s), girly girl reader, reader is robby’s little sister (and reader and jack play in this man's FACEEEE), reader wears sunscreen but no mention of burning/redness/etc, jack applies sunscreen to reader, jack and reader just tease each other all day every day, reader and jack take a shower together!, brief inspection kink mention, flirty!jack abbot, flirty!reader, sexting, lots of pet name usage (baby, doll, sweetheart, honey, etc), munch!abbot, oral (f receiving), reader wears a dress, jealous!abbot, someone mistakes jack for your dad, reader goes along with it soooo lowkey dad!bf jack??? but not really it’s more of just a joke, alcohol mention, tipsy!reader, lowkey some angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it folks), twinkie (creampie is a banned word in this household), light breeding kink, kitchen sex, jack gets punched
WC 9.5k | REQUEST here!
You had no ill intentions when you sought Jack out on the beach. Truly. None whatsoever.
Your conscience was pristine. Clean enough to eat off of, if a person were inclined toward that sort of thing. And Jack would more than likely be inclined toward that sort of thing.
Which is neither here nor there and definitely not the point.
The point is that he happened to be the first available person you spotted who wasn’t elbow-deep in the cooler, manning the grill, hauling folding chairs closer to the water or otherwise occupied in some way that would’ve made your request an imposition.
He happened to be seated in the shade, sand-dusted calves stretched out and both hands conveniently free. You happened to wander over with your sunscreen and your very normal, very defensible need for help reaching the center of your back.
Never mind that your eyes tend to find him first everywhere.
Your first choice, always. In the hospital, in crowded rooms, in Friday-night bars, and now here, on a stretch of beach sand full of towels, melting ice cubes and boozy coworkers.
If Jack is there the geometry of the universe settles.
Noise levels drop. Potential catastrophe politely steps back in line. Statistically, things improve by, what, twenty percent when he’s within arms reach?
The only time Jack’s presence ever seems to tip from reassurance into danger is when Robby is nearby.
Your brother, his best friend, currently planted beside the grill with a pair of tongs in one hand and a beer sweating in the other, wholly unaware of just how intimately you know the man sitting a few yards away from you reading a book.
No idea that you even know Jack beyond hospital stories and holiday small talk. No idea that you’ve counted the freckles on Jack’s torso the way other people count blessings. No idea you know the small mole just above Jack’s hip because you’ve watched it disappear beneath the push of his own thigh when he’s folded you open beneath him. No idea you know how his forearm looks when it flexes beside your head, that raised vein appearing when your heels hook into his back and he grunts your name into his mouth. No fucking idea you know the pale scar on his ribs that becomes your personal tactical obsession whenever he cages you against a doorframe and breathes against your ear, quiet, sweetheart, unless you want your brother to ask questions.
You slip into the little wedge of shade cast by Jack’s umbrella, hip brushing the arm of his chair.
It takes half a second for Jack’s gaze to lift. First to your face, because he is decent, or because he has spent forty-nine years perfecting the performance of decency and can probably do it under sedation.
Then his eyes dip lower, catching on your chest and the heroic and doomed labor of your bikini top, the poor thing doing its absolute best with limited resources and no meaningful administrative support, and for one brief, gorgeous second, Jack Abbot’s whole face goes blank.
You unscrew the sunscreen cap with the patience of a saint and the moral character of someone much worse, pretending you don’t see a thing. It’s easy. You’ve been playing dumb your whole life, and Jack happens to make it especially rewarding.
“Hi, Jack.”
He blinks as though dragged out of a dream he has no intention of describing in mixed company.
The paperback folds around one finger; he swallows civility into a single neutral “Hey,” though his ears are flaming traitors.
You bounce once on your toes just to watch his eyes track the up-and-down movement. “Mind helping me with my back?”
A phantom movement ripples down his arm, the muscle memory that usually ends with his thumb sliding up the tender inside of your knee.
Half-second later he remembers the clause you made him swear to the night before you left, the one you recited while sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but your earrings and a very serious expression: no contact during this trip. Not in front of Robby. Not in private. Not even the little absent-minded touches Jack was so fond of giving and so terrible at pretending were accidental.
He had listened with the patient, faintly amused face — oh, of course, let’s discuss boundaries — all while his hands were already easing your thighs apart, palm spanning half your quads. “That’s smart, sweetheart,” he had murmured, barely out of his mouth before he fucked you so hard you spent the first two days of this trip remembering him every time you sat down, crossed your legs, climbed stairs, breathed wrong, existed.
Day one started with Robby squinting at the careful, not-at-all-in-pain way you eased into the passenger seat.
“Pull something?” he asked, suspicion crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Jack, loading your suitcase into the trunk, had only said, “She’s fine — just overdid the beach volleyball warm-up.”
Now, beneath the umbrella, he eyes the bottle in your hand.
“You’re asking me to put sunscreen on you while I’m currently under express orders not to touch you,” he clarifies, mouth twitching. “Little contradictory, don’t you think?”
“It’s medicinal, Jack. Doctor-ordered sun safety. That puts it squarely under the ‘acts of basic care’ exemption we definitely agreed on.”
There is, of course, no exemption. But you say it with such polished confidence, such gorgeous little liar convocation, and Jack’s eyes keep distractedly slipping to your cleavage, you figure you might be able to gaslight him into believing otherwise.
Jack tilts in, voice dropping to bedside-manner dark. “Preventive exams are also acts of basic care, sweetheart. I offered to give you one last night. Head to toe. Very thorough. You didn’t seem to keen on the idea. Funny how selective you are with these exemptions.”
He knows perfectly well keenness was never the issue.
Keenness had been present and accounted for, actually, sitting upright in bed with a racing pulse while Jack spent nearly forty minutes vibrating your phone off the nightstand at one in the morning, apparently deciding the no-contact was less a boundary and more a diagnostic puzzle he could brute-force with persistence, semantics, and an irresponsible number of filthy hypotheticals.
How firm is the rule?
You had answered, Very.
Define very.
Jack.
I’m serious. Are we talking legally blinding or more of a strong suggestion?
I can’t sleep knowing you’re down the hall.
I keep thinking about your ass in that tiny fucking bikini.
And your mouth.
And the noise you make when I’m tasting your pretty pussy.
So if "very" has any flexibility, now would be an excellent time to disclose it.
You had flushed at that, instinct dragging your hand south, fingertips tucking beneath the elastic of your pajama shorts, privately checking how much trouble you were in.
Spoiler: a lot. Still, you forced your breathing steady and tapped out the grown-up response you promised yourself you’d give him.
Too risky. Robby’s awake.
Riskier to ignore symptoms.
You seemed flushed at dinner, baby. Could be heat exhaustion.
Standard protocol is immediate evaluation. Full tactical assessment of any sensitive areas.
Better I handle it now than you collapse tomorrow, right?
“The walls here are paper thin. I just didn’t want everyone to hear you,” you murmur, eyes flicking toward the grill where Robby still holds court.
Jack’s gaze drags over your face, patience fraying.
His head cants. “Me?”
An accusation rather than a question.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too hard.
It’s bullshit.
Jack makes sounds in bed, sure, these low rough little things he tries to swallow down into silence, but you are, historically, the problem. You are the one who forgets walls even exist, who gets whiny and breathless, saying his name too sweet and loud.
Still, riling him up is half the fun.
“Mhm. All those grunts you do? Very compromising. You really should work on that. I was just protecting your reputation.”
His mouth tugs into that bare-bones smile, parched and cutting, like a fence post bleached under Georgia sun.
“That’s interesting, doll, because I seem to remember you nearly getting us thrown out of that hotel in Atlanta.” He pauses, eyes steady on yours. “Had to clamp a palm over your mouth halfway through just so the folks next door would quit pounding on the wall.”
You make a thoughtful, entirely disingenuous sound. “I don’t recall.”
Liar, you think, but only to yourself, because the scene is seared onto the backs of your eyelids: big palm, slick with sweat; your own pulse popping under his thumb.
“Convenient,” he says. “Concerning, too. Memory loss at your age.”
The urge to fire back — your age, grandpa — sparks under your tongue, but you swallow it, knowing you’ve already won.
He’s picturing that night, too. You can see it in the way his jaw resets, in the way his fingers flex like they’re aching to reprise the role of impromptu gag.
“Memory loss and melanoma.” Your fingers skim your collarbone, then your shoulder, making a tiny show of your poor exposed skin. “That’ll be on your conscience, and you have so many sins already, Jack.”
Jack’s glare fractures, concern muscling past amusement.
“Turn around,” he orders.
His palm resignedly lands on your back and the first sweep of cool lotion is an instant balm, a hush in every raw, sun-tight cell that’s been screaming since day one of this self-inflicted separation.
Water to a dying flower. Oxygen after a held breath.
The peppermint chill kisses the nape of your neck, then fans outward in broad strokes, each pass ironing the ache right out of your skin.
Three whole days without his hands, seventy-two hours of pretending you didn’t need this, and now his thumbs slip beneath your bikini straps like they own the territory, tracing the warmed skin that’s been begging for him with every salty breeze.
“Missed you,” you murmur under your breath, words a little wobbly and petulant.
He huffs a soft laugh and bends to brush his mouth against your shoulder blade. “Yeah, missed you, too, angel.”
He smooths another cool ribbon down your spine.
You angle yourself towards the grill to allow him better access only to see Robby nudging the spatula at Mateo like a relay baton. Take over, man.
Mateo blinks, grabs the grill tools, and Robby wipes his palms on a dish towel as he starts striding across the sand.
Panic sparks hot in your belly. Abort, abort —
Jack’s fingers press reassuringly at the base of your neck. “Easy.”
Robby arrives, squinting against the glare.
Jack doesn’t miss a beat, straightening just enough to greet him over your head, palms still settling the lotion. “Need a second set of tongs, man? You were talking about that pineapple glaze.”
“Yeah, figured you could baste while I flip,” Robby says, oblivious.
“Sure thing.” Jack rubs the last of the lotion on your shoulder before flicking the cap back on the bottle.
Robby tips his chin at you, hooks an arm around Jack’s neck like a big brother claiming turf. “And watch it, man. Give her an inch and she’ll have you painting her toes next.”
Jack shoots you a wink. “Wouldn’t put it past her, bit on the spoiled side, isn’t she?”
You don’t get to be alone with Jack again until later that evening.
After a twelve-hour gauntlet of being herded from one little duty to the next, karmic punishment apparently being less fire-and-brimstone and more Robby glued to your elbow, Samira asking about plates, Dana hunting for towels.
The house had stayed swollen with noise, doors opening, voices carrying, bodies constantly moving through every room, leaving nowhere private enough to breathe, let alone get a second with your secret boyfriend.
And you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like torture, spending the whole day brushing past Jack close enough to catch bits and pieces of him but never close enough to keep it, catching his stare across the deck and breaking first because if you hold it too long, even for one more second, your face will say everything your mouth has forbidden to.
By the time you get into the shower, you’re wound so tight you feel one wrong move might split you straight down the middle. Steam flattens the bathroom, fogging the mirror in milky layers while condensation beads along the floor beneath your heels.
The water comes down nearly scalding over skin still balmy from the sun, rinsing the day off you in slow, glittering streams. Salt, sunscreen, sweat, sexual frustration, little crescents of sand, all of it spiraling together toward the drain.
You brace both palms against the wall and hiss when the spray finds the tender knot tucked between your shoulder blade and spine.
You don’t have time to decide whether the sting is pleasure or pain because suddenly the door latch is clicking.
You spin, palms crossing over your breasts, ready to apologize for… something (what, exactly? You’re not sure, because last time you checked you weren’t the person barging into an occupied bathroom.)
But then the silhouette resolves into Jack and the apology dies on your tongue.
He shuts and locks the door with a soft snick, arching a brow through the haze.
You hiss under your breath, “What — Jack, what are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks. His gaze drags leisurely, like a hand down your body, over your breasts, the water-glossed dip of your waist, the slick shimmer on your thighs, then hovering at your bare pussy before climbing back to your face.
He looks utterly unhurried. A man content to feast with his eyes first and speak when the hunger becomes unbearable.
Fire pools low in your belly and you shift, thighs pressing together in a useless bid for modesty. “Seriously, what if someone saw you come in?”
He closes the distance until your breath clouds a small circle on the glass pane between you.
“Just grabbing my razor,” he says, offhand, like you’re the one overreacting as he tips his head toward the shelf behind you. “Promise I’ll be two seconds. In, out.”
You give him a long, squinting once-over, as though you can spot the lie on his skin. He just wiggles his fingers — see? Harmless — so you huff a tiny laugh and shift aside.
“Fine. Two seconds,” you mutter, watching him carefully.
You pull the slider door open.
The instant rush of cooler air leaves gooseflesh in its wake, and Jack’s shoulders seem suddenly much broader than you remember as he steps through.
“Appreciate it, honey.”
He ducks under the spray, and the stall feels two sizes too small.
Jack plants himself in front of you, torso filling your peripheral vision, trunks plastered to powerful thighs.
He doesn’t touch you, but the warmth radiating from his body seems to crowd every spare inch of space.
When his chest rises you feel the ripple in each breath through yours.
“You okay?” His tone drips false innocence as he reaches around you for the razor, the damp fabric of his trunks gliding over the sensitive swell of nerves between your legs in a feather-light pass.
You suck in a harsh breath.
He straightens as if nothing happened, twirling the razor between his fingers, eyes glinting with pleased mischief.
Dick-Face.
Your vision goes momentarily starry, the lost friction leaving you empty.
You rally with a shaky grin. “‘M fine.”
“Mind if I shave in here, then? Better water pressure and keeps the sink hair-free. Know you hate that.”
You squint up at him, water streaking your lashes.
“Jack…” One elongated syllable loaded with I know exactly what you’re doing.
“Relax, angel. Two seconds,” he reminds, though the slight tilt of his hips say otherwise.
He angles the razor at his jaw, drawing the first careful stroke. You watch the silver path he leaves on skin, the way tiny beads of water race after the blade. His face, stripped of stubble in increments, is almost too handsome. Straight nose, freckles you could count, lips made for kissing yours.
He catches you gawking and smirks. “Gonna nick myself if you keep staring like that.”
You tilt your chin, droplets collecting at the curve of your collarbone, mustering your usual sparkle, “Then focus, doctor. I won’t be held responsible for self-inflicted injuries.”
He lets the razor dangle forgotten at his side as he studies you a beat longer. His hand slides forward, knuckles skimming the silky bloom of your hip, then dipping inward to follow the hollow where muscle meets bone.
A shiver flutters through you. He feels it and grins, this slow, predatory spread of lips.
“Focus is a tall order,” he says, thumb brushing a streak of water off your stomach. “Pretty as you are.”
Your breath stutters as his thumb skims lower, and you grab his wrist. “Uh-uh. Hands to yourself, remember?”
“Don’t make me beg, sweetheart.” The husk in his voice slips through you from head to toe. “Because I will, if that’s what you want — say please a thousand times, just to prove how badly I need you.”
Before you can answer, he sinks to his knees.
Once again he doesn’t touch, free hand splayed on the grout, but his mouth hovers near the crease of your hip, close enough that every exhale fans liquid fire over your pussy.
His eyes flick to yours, desperate, waiting for the single syllable that will break every rule you set.
“I can keep my hands to myself, if that’s the rule. Just let me use my mouth, please. Need to taste you, angel.”
“I — Jack, we said —”
Your grip on his wrist feels fragile, ceremonial.
“That a yes, baby? Gotta hear the word.”
Steam curls between your bodies and it’s almost suffocating now, filling up your throat and nose and ears until you start to feel a little dizzy.
Rules clang in your skull — not here, not now — but the week-long ache in your belly chants louder: need, need, need.
You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, eyes slipping shut.
When they open again, the answer is already there, shining in resignation. “Yes. Please — yes.”
He doesn’t waste another second.
He dives in like a man reprieved from drought. Three days and three nights and water turned to wine in his tongue. He presses it flat, dragging through your folds until your knees threaten to buckle.
The first targeted flick to your clit punches a helpless cry out of your throat and the second has you clawing for purchase on the handlebar to your left.
Jack mumbles something that feels like so sweet against you, vibration sparkling up your spine, then seals his lips and sucks hard, alternating pressure in prodding intervals.
You don’t think you’ve ever gotten to that blissful edge so fast before, seconds away from splintering, vision tunneling as pink and blue stars flare behind your lids.
It all comes crashing down when a brisk tap-tap-tap cuts through your near-climax.
Jack freezes, mouth still full of you and hot on your cunt but now motionless, eyes snapping up to meets yours. Beautiful eyes with pupils blown.
Santos’s voice filters through: “Whoever’s in there, hurry up!”
The pulse that was about to break erupts into silent, aching stasis instead. You bite your fist, whole body trembling on the cliff-edge he’s left you hanging from.
You choke back a whimper and call, “Be out in a sec!”
And like you said, you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like pure fucking torture.
Jack tries to remind himself that he has, by every measurable standard, survived worse things than this.
War, for one. Heat that cooked straight through the soles of his boots, nights sawn open by rotor blades and gunfire. The terror of deciding who needed his hands first when everyone needed them at once.
He lost a leg and learned how to walk again, then somehow went back to medicine because apparently nearly dying had not cured him of the instinct to run toward other people’s emergencies. He has cracked chests, led resuscitations, talked shaking interns through their first patient death, spent his free time embedded with SWAT because golf had always seemed both dull and something he wouldn’t thrive at.
He knows pressure. He understands discipline. He has built an entire life around refusing to be governed by fear, pain, adrenaline, or lesser impulses.
None of those facts seem to feel reassuring right now as he watches you from across the bar.
You’re burrowed into the center of a brand-new constellation of people you just met, telling one of your well-worn stories with the same sparkling conviction you gave it the first time, chin tipped up, bracelets chiming as your hands sketch the scene into the air.
Jack knows every beat.
Knows when your eyes will widen, when your mouth will pull into that scandalized little O, when you will pause just long enough to make everyone lean closer before delivering the line that sends the table into laughter.
And they do lean closer. Even the bartender’s polishing rag pauses mid-swipe.
That is the thing about you. You make strangers feel chosen. Make a whole room feel handpicked, lit from within, as if you opened the door just for them and meant it. Then you’ll drift away, leaving them there in the aftershocks, still facing the space you occupied like worshippers after the god has already one.
Jack knows exactly how dangerous that is because he has made that mistake himself.
More than once.
Sat across from you and read too much into every smile, every soft little lock of your focus, every gooey, honey-thick stretch of your attention. Mistook being seen by you for being chosen.
And then life, perverse as ever, let him be chosen after all. Let him earn the real thing.
Which only makes watching other men bask in the counterfeit version feel worse.
The feeling metastasizes when one of the men catches the opening after your final line and moves into it, all expensive veneer-looking teeth and effortless posture, bending toward you as though the room has naturally made space for him there.
He says something Jack cannot hear over the bass, punctuates it with a small, self-satisfied shrug, and wears the expression of a person who thinks being near you is already a kind of accomplishment.
Jack studies him.
Young. Smooth. Unscarred, at least where the world can see. A body that has probably never needed to be negotiated with before something as simple as walking barefoot across a beach. No prosthetic to strap on before dawn, no phantom pain flaring where flesh ends, no inventory of what still works and what must be accommodated.
He looks right beside you. No one would glance twice, no one would do the math. Robby could clap him on the shoulder, laugh at his jokes, maybe even approve.
Certainly wouldn’t have to excavate a grave under the rental deck.
Jack counts that as strike three.
“Jack.” Robby’s voice breaks across the table, dragging him back by the collar. “Tell ‘em I’m not making this up.”
Jack blinks, wrestles his gaze off you, and pretends he’s been part of the conversation all along. Dana and Baran blink back at him.
“You’re usually making something up,” he says and it earns Victoria’s laugh, though he hasn’t the faintest idea what improbable tale he’s just failed to corroborate.
It seems to be enough of an answer for Robby though, because he laughs too, his hand thumping Jack’s shoulder hard enough to slosh the liquor.
Jack drinks anyway, holds the bourbon like a tongue depressor to his worst instincts. Swallows. The burn chars every jittery nerve that wants to turn around and see if Mr. Linen Shirt is still siphoning oxygen out of your orbit.
But he wants to know. Wants to know whether the man has moved closer, whether you’re still smiling, whether Jack is about to make a decision that leaves the bastard sipping his own drink through a wired jaw.
He shouldn’t go that far. Healing hands and all. But he can make exceptions.
He lets boredom rasp across his tongue as he clears his throat. “Your sister know those guys?”
Robby looks over on reflex. Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Robby’s face will tell him everything. “What guys?”
“Dunno. Thought one of ‘em looked familiar.”
Robby squints past the crowd.
“Nope. Don’t think I recognize any of them.” Robby decides, pushing a tired breath through his teeth, knuckles rasping over two-day stubble. “She does this everywhere she goes. Draws attention like wildfire. I swear, half my blood pressure medication is because of her.”
Jack’s arteries would corroborate that, but he lets the confession smolder unheard behind the rim of his glass.
“Well, can you blame ‘em? She looks like that.”
And Dana’s comment is the invitation he’s been waiting for. Lets him gorge on the sight without raising suspicion.
The little dress, the glossed-up lips, the endless stretch of your legs under the bar light. Your hair falling loose around your shoulders, your face animated as you talk, every feature sharpened by laughter into something almost indecently alive.
A cherry-red straw clacks against your teeth when you sip your rum punch, each drag leaving a perfect lipstick crescent on the plastic rim.
You are beautiful in every standard category and several highly specific ones Jack suspects may exist solely to inconvenience him.
“Don’t mean she needs a swarm,” Robby grumbles, waving his bottle at the cluster around you. “She treats everybody like they’ve known her ten years, then acts shocked when half the room starts trailing after her. And somehow I’m the prick when I tell ’em to give her some space.”
“I don’t mind being the asshole,” Jack pipes up. Across the table, Dana’s attention narrows, and Jack realizes, half a beat too late, that he may have sounded a little too willing. So he adds, “If you’re tired of the job, I mean.”
Robby snorts. “You’d scare the hell of ‘em.”
“That’s generally the point.”
He lifts his bourbon before the thought can show on his face, lets the rim conceal the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
Robby, thankfully, is already smiling, visibly seduced by the prospect of outsourcing his least charming brotherly obligation.
“Be my guest,” he says. “Tell her I sent you.”
Jack tips his glass, drains what remains, then taps the rim against the tabletop.
Signal received. Assignment accepted. He doesn’t need to be told twice.
By the time he is halfway across the room, you’ve already noticed him.
Your eyes flare with a brightness he can feel from here, and whatever polished little nothing Mr. Smooth is feeding you dies unattended between one word and the next.
He keeps talking anyway, poor guy, unaware that you’ve left the conversation without moving an inch. By the time Jack reaches the bar rail, your attention has funneled to one point, him, and nothing else.
It stirs something dormant in him, the same dark pull he felt in the shower, his pants suddenly tighter, less cooperative. He sees exactly what he would do without the table of coworkers and one eagle-eyed best friend behind him.
He would hook a hand around the back of your neck, pull you flush to his chest, and kiss every little thought clean out of your head. Kiss you until the gloss smeared, until your lipstick feathered over his mouth, until your lips went swollen and every polished stranger nearby understood, without needing it explained, who had put that dazed look in your eyes.
Instead, he leans one forearm against the bar and says, pleasantly, “You drinking enough water, sweetheart?”
“I could be persuaded to drink more.” Your lips curl around the straw again, eyes fixed on Jack with a private little shine.
The younger man follows your attention to Jack and gives him an affable nod. “Man, your dad’s on top of it. Mine would’ve let me dehydrate out of spite.”
Jack nearly coughs up his previously swallowed drink.
He can feel every one of his years arrange themselves in descending order between you. The gray at his temples. The scars. The apparently paternal concern over your fluid intake.
Fuck’s sake.
He parts his lips to correct the record, a dry little execution already waiting on his tongue, but you beat him to the trigger.
“Oh, he’s the best,” you gush, peering at him sideways. “Always checking on me. Sunscreen, hydration, curfew. Super over-protective.”
Jack gives you a long, level look, one that says he knows exactly what you’re doing and plans to deal with it later.
“She keeps me busy. Full time job, most days,” he finally says, playing along.
And it is a full-time job.
Just not remotely in the way this poor kid is imagining. You are a twenty-four-hour on-call position with no protected sleep and an astonishingly generous benefits package.
You need to be kissed before he leaves the room, touched whenever he passes within arm’s reach, listened to with grave concentration while you explain some internet drama involving some show he’s never watched and a man named Sincere he will never meet.
Then there is the other hunger, the one that wakes beside him already stretching toward his body, that has you squirming into his lap after dinner or whispering again against his mouth when any reasonable person would be asleep.
Jack is always on his toes with you, anticipating needs you have not articulated yet, figuring out whether a pout means hungry, horny, tired, or all three braided together.
It is exhausting in the way a life worth living is exhausting.
He has never minded work when the work matters, and taking care of you has become the most selfish labor he has ever loved.
The younger guy clears his throat, trying to recapture the momentum. “Anyway, like I was saying about the jet-ski tomorrow —”
“Actually,” Jack interrupts, “we’ve got to get back. Curfew, you know.” He aims a polite nod at the man, who now looks decidedly dejected, then drapes a guiding hand along the back of your stool in perfect over-protective-father form. “Appreciate you keeping her company.”
Your mouth twitches around the straw. Jack can already tell you’re going to make him suffer for this. The prospect improves his mood considerably.
He starts to walk you back to the table, when he spots Robby, who’s laughing much too loudly at something the new intern just whispered in his ear.
The girl is angled toward him, smiling with that shy, pleased little tilt people get when they think they’ve successfully surprised him, and Robby, miracle of miracles, looks genuinely interested.
That is information worth preserving. Worth interrogating later, too.
But for now he takes that opportunity for what it is and herds you into a corner out of view.
As soon as you’re tucked between a stack of surfboards and the dim EXIT sign, his fingers close over the curve of your backside, giving a quick pinch.
A startled “hey!” pops out, alcohol-loose and breathy, and you bat at his knuckles.
He catches your wrist, holding it against his chest as amusement darkens his gaze. “You’re testing me, angel. Missed me so much you had to start getting other men’s attention just to see if I’d come take you back?”
“Missed who? The pervert or the overprotective dad?”
Jack clicks his tongue and leans in until the tips of your noses nearly touch, crowding the joke right back into your mouth.
“Hated every damn second of that. Couldn’t lay a finger on you while that kid flirted his ass off. And you knew exactly what you were doing. Wanted to see how fast you could make your old man lose his cool?”
“Thought you liked being challenged?” You tilt your chin, lashes dipping. “Besides, you’d been ignoring me all night. What was I supposed to do, sit there looking pretty for no one?”
“You know that isn’t how it is. I’ve been following the rules you set, angel. Your rules.”
“Yeah, well, last night kind of blew those up, don’t you think?” You lean closer. “The line’s already smudged. Seems silly to keep pretending we can still see it.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve got no attachment to that line. I’ve wanted my hands on you from the second I saw that dress.” He leans closer, voice dropping into something meant only for you. “But you’d better mean it. You don’t get to rile me up all night and then act surprised when I collect.”
Your eyes flick toward the neon Restrooms sign, then back to him, lashes heavy. “Meet me by the bathroom in sixty seconds. If you’re late, I’m starting without you.”
One quick sweep confirms the coast is clear.
“Bought and paid for, angel. Be there in fifty-nine.”
You giggle, turning on your heel with a bounce that sets your dress fluttering. He tracks every inch as you stroll off, head cocked like you know he’s staring; the last thing he sees is the curve of your ass rounding the corner.
He waits just long enough not to make it obvious, then starts toward the hall, pulse already ticking off the seconds.
Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.
“Jack.”
Shit.
Dana catches him mid-stride. When he turns, she is watching him over one lifted brow, empty glass raised loosely in her hand. “You getting another round?”
His gaze flicks toward the corridor before he can stop it. Mistake. Dana follows it, then looks back at him.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.
“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re on a mission.”
And what can he say to that?
Yeah, Dana, good eye. I am on a mission to follow my girlfriend into a seedy beach-bar bathroom and fuck the living daylights out of her before Robby notices either of us are gone. By the way, she is his little sister and young enough that, from a distance, strangers apparently assume I helped raise her.
So Jack does what any sensible man would do under pressure.
He lies.
“Just gotta take a leak.”
Dana lets out a low hum, the kind that says she believes exactly none of him. “Sure.” And Jack thinks that’s it, but suddenly she shakes her head. “Just do yourself a favor and be careful.”
“Careful about what, exactly?” Irritation flicks hot across his scalp, mostly because it coats the thin, unfamiliar ache of fear.
She tips her chin, eyes dull with shift-long exhaustion, offering him nothing but that tired little smile that says You already know.
“Don’t make me say it out loud.” Her gaze dips toward the restroom sign, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it. Jack doesn’t. “I don’t care about the sordid details. But secrets like this don’t stay contained forever. People get hurt when they come out.” Her expression softens by a fraction. “And she has more to lose than you do.”
He doesn’t get the chance to answer before Dana slips past him, already lifting two fingers toward the bartender and calling for another round.
She has more to lose than you do.
Jack knows that. Or at least, he should’ve.
He is established. Difficult to shame in any lasting way. People already know who he is, have decided what sort of man he is, and most days he can live with that.
You, meanwhile, are still being decided. Every room you enter is another jury, every mistake fresh evidence for peers and others alike.
And men tend to survive a scandal differently.
Jack might lose Robby, take a hit to his reputation, become the subject of a few whispered conversations at work. Then the weeks would pass, another crisis would arrive, and people would remember he was useful.
The world permits men to outlive their mistakes.
It does not extend women the same courtesy.
You would be remembered through it, reduced to it. People would search backward through every bright smile and short skirt as if the proof had always been there, call you foolish where they called him weak, promiscuous where they called him lonely.
Even the people defending you would talk as though you needed defending from your own decision.
Jack suddenly feels sick because Dana is right, and because somewhere along the way he let himself pretend the risk belonged equally to both of you.
Half his, half yours. Fair.
It never had.
Jack lets the sixty seconds expire and stays exactly where he is, rooted with his hands by his sides and the first honest understanding of what protecting you might actually require.
Tonight, when you go looking for Jack, your intentions are not merely ill.
They are terminal. Premeditated. Your conscience is nowhere to be found, certainly not sparkling, certainly not clean enough to eat off.
Whatever small moral voice usually lives in you has been smothered beneath a white-hot blend of anger and a bruised ego, two things currently holding hands and skipping merrily through your bloodstream.
The house has only just begun to settle after several hours of drunk postmortems, everyone still riding the bar’s momentum and apparently determined to delay sleep through sheer noise pollution alone. Somebody had thrown up in the upstairs toilet, although nobody was admitting to it and Whitaker had somehow staggered into Jack’s room and passed out starfished across his bed, fully clothed, one shoe still on, leaving Jack exiled to the downstairs couch.
It’s almost completely dark when you creep down the stairs.
A small lamp glows beside the sofa, casting a little island over Jack and the book open in his hands.
The rest of the room dissolves into shadow, cluttered with the aftermath of everyone else’s good time: cups lined along the coffee table, half-empty glasses, plates abandoned with crusts and smears of dip.
You ghost past him without a glance, feet soundless on the hardwood.
Only when he murmurs, “Can we talk?” do you pause, but only long enough to throw a breezy, “Later — busy,” over your shoulder.
Jack pushes off the sofa, trailing you a step. “Busy with what, exactly?”
Busy making your life a living hell, you think, scrubbing dried food from a plate. Busy returning the favor. Busy ensuring he experiences even a fraction of the private humiliation you swallowed in that bar bathroom, standing beneath a flickering light panel while sixty seconds stretched into two minutes, then five, your invitation curdled into foolishness.
And when you had finally emerged, Jack was back at the table with the others, but every stiff line of him betrayed where his attention really was. Fresh drink in hand, barely touched. Shoulders set. Gaze locked on the corridor.
He had chosen not to come, but he had not stopped watching.
Jack would sooner lose his other leg than abandon you tipsy in a strange bar, and even furious, you knew that. He had been keeping vigil over the door, tracking who went in, who came out, waiting for your face to appear. But that garnered no brownie points from you.
When you approached, confused and annoyed and still stupidly hopeful, he had only leaned close enough to breathe, “Later,” against your ear.
As if it were of no significance. You were of no significance.
You snatch up another abandoned cup and tip its watery remains into the sink.
“This,” you say. “Some of us respect shared spaces.”
“Mm. At two in the morning?” Jack leans one hip against the counter, arms folding over his chest. When you dont stop, he adds, “All right. Scoot over. I’ll help.”
Jack has never encountered a mess, emotional or otherwise, that he did not believe could be improved by putting his hands on it. A wound, a crisis, a woman mad enough to scrub ceramic like she means to erase the glaze. Same instinct. Reach. Steady. Fix.
You turn before he can.
Dishwater slips from your fingers in clear little tracks, the oversized sleep shirt grazing high over your thighs as you square yourself toward him.
“No, thank you.” Your gaze stays fixed on his. “I’ve learned I can manage without help.”
He comes closer, and closer still, until your damp fingers have nowhere sensible to go except flat against the edge of the sink.
“That’s very independent of you, honey,” he says. “Always loved that about you.” His hand lands beside your hip, bracketing you in. His gaze searches your face, lightening at the edges. “But I don’t think we’re talking about dishes anymore, are we?”
You tip your chin up, refusing to let the gentling in his eyes sand down your irritation. “No, we’re not. We’re talking about you saying one thing and doing another. Apparently promises are more of a loose suggestion when they’re coming from you.”
“Give me a chance to explain, sweetheart.” The words slip out on a breath, softer than the rattle of the faucet. “You can be mad after. Hell, you probably still will be. Just hear me out first.”
You do not want to hear him out.
Explanations are unpredictable things, doors that open both ways, and you already have the sickening suspicion that whatever is waiting on the other side will hurt worse than not knowing.
Because yes, objectively, Jack failing to follow you into a bathroom means very little.
No fidelity breached, no grand betrayal, no concrete proof of anything beyond bad timing and worse communication.
But the small flutter in your stomach does not care about what your mind tries to litigate away.
It knows this feeling. Knows this small retreat before someone leaves, the subtle cooling, the moment affection starts becoming obligation.
Maybe he has simply had his fill of you. Maybe the novelty wore off and now you are no longer the bright, entertaining little thing he wanted to sneak around with, only a woman who talks too much and needs too much and has begun expecting permanence from something built in shadows.
And maybe now he has seen enough of the real thing to know he cannot imagine building a life around it.
So you do not give him the chance.
“Nothing to explain,” you say, seizing the sponge and escaping the cage of his arms for the opposite counter.
You start cleaning with theatrical diligence, collecting bottles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs into your palm as though the fate of the rental deposit rests entirely on you.
But you did not come downstairs to rescue countertops. You came because you need proof that Jack still wants you.
Any kind of proof. Emotional, physical, desperate, selfish. You would take whatever he gives you.
And if you cannot bring yourself to ask whether he still sees a future with you, then you can at least find out whether he still wants to put his hands on you.
So when you bend to retrieve a fallen fork from the ground, you let the hem of your sleep shirt climb unchecked over the backs of your legs until it bares you completely, exposes that you are wearing no underwear, your thighs parted just enough for Jack to see every soft, private inch you left uncovered for him.
Cool air brushes your pussy.
His stare burns hotter.
“Jesus Christ, honey.” The words leave him rough and disbelieving, dragged up from the well below his throat. Behind you, the counter creaks faintly beneath the sudden weight of his hands. “What the hell are you doing?”
You count to one before straightening.
You turn with the fork still balanced between two fingers, arranging your face into its sweetest approximation of confusion.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” he murmurs. “Must’ve imagined the whole thing.”
You drop the fork into the sink with an accusing clatter. “Probably. Memory goes with age, remember?”
He steps in behind you before you can turn away, chest brushing your back, one palm flattening over your stomach while the other slides beneath your shirt.
His knuckles skim the soft inside of your thigh, then settle exactly where you’re naked.
“Yeah,” he growls against your ear. “Didn’t imagine a damn thing.”
A whimper threatens and you bite it back so hard your jaw aches. In that stilled heartbeat the fight drains out of your muscles and your body answers him first, arching back, begging in the only language it trusts.
But the panic bubbles back up in fiery waves.
“Please don’t,” you say, and the plea is not the one he expects.
Jack’s hand freezes.
You close your eyes.
“If you’ve changed your mind about me, just say it.” Every word hurts your throat. You turn your face just enough for him to see what the anger has been hiding all night. Fear. “If you don’t want me anymore, then don’t touch me like you do. Don’t make it harder than it already is.”
Jack’s hand vanishes so abruptly from beneath your shirt, your knees dip with the loss.
Then he’s turning you, big palms framing your cheeks, thumbs parked just under your cheekbones. Your own slick glosses his knuckles. He tips your chin up so you can’t look anywhere but straight into the brown storm of his.
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about, baby?”
Your mouth opens, but what escapes first is a wet, hitching breath.
The tears rise fast, flood-waters breaching the levee before you can blink them back, Jack’s outline smearing into watercolor.
“I don’t know,” you hiccup, which is not true at all. You know too much. “You left me there. And then you acted like I was being dramatic for expecting you to show up when you said you would.” Your fingers curl around his wrists, not pushing him away, just holding on. “And maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s about how easy it would be for you to wake up and realize I’m not… serious-person material. I’m fun, I know that. I’m pretty and I make you laugh and I’m good in bed, but that’s not the same as being someone you actually want a life with.” Your lips tremble. “People always like me better at first.”
Immediately his face caves, all the structure in it imploding: brows hitching, mouth parting, a stricken slackness that makes him look ten years younger and infinitely more breakable.
“Don’t say that,” he says, too sharp at first, then immediately dampens. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Say whatever you need to say. I’m just…” He shakes his head, jaw tight, eyes shining with something close to a fear that matches yours. “I hate that I made you feel like that.”
His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, holding you there as if he needs you to understand this with your whole body.
“You are serious to me. More serious than anything I’ve let myself have in a long time.” He exhales shakily. “You think I don’t picture a life with you? I picture it constantly.”
You just stare, lungs cinched tight, tears marooned mid-cheek as though gravity’s on pause. The room narrows to the pulse thudding in your ears.
“You’re… you’re serious about me?”
Jack makes a quiet, wounded sound. His hands come back to your face, thumbs stroking the wet tracks beneath your eyes.
“Christ, baby. Yes. Of course I am.” He bends closer, as though proximity might help drive the truth into you. “I don’t know how I let you believe otherwise… I didn’t follow after you tonight because I got scared for you, not of you. I should have told you. I should have found you, explained, apologized. Instead I left you alone with your worst thoughts. That was cruel, even if I didn’t mean it to be. Please let me fix it.”
Another hiccup rattles through you as you try to process the words at face-value. “Scared for me how?”
“Because if this blew up, I didn’t want you caught in it.” He says it simply, like there is no question which of you matters more. “I don’t give a damn what people think of me, baby. I care what it does to you.”
You shake your head inside the cradle of his hands.
“I don’t care what people think either. I don’t care about any of it.” Your voice snags, but you push through. “I love you, Jack. That matters more.”
His eyes close for half a second, like the words are almost too much to take standing up.
When they open again, he kisses you senselessly soft, both hands still holding your face as though you might vanish.
He kisses you once, twice, a third time, each one a little messier than the last.
“Love you too, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”
The brine of your tears slick the seam of your mouth. Jack doesn’t flinch, drinks it in like proof of living.
You surface for one ragged sip of air, barely enough, your lips still grazing his, fists knotted in his shirt like ballast against weightlessness.
“You mean it? You’re really serious about me?” you whisper again, softer this time, almost shy with it.
Jack lets out a low, guttural sound and grazes the corner of your mouth.
“So serious, honey.” Another kiss, deeper now, his hands sliding from your face to your waist, pulling you flush. “Want to put a ring on that pretty little hand. Want a house with your clothes everywhere and your shoes in places I’m gonna trip over.” His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your gasp before he adds, rougher, “Want a kid, if you want one. You want a baby with me, angel?”
“Yes, please, Jack.”
The words are still warm in the air when he fits his mouth to yours, a groan vibrating through both of you.
His palms squeeze your waist, then lift, your stomach swooping as he sets you on the cleared stretch of counter. Cool laminate kisses the backs of your thighs, shocking against the furnace heat of him stepping between your legs.
Your sleep-shirt scrunches between his hands, creeping, creeping, until the hem gathers at your hips and you’re bared to him again.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You’d give me that?”
You nod so eagerly the room tilts, fists in his collar, yanking him closer. “Anything.”
“My perfect girl,” he breathes, kissing you again, softer now, as if the tenderness makes what follows any less filthy.
His hand slips beneath the gathered cotton at your waist, fingers gliding south until one settles between your folds. He drags the wetness up in a lazy sweep, humming appreciation that burns brighter than the touch itself.
“And what’s all this, hm?” he asks, studying your face while his finger toys idly with your clit. His eyes darken, attention dropping to where his hand disappears between your legs. “You sittin’ here imagining me filling you up with a baby, sweetheart?”
Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, chasing pressure he has no intention of giving you yet.
“No teasing,” you whimper, breath breaking around the words. “Please, Jack. I need you inside me.”
Jack swears under his breath, hand leaving your clit only long enough to undo his pants. The zipper drops. Fabric loosens. Then he is back between your thighs, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds once, twice, gathering the wetness you have made for him.
The sight of him nearly makes you stupid.
It has only been a few days, which is nothing, really, barely enough time for a normal person to miss anything, but your body has become accustomed to him, used to the heavy stretch of his cock at least once a day, sometimes twice when neither of you has somewhere to be.
You’re practically drooling, inner muscles fluttering around emptiness while he takes his sweet, sweet time wetting himself in what you’ve made for him.
You shift on the counter, thighs widening of their own accord, a needy sound slipping free when the head catches against your entrance and pulls away again.
“I know, honey. I know.” His voice roughens as he traces the head up your inner thigh. “Should’ve given you what you needed hours ago.”
Then he finally does.
He braces one hand at your hip and pushes forward in one long, steady stroke, the thick head breaching you first, then every heavy inch following.
Your cunt flutters, welcoming, molding around him until there’s no space left unexplored.
The counter shudders with the low sound that tears out of both of you.
The inexorable pressure sutures the empty ache that’s haunted you, stuffing it full until there’s no room for jealousy, no space for worst-case scenarios.
There is only Jack.
Your thighs cinch hard around his waist, heels gouging into the backs of his legs like spurs demanding more.
He doesn’t stop until pelvis meets pelvis, forehead thunking against yours while both of you gasp as if you’ve sprinted a mile in the sand.
He retreats a heartbeat’s width and your walls seize around him, possessive. He curses under his breath.
“This tight little cunt missed me, didn’t it?” he asks, already driving back in.
He starts pumping into you at a saint’s tempo, each drag of his cock thick and thorough, his hips grinding flush against you at the end of every thrust.
Your arms lock around his shoulders as your body rocks with him, bare thighs trembling against his sides.
Pleasure gathers everywhere at once, starting at your pussy and climbing until your whole body feels tuned to the rhythm of his hips.
You try to tell him that. Try to say yes, missed you, feels so good, but what comes out is a breathless spill of syllables, half his name and half a sound you would be embarrassed by if your brain were still capable of embarrassment.
His hand slips between your bodies, two fingers finding your clit.
“You’re mine, aren’t you? All mine,” he growls, cock still working inside you. “And I’m yours. Never gonna be anybody else’s, you hear me?”
Your answer is a helpless chain of nods and breathy mewls, but he isn’t satisfied with that.
He catches your jaw, thumb pressing your cheek until your eyes snap to his.
“Look at me. Hear me.”
“Y-yes, Jack… yours — love you, love you s’much,” you babble.
“Love you, angel.” He presses a kiss to your trembling lips. “Want me to fill this pretty pussy up? Want me to leave every drop inside where it belongs?”
“Yes, please. Need it — need you — m’so close.”
The first warning licks up your spine. A trembling in your calves, nipples pebbling hard against your shirt.
Pleasure stacks in breath-stealing layers, so heavy it feels like quicksand pulling you under.
Jack’s tells flare with yours. His hips snapping hard, hands tightening on your waist until his knuckles blanch.
Sweat beads at his hairline, drops down to your skin, and your walls clamp down in greedy pulses, each flex beginning for the flood he’s a second away from letting go.
“Keep looking at me,” Jack pants, curling a hand from your waist to the back of your neck. “Need to watch you fall apart.”
“Can’t — can’t hold it,” you whimper, thighs shaking.
“Don’t hold a damn thing,” he growls. “Give it to me, come on, baby.”
The quicksand finally liquefies and the world folds to white noise.
Jack breaks with you, a strangled — fuck — on your lips, thrusts turning short as he empties himself in thick bursts.
You cling to one another, quake for heartbeat after heartbeat, until the tremors fade into breathless, boneless warmth.
When Jack’s breathing finally steadies, his mouth roams in slow increments. First your collarbones, up the column of your throat, over the quiver of your lips.
He eases back only to reach for a paper towel, thumb already swiping at the mess seeping down your thighs.
“Don’t,” you plead, catching his wrist. “Wanna keep it.”
Jack huffs a low laugh before moving to kiss away your protest. “Sweetheart, you’re not making it five steps up those stairs with that sliding down your legs.”
Even as he says it, he dabs gently between them.
The light friction has your hips ticking forward, little whimpers breaking free.
“Sensitive, huh?” he tuts.
“Thought you wanted to put a baby in me?” you argue.
Jack’s thumb circles your thigh. “Oh, I plan on it — but not until there’s some extra hardware shining on your hand. One thing at a time, yeah?”
Old-fashioned as he is, you probably should’ve expected that.
Jack Abbot is the kind of man who still opens doors, calls restaurants instead of booking online, and apparently requires jewelry before intentional procreation. There is probably a proper sequence filed away in that stubborn head of his: ring, vows, house, baby.
You find, to your own surprise, that you do not mind the order at all.
You tap his chest with a teasing finger and dopey smile. “I can live with that. I do love shiny things, after all.”
What he does not tell you is that the shiny thing already exists, hidden in his sock drawer, waiting for the right moment.
You won’t find that out for another two months, until after the two of you finally sit Robby down and tell him everything, until after Jack takes one clean punch to the face without even trying to dodge it, because fair is fair, and until after Robby’s anger burns itself down into something survivable.
By the time Jack slips the ring onto your finger, his lip is healed, your brother is calling him Jack instead of Dick-Face (you can’t be sure where he learned that insult from), and the future no longer feels like something borrowed.
It is yours.
MARIA NOTE this lowkey was supposed to be like 1k words and the ideas just kept flowing and it turned into a full psychological case study on why making ur brother's best friend jealous is both a terrible idea and, unfortunately, very effective. also jack saying ring first, baby later made me briefly black out. hope u enjoyed!! <3
thinking about sitting on jack abbot’s thigh, lazily rolling your hips and leaning into his chest, just enough for stimulation but not enough to actually get anywhere.
jack’s wearing his dumb cargo pants, his work phone shoved in the pocket you’re currently sitting on. you learn rather quickly that jack (the old man he is) has his phone set to vibrate. you also learn that someone is very intent on getting a hold of him.
jack realizes his phone is trapped under you, undulating and grinding into the new sensation. grins when he discovers, yes, you are wanton enough to treat his vibrating phone like a pseudo sex toy, grinding harder every time a call or text comes through.
“i should probably get that.” he murmurs, not actually making any effort to dislodge you from his thigh. you just double down, arms around his neck, pussy directly on his dumb cargo pants that you hate so much, clit catching on the rough fabric and the corner of his phone, chasing the periodic vibrations.
“gonna let me get that baby?” he teases, grabbing your hips to lift you up. you retaliate by sinking your teeth into his shoulder, fighting his grip to get your wet cunt back on his thigh.
“oh, she’s feral today,” he comments, smacking your ass once in response to the bite - jack knows it’s gonna leave a mark.
you don’t even react, focused on wiggling your way back down onto his thigh and phone, which is still vibrating through his pants. you were so close, and jack is being so mean, making you hover over the embarrassingly large wet spot you left behind.
“you’re gonna water log my phone,” jack notes, following your eyes to the wet patch. “gonna have to stick it in rice after this. how am i gonna explain to IT that my work phone is broken? tell them it’s because i have a very demanding little girl at home with the world’s wettest cunt? and that she sat on my phone like a little slut, using the vibrations to get off?” jack paused, grinning at the long whine you made, embarrassed and turned on by the idea, hips still wiggling. “is that what i’m gonna have to tell them?”
you don’t respond, mainly because you’re not sure if you can form words at this point, and finally win the war against his grip to drop back down to his thigh, cunt once again pressed hard onto the cargo pocket. you immediately start humping, only further proving jack’s point. you don’t care - you’re so close.
jack leans forward, stubble brushing your ear as he growls, “maybe i should make you tell them. call them and apologize for ruining my phone with your wet, selfish cunt. what do you think about that?”
you come - embarrassingly hard, hips stuttering against him as you continue to soak his pants, vaguely aware that jack is cooing and encouraging you as you do so.
“atta girl, so easy for me. coming just from a few calls and texts from robby,” jack rubs your back, letting you collapse into his shoulder, bright with embarrassment and exhaustion.
after a couple of minutes, jack works his hand into his pocket, slowly removing his phone, making a point to wipe the sheen off on his shirt before checking it.
“hm. lucky girl. robby said they got a hold of shen,”jack tips your chin up so you look at him, stupid smirk on his face, “he apologizes for all the calls.”
summary: you hated jack, and you were positive he hated you too. two broken down cars and one blizzard bring the truth to the surface.
warnings: no age gap :(, med student!jack and med student!reader, I'm imagining they're both 26 and in the last year of med school, forced proximity, one sided e2l, there's only one bed! oh no!, cuddle or die, jack is kind of a dick , reader thinks jack is gonna kill her, don't worry he's just hopelessly in love, jack calls reader a bitch, love confessions, getting together, wearing jack's clothes, spooning, grinding, fingering, kissing, hickies, accidental somnophilia, dry humping, unprotected sex, big dick jack, belly bulge, creampie, mating press, sex in a strangers home
author's note: idfk what time period this is set in, im just here to sexualize this man
we're playing fast and loose with how both med school works and jack lore. I'm back to spreading my 'jacks legal first name is John' agenda. also, I barely know how undergrad works, since I am a drop out! suspend your disbelief, my more educated mutuals
There’s no way the universe should be this insistent on fucking you over.
Your shitbox of a car died a day before you were set to present your research at a conference in upstate New York in the middle of January. It was the biggest opportunity of your medical school career so far, and was going to secure your residency. But you couldn’t afford to fix it or buy plane tickets and there was no bus that could get you from Pittsburgh to Syracuse in time.
So when your program advisor called you into his office to say he found another student driving to the conference that would be willing to carpool, you nearly jumped for joy. Until the next words out of his mouth put a bullet in the brain of your newfound hope.
“-Jack Abbot! You’ve met him, right? You’re in the same year.”
Yes, you had met Jack Abbot. Several, miserable times.
Every interaction you’d had with Jack ended with you seething and him smirking. He seemed to be addicted to pushing your buttons every chance he could.
But you didn’t have a choice. And you’d definitely made sure to verify that Jack was your only option. You must have asked every other student you had classes with, but they were either flying or not going at all. So you were stuck with him.
Stuck in the confined space of the cab of his small truck, side by side on the bench seat, for five and a half hours.
Everything about him pissed you off. His perfect curls were irritating, especially since you were sure he used 15-in-1 soap to wash it, the woodsy scent of his aftershave made every breath feel agonizing, and the way his legs were spread wide was obscene. It was his car, you had no right to complain that he was taking up so much space. But god did you wish he was cowering against the door like you were. You wished he put more space between the two of you, but the small cab left about a foot between you, even with you folding your body into the farthest corner your seatbelt allowed. It was entirely too close for comfort.
You’d made it a point to avoid looking at him as much as possible since this disastrous ride had begun 2 hours ago. So far, you’ve managed to mostly succeed, focusing on the falling snow and the freezing scenery outside. But you felt his eyes on you every few miles. His gaze was hot whenever it landed on you. You could feel it, even through your thick sweatshirt and jeans.
But Jack didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said a single word since you’d met him in front of your apartment building at 1 pm and loaded up your bags into the covered bed. It was unusual for him. Normally, he liked to goad you into a reaction, sending barbs your way constantly. So the silence unnerved you. You didn’t know how to exist in a space with Jack Abbot when you weren’t on the defensive.
And then the universe decided to fuck you even harder.
The snow was falling even harder as Jack pulled off the freeway and onto a smaller back road. You wanted to question him, but you didn’t want to be the one to break the silence. Plus, you didn’t know where you were. For all you knew, Jack had driven through this area a thousand times before.
But the farther you got down the road, the heavier the snow was getting and the slower Jack was driving. You hadn’t seen another car or building for the past 30 minutes and the plows clearly weren’t running out here.
And then - truly the cherry on top- the engine started sputtering.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jack braked hard, the tires slipping slightly as he pulled off the road onto the shoulder.
“What the fuck?” You looked over at him for the first time in an hour.
Jack threw the truck in park before he was grabbing his coat. “Stay here.”
Where the fuck did he think you were going to go? You were in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a snowstorm. The cab of the truck was pleasantly warm, and the burst of cold air when Jack opened his door convinced you even more that you were not going to get out.
You watched him round the front. He popped the hood of the truck, hiding him from view. What the hood didn’t hide, though, was the cloud of smoke that billowed out.
“Oh fuck me,” there was no way you were making it to the convention. You checked your phone. No service. Of course.
The hood slammed shut and you jumped, looking up to watch Jack walk back around to the drivers side. He slid back in, shutting the door hard behind him and scrubbing a hand over his face.
“We’re fucked.”
“What are we going to do?” You chewed on your bottom lip as you looked at the land around you. “I do not want to die of hypothermia in your shitty truck.”
“My truck isn’t shitty,” he sounded like a petulant child.
“It just fucking died on us,” you leveled a glare at him. “I’d say that makes it shitty.”
He grumbled something under his breath.
Both of you sat in silence for a moment.
“We need to find somewhere to shelter,” Jack was looking out the windows.
“There is nothing out - ”
“There,” he was pointing into the trees at something that you could not see. Everything blended together in the dim lighting and haze of falling snow.
“What?”
“There,” Jack started gathering a few things scattered around. His phone, his water bottle, and the keys made the cut, all being stuffed into the pocket of his heavy duty coat. “There’s a cabin.”
“Bullshit there's a cabin. I don’t see anything,” you really didn’t. All you could see was a mass of black and gray and green.
“There is,” he opened his door again. “Are you coming or are you going to freeze to death here?”
There wasn’t much of a choice. You could already feel the chill creeping in through the thin glass of the windows now that the engine was dead. You could follow Jack into the woods and either find shelter or freeze to death in the snow, or stay in the truck and freeze to death in the carcass of his shitbox.
No matter what, the threat of hypothermia was real and, even though you weren’t officially a doctor yet, you knew the risks. So you gave one last long suffering sigh, and opened your door.
You were immediately thankful you’d put leggings on beneath your jeans that morning. The temperature change slapped you in the face as soon as you stepped out into the ankle deep snow.
Jack was rifling through the bed of the truck, pulling out his duffel bag. You watched him hesitate for a minute, before abandoning the garment bag containing the suit he’d packed. You tried not to think about just how good he’d look in a formal get up.
“Grab your shit,” Jack was pulling on a pair of gloves. His cheeks were already rosy from the freezing wind. “We’ve gotta get there fast.”
You gathered your things, yanking your own gloves and coat out of your bag. You left your own garment bag containing the gown you’d thrifted for the final banquet in the bed alongside the covered poster board for your research. It was going to be ruined if you and Jack ever made it back to the truck alive, given that there was not a chance you’d be making it to the conference, you didn’t bother trying to save it.
“Lead the way,” you slung your bag over your shoulder, pulling the hood up over your head to try and shield you as much as possible from the chill.
Jack led you across the frozen road and down into the treeline. The snow came up to mid calf, soaking your feet through your boots. Very quickly, you started to shiver, trying to curl into yourself as you walked.
You were both grateful and pissed to see the shape of the cabin come into view. You needed to get warm, but you did not want to admit Jack was right.
It took about 20 minutes for you to reach the front porch. By now, the snow was falling so hard that you couldn’t see the road or the truck through the haze.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Jack tried the door handle, sighing with relief when it swung open.
The inside of the cabin was simple. About the same size as your studio apartment back in Pittsburgh. It was dark, but you could see a fireplace against one wall, across from a full sized bed. There was a small kitchenette and a small bathroom you could see through a half open door. The whole place was dusty and looked like it hadn’t been used since last summer, but it would have to do.
Both you and Jack tumbled in. It was cold, but at least the sturdy wooden walls kept the wind chill out.
“You got a lighter?” Jack was already moving towards the fireplace, inspecting a few of the logs piled next to it. He seemed to approve of a few of them, piling them up.
“Yeah, here,” you fished a lighter out of your jacket pocket, tossing it to him as you set your bag down on the bed.
You watched him for a moment. He shed his coat, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up as he set a few scraps of newspaper alight. With a gentle few breaths, he grew the flame before placing it under the pile of logs he’d formed in the fireplace. It took a moment, but gradually the flames grew until there was a bright, flickering fire lighting up the small room.
You could feel the warmth it was putting off starting to seep into you, but it wasn’t enough. Your coat was still on, but you were shivering beneath it.
Jack noticed, doing a double take over his shoulder when he saw you still standing by the bed.
“Come over here.”
“I’m fine,” your voice was unsteady.
“You need to get warm,” Jack was untying his boots, digging through his bag for a new pair of socks as he discarded the damp pair he’d been wearing. “You’re gonna get frostbite.”
“No, I’m not,” but you were moving towards him, crossing the small room to stand beside him in front of the fireplace.
“Take off your clothes.”
You looked over at Jack like he’d grown a second head, ready to tell him off. But the words died in your throat when you saw he was stripping his shirt and hoodie off, leaving him bare from the waist up. You froze for a moment, eyes wide and brain buffering, until his hands grabbed for the zipper of his jeans.
“What the fuck?!” You spun around, trying to will your blush away.
“We need to get into dry clothes and get warm,” the shuffling sounds of his clothes hitting the floor was tempting you to turn around. You wanted just a little peak.
“I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t.”
And then Jack’s hands were at your waist, pulling up your sweatshirt.
“Woah!” You spun away from him, putting distance between you and begging your heart to slow down its rapid beating.
“I’m not letting you blame me when your toes fall off,” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. He’d changed into a plain black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and thick wool socks. God damn it, he looked good. “I won’t look, but you need to change.”
“Fine,” you walked back towards your bag. “Don’t look.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack’s eyes raked over you once before he was turning back to face the fire.
You moved quickly, stripping out of your layers. You’d been planning on being in a nice, cosy hotel and convention center, tucked safely away from the cold, so you’d only brought jeans, slacks, and your comfortable sleep shorts. Tight, spandex shorts that left very little to the imagination. The leggings you wore under your jeans were soaked up to the thighs with melted snow and unwearable.
So you grabbed your most modest shorts, although ‘modest’ was a stretch. They were tight and short, covered completely by the oversized crewneck you pulled on after. You didn’t have too many options for socks, stuck with a relatively thin pair of white ankle length ones. Your nice, insulating ones were soaked from your trek through the snow.
“Is it safe yet?”
You glanced over at Jack, silhouetted against the fire. His shoulders looked a hell of a lot broader than you’d realized, the muscles of his arms standing out. God fucking damnit.
“Yeah, it’s safe,” you cleared your throat, looking away from him as you moved your bag away from the bed, setting it on the floor by the nightstand.
“That’s what you’re wearing to not freeze?”
His judgmental tone made you bristle, reminding your traitorous mind that you did, in fact, hate this man.
“I didn’t have a lot of options,” you unnecessarily straightened your duffel, looking anywhere but at him. “I didn’t plan for you to get us stranded in the fucking woods. I packed for a fancy hotel and a conference, which is where we would be if you didn’t try to kill us.”
“I didn’t try to kill us,” he scoffed. You risked a glance at him. He was digging through his own bag. “I took a shortcut to go around the traffic on the interstate. Here.”
He wadded up a pair of flannel pants and threw them at you. You caught them, trying not to take a deep breath. They smelled like detergent and that addicting smell of his cologne.
“These are fucking ugly,” the idea of wearing his clothes and being stuck in such a small space with him triggered your fight or flight instinct. Seeing as flight wasn’t a reasonable option with a blizzard outside, you decided to fight.
“By all means,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Freeze to death because my pants are ugly. I’d finally get some peace and quiet.”
“The fuck do you mean ‘peace and quiet’? I didn’t say a fucking thing the whole car ride!”
“Yeah, and it was fantastic.”
Grumbling to yourself about what a dick he was, you gave in. You were fully aware he was trying to get you to wear the stupid pants. You could sacrifice your pride to put them on and deny him the satisfaction of you going silent.
“Maybe if I’d said something, we wouldn’t be stuck here,” you tugged the god awful pants up over your shorts, having to double know the waistband to keep them up around your hips.
“Oh so you agree, this is your fault,” Jack looked smug. He sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace, his legs spread out before him. His feet were blisteringly close to the flames. You hoped his stupid socks caught on fire.
“How is this my fault? I didn’t tell you to drive off the main road in the middle of a snowstorm. This is your fault,” begrudgingly, you made your way towards him. You sat down 3 feet away from him, relishing the wave of heat that greeted you once you were close to the fire. The rest of the space was slowly warming up, but the cold still seeped in through the fogged over windows and wooden walls.
“Well I wouldn’t be stuck out here if I didn’t have to drive you to this stupid convention,” Jack leaned back on his palms. He looked calm and relaxed, and that made you even more irritated.
“Oh, so you only took this backroad because of me,” you stretched out your hands to warm your frigid fingers. “Glad you admitted this was attempted murder.”
“‘Attempted murder’ my ass,” he shook his head, narrowing his eyes. His gaze scanned you from head to toe. You told yourself the shiver that ran through your body was from the cold. “I would be nice and cosy in my apartment if it wasn’t for you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I only agreed to go to the conference because you needed a ride.”
“Bullshit,” you scoffed. That didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would Jack do that? He’d been a massive dick since you met him. Every group project or hospital rotation you ended up on with him was hell. He pushed your buttons, poking and prodding at you with sharp little quips until you snapped.
Jack didn’t say anything. He turned his face back towards the fire, focusing on the flickering flames.
“Jack…?”
He stayed silent.
You didn’t know what to say. You were confused. He hates you, so why would he agree to be locked in a car with you for an extended amount of time. Maybe he truly did want to lure you out into the woods and kill you.
But why? Sure, you were classmates, both competing for residency spots in a technical sense, but that wasn’t strictly true. It pained you to admit it, but Jack was in a league of his own. He was smart. Annoyingly so. He was constantly at the top of your class, leading test scores by a mile. You weren’t stupid, not at all, but Jack was something else. You weren’t competition for him.
“Did you…” How do you ask a classmate if he planned to kill you? You swallowed hard, suddenly very nervous. “Did you bring me out here to - to get rid - ”
“Jesus Christ, [name],” he finally looked at you again, sitting up and resting his elbows on his outstretched legs. He looked horrified. “You think I agreed to drive you, took a shortcut, and sabotaged my truck to - to what? Kill you?”
“Then why did you agree to drive me?” You couldn’t wrap your head around it.
“Just drop it, ok?” He scrubbed a hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw and looking away.
“Just doesn’t make sense,” you were mumbling. You scanned him, reading the tension in his shoulders.
“Drop. It.” This was the most emotion you’d seen him exhibit in all four years you’d been in school together. His jaw was clenched.
In the flickering light, it was hard to tell if his cheeks were flushed from the rising heat of the fire or if he was actually blushing.
“No, I’m not going to drop it,” you finally had a chance to push his buttons, but you also wanted to know why he’d go out of his way to drive 12+ hours round trip if he wasn’t presenting or trying to network at the conference. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I like you, alright?” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ve liked you for years. I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to spend time with you. I like being near you, I like talking to you when you’re not being a bitch - ”
“Don’t you fucking dare call me a bitch, Jack Abbot,” you were still trying to process his confession, the wheels in your brain turning at a snails pace.
“Fuck, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, I’m fucking this up,” Jack took a deep breath, lifting his head to look at you. His expression was pained. “I like talking to you when you’re not trying to piss me off, and even when you are, I still enjoy it. You’re smart, you’re gorgeous - incredibly gorgeous. And we’re about to graduate soon, we’re both leaving for residency in a few months and I couldn’t - I couldn’t not say anything.”
You didn’t know how to respond. Jack paused for a moment at your silence, but then he carried on like he couldn’t stop.
“I practiced this whole little speech for the gala at the end of the weekend,” he laughed sardonically, running a hand through his curls. “I was gonna pull you to the side, somewhere pretty and romantic and tell you how amazing I thought you were, how beautiful you looked in whatever dress you brought. I was gonna ask you out on a date when we got back to Pittsburgh. And then I fucked it up. I swear, I didn’t know my truck was going to die.”
He was definitely blushing now. “And I didn’t take a shortcut. I went the long way around to get more time with you since I knew you’d ignore me as soon as we got to the hotel. But I really was trying to avoid traffic on the interstate! I just didn’t expect it to start snowing so hard.”
For a second, you were quiet. You still didn’t know how to respond, but words fell from your lips before you could stop them.
“The car ride back would have been awkward as fuck if I said no.”
Jack laughed, eyes crinkling as he shook his head.
“Yeah, it would have been,” he sobered up, hope sparking in his eyes. “But I was willing to risk the humiliation if there was a chance you’d give me a shot.”
Would you have given him a shot? You didn’t know. For years you’d been so insistent that you hated him, but you couldn’t deny that you’d been attracted to him since day 1. You’d noticed him immediately at orientation, but you hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him until the first randomly assigned group project in your cadaver lab. He’d been a know-it-all, correcting your technique with a scalpel, raising one of those condescending eyebrows and judging every move you’d made. It rubbed you the wrong way, and clouded your perception of him.
You’d written him off after that, but the two of you kept being forced together. Same professor assigned group projects, similar friend circles, same hospital rotations. Every interaction just reinforced your view of him. It pissed you off every time you caught him staring at you, every time he sat next to you in lectures, asked to share your notes, when he poked and prodded and teased you.
But everything looked very different with the knowledge that he’d been into you since the beginning. Now, he looked less like a piece of shit that wanted to torment you and more like a lovesick puppy that wanted your attention. Either way, it wasn’t a flattering look for him, but the latter option was much more forgivable than the former.
“So?”
You jumped, ripped out of your thoughts to find Jack staring at you again.
“So…?”
“Do I get a chance?” He looked terrified of what your response would be.
“I - ” you didn’t know. Your mind was spinning, trying to parse out your feelings and figure out exactly how you were feeling about the situation.
“It’s ok if you don’t feel the same way,” his hand ran through his hair again, tugging at his curls as he went. “I get it, I’ve been a dick - ”
“No - I mean, yes you have been, but,” you took a deep breath. “I - I don’t know. I had no clue you felt this way. I’m just… trying to process this.”
“Ok, yeah, yeah that’s ok,” Jack was nodding, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah, I mean, you don’t owe me an answer. And you can say no.”
He laughed again, but it was gruff and self deprecating.
“I swear I’m not going to kill you if you say no.”
“Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”
Both of you were quiet for a moment, and then you burst out laughing. A real laugh, not the sad imitation Jack had let out previously. You felt hysterical, the situation did not call for the intensity of the laughter spilling from you, but it did help to diffuse the tension that had been rising in the confined space.
When you were able to calm yourself, both of you gasping for breath and staring into the flames, your thoughts turned back to everything. You were hesitant to just accept, still struggling to reframe the last 3 ½ years now that you had more context. But you were curious.
“If we live,” you broke the silence that had fallen over the room. “If we make it out of this fucking murder cabin, I’ll give you a chance.”
Jack snorted, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Then we better survive.”
The two of you sat there in front of the fire for a few more hours, passing bags of chips and candies back and forth, trying to make the time go by and conserve the batteries of your phones. You drifted in and out of conversation and silence. Surprisingly, you found yourself enjoying talking to him. For the first time since you’d been introduced, you had a pleasant conversation. Neither of you brought up his confession or your tentative acceptance.
Instead, you asked about him. And you learned a lot, shockingly. You knew the basics; he was a few months older than you, he was too smart for his own good, and he’d sold his soul to the Army and would be doing his residency at a military hospital. You almost envied the fact that he got to skip the stress of match day. Almost. You would absolutely not trade that stress in exchange for the next 10 years of your life.
Jack was from Maryland, and he was getting to go back to do his residency at Walter Reed. You saw his eyes light up with hope when you told him your first choice for residency was John Hopkins, but he didn’t say anything. You’d be pretty damn close to each other if you got lucky, but you didn’t dwell on that.
His first name was actually John, and he looked disgusted by it, but his expression softened when you laughed after he revealed he was actually John Andrew Abbot III. You pretended not to notice that, too.
You shared information of your own, also. Jack smiled when you told him about your childhood pets. He laughed when you told him silly stories from undergrad. He stayed quiet, letting you speak when you shared about struggling to make ends meet while still in school.
It endeared you but also pissed you off that he knew just how to react. He was empathetic and sweet when he wasn’t pushing your buttons.
You liked talking to Jack, you realized. You liked getting to know him.
The two of you had started yawning about an hour ago, but neither of you were ready to stop talking. It was only when the conversation finally lulled and you found yourself fighting against your increasingly heavy eyelids.
“We should get some sleep,” Jack was pushing himself up from the floor, dusting off his hands and sweats as he went. He extended a hand to you, and you found yourself not hesitating to take it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. His hand was warm and steady, and you found yourself fighting off a twinge of disappointment when he let go. “You can take the bed.”
“What? No,” there was only one bed in the one room cabin. It was so small, there wasn’t even room for a couch. The only other furniture in the space was a small kitchen table and two chairs, and a beaten up armchair covered by a thin white sheet. “Where are you going to sleep?”
He shrugged, shifting his duffel closer and moving the clothes in it around until he seemed satisfied with the shape. “Here, in front of the fire. I can make sure it keeps going all night.”
“No,” you grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving towards a small linen closet neither of you had bothered to peek into so far. “No, you’re not sleeping on the floor. We…”
He raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking between your face and your hand still holding onto his bicep. You let go, taking a step back.
“We can share the bed,” you glanced over your shoulder. The bed was small, probably full sized. Just barely big enough to fit the two of you, although you’d have to scoot pretty close to the edge to avoid touching.
“I’m not complaining about sharing a bed with you,” Jack looked at the bed too. “I think I’ve made myself clear about that - ”
You swallowed hard. You hadn’t let yourself think about that aspect of his confession. In fact, you’d beaten it back into the shadowy corners of your mind as aggressively as you could. You wouldn’t survive however long your confinement was going to be if you let yourself think about the more physical implications of Jack being into you.
He looked down at you. The light from the fire was dancing across the planes of his face, knocking the breath out of your lungs with how ethereal he looked. He was handsome everyday, but he looked unreal in this lighting.
“ - but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You haven’t told me how you feel, and you haven’t agreed to go out with me - not that that means you have to… y’know…” he seemed to be struggling to find the words. He was blushing again. “Be… be that close to me.”
“I - ” you paused, searching for the right words. You really were starting to be willing to give him a chance, especially with how well your conversations had gone. And yes, fine, maybe you’d been physically attracted to him from the beginning, but when you’d found yourself in moments of weakness before, you’d imagined any sort of physical or intimate encounter being… well, not nearly so emotionally charged. In those late night fantasies, it was rough, aggressive, something born out of hate and frustration. But now, he looked nervous, his eyes soft and apprehensive. You once again didn’t know how to handle this type of interaction with him.
So, you decided to be an adult about it. For fucks sake, you were 26. You could share a bed with a man who just confessed he’d been in love with you for years and who you’d been fantasizing about for just as long.
You cleared your throat, taking your hand off his arm. “We can share a bed without… without it being anything more.”
“Right, right, of course,” Jack let out a breath. “As long as you’re ok, then yeah.”
“Yeah,” you were a big fat liar. “It’ll be fine.”
So the two of you got ready for your doom. You gathered your toiletries as Jack threw a few more logs on the fire to hopefully keep it going all night.
The bathroom thankfully had running water, even if the rest of the cabin had no electricity, so you were able to take turns brushing your teeth. You went first, taking many deep breaths and giving yourself a silent pep talk in the small, dark room.
“All yours!” Your smile and chipper attitude felt forced when you let him have his turn. You sat on the side of the bed with your bag, digging through it, searching for nothing to give your anxious hands something to do.
“You ready for bed?”
Jack came out of the bathroom, crossing to the other side of the bed and starting to pull back the covers. You stook, giving him a nod and pulling back the ones on your side. Both of you slipped in silently.
“Good night,” Jack rolled over, his back to you, facing the front door.
You followed his lead, turning your back to him and trying to snuggle in underneath the thin blankets. “Good night.”
Jack’s pants and the residual warmth in your clothes from sitting in front of the fire for so long helped lull you to sleep, and quickly, you found yourself falling under.
When you woke, it was to a warm presence at your back and freezing air nipping at the exposed skin of your face. It was completely dark in the room, no light coming in through the windows or from the now extinguished fireplace.
You pushed back, chasing the heat behind you. That’s when you became aware of several things at once.
That warmth behind you was Jack. The entire length of his body was pressed against yours and his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, one above and one below, keeping you firmly in place. Those arms were underneath your sweatshirt, one palm resting just below your breasts and the other right above the waistband of your borrowed pants. His face was nuzzled in the crook of your neck, breath hot against the sensitive skin.
You tried to shift, to move out of his hold and restart the fire so that you didn’t have to confront exactly how hot the skin on skin contact was making you deep inside.
Jack didn’t let you move, though. His arm tightened around you, tugging you back against him even more firmly. That was when you really felt him. The hard length of his cock was pressed against your ass.
He was still asleep, but that didn’t stop his hips from grinding forward. You gasped, clenching your thighs together. Involuntarily, you pressed back against him again. His hand shifted up, sliding over your breast and loosely squeezing the flesh.
“Jack,” your voice was quiet and broken around another gasp as he pushed his length against your ass again.
He mumbled something incoherent, before squeezing your breast again. The hand on your stomach dipped lower, his fingers just beginning to slide underneath your bottoms.
You were existing between sleep and waking, half convinced this was some sort of extremely vivid dream.Your pulse was racing, hips pushing back to meet his at every sleepy movement. Both of you were breathing harder, the cold seemingly beaten back by the rising heat between you.
“[Name],” you could just barely make out the slurred groan of your name breathed against your neck. It sparked even more heat in your core to hear him say your name.
“Jack?”
God, you sounded fucked out already. Jack’s hand was pushing even farther into your pants and under the shorts you wore beneath.
The first brush of his fingers over your folds had you whining, and that was when Jack finally woke up.
You felt him freeze behind you, his hands tightening on reflex, dragging his fingers through your folds and against your clit. It ripped an embarrassing moan out of you, your hips pushing back against his cock in response to the jolt of pleasure.
“[Name]?” Jack’s voice was sleepy and confused.
“Jack,” you whined in response.
“Oh fuck,” he pulled back, hands leaving you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
“Wait - ” but Jack wasn’t listening
“Fuck, I told you I wouldn’t try anything, I’m so fucking sorry. That - I can’t believe I did that. Fuck.”
“Jack, stop,” he was sitting up, elbows on his knees and hands in his hair. The heat in you died when you saw him so upset. “Jack, look at me.”
“I’m sorry - ”
“Stop apologizing,” you pushed him flat onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips and leaning over him. Your hair created a curtain, closing the two of you into a little bubble.
“But I - ”
“Shut up!”
And then you kissed him. He froze for a moment, but he quickly melted into you, his hands coming up to grab your waist. He let you lead for a moment, his lips following the slow, languid rhythm you set.
Until your tongue swiped over the seam of his lips. Then, his hold on you tightened and with a firm buck of his hips, he was rolling you onto your back. He settled between your legs, grinding his length against you as his tongue stroked against yours, licking into your mouth and swallowing the noises that leaked out of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.
“Fuck,” Jack pulled back, gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours. “Are you sure - ”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” you bucked your hips up against his, tugging on his hair as you did. He groaned, meeting your thrust. “Wanted this for a long time.”
“I thought you hated me,” Jack’s hand was slipping back underneath your sweatshirt to push it up. His thumb dragged over your newly exposed pebbled nipple.
“Yeah, I did,” your back arched, pushing your chest even further into his hand. “Doesn’t mean you’re not hot, though.”
“Yeah?” He was smirking, his lips ghosting over yours. “I’m just that irresistible?”
“Shut the fuck up,” you pressed your lips against his, drawing him into a filthy kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him back down so you could chase your own pleasure with his body. One of your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging your nails down over his chest and abs.
He moaned, grabbing your hand on his chest and pinning it to the mattress beside your head. He broke the kiss, nipping at your lower lip as he went.
“Unless you want this to end way too soon, you better fucking stop that,” his voice was low and ragged, fingers flexing against your wrist.
“Stop what?” You wanted to both know exactly what was driving him crazy, and to play dumb and rile him up.
“Touching me,” he ducked his head, nipping and sucking at the skin of your neck. “Looking so fucking good underneath me, all of it.”
“See,” you bit back a whimper. “I don’t think you really want me to stop.”
Your back arched and your hips bucked up again as he sucked a dark mark into the skin below your jaw.
“I don’t, but I don’t want to cum in my pants, either,” he moved lower, to a new, unblemished patch of skin. “So either take your pants off or tell me to go take a cold shower.”
“Gotta let go of my hand first,” your teeth dug into your lower lip as he licked a stripe up your neck.
“Are you gonna keep it to yourself?” Jack pulled back to look down at you. You grinned back up at him and he rolled his eyes.
“No.”
He laughed, releasing you and sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. His hands came down to the drawstring, undoing the bow at lightning speed, pushing the pants down your hips. Jack groaned as your shorts came back into view.
“These little fucking shorts,” he stripped the pants off you, lifting your legs into the air as he did. “Made me hard earlier.”
His hand trailed over your hip, brushing across the fabric until he was stroking a finger over your covered slit. Your teeth bit into your lip even harder to smother the whine that he was drawing out of you.
“You’re fucking soaked,” that little smile tugging at his lips was smug and self satisfied. He pressed into you a little harder, circling your covered clit through the spandex. “Is this all for me?”
“You’re an ass,” your teeth were gritted. Every circle he made had your hips twitching up, little sparks shooting from the light touch.
“I think you like that about me,” Jack’s hand left you for just a minute, long enough for it to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts. For the second time tonight, the first with both of you fully aware, his fingers dipped below your soaking folds.
Jack leaned forward, his unoccupied hand braced against the bed by your head. His eyes fixed on yours, chest heaving as he watched every shift of your face while his hand moved. He was exploring, teasing, fingers wandering through every soaked inch of you, the tips just barely dipping into your entrance and then moving back up to circle your clit.
“Fuck,” you were panting, trying to move your hips against his hand, guiding him to the right spot. But every time his fingers found where you needed him, he’d move them away, smiling as he worked you up.
“Jack, I swear to god, I’ll - ”
“You’ll what? Hmm?” He slowed to a stop, his index and middle finger sandwiching your clit between them, pressing down to keep you from rocking into them and chasing your pleasure. “C’mon, tell me what you’ll do.”
“If you don’t make me cum in the next 2 minutes,” his cocky demeanor made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. You hated it, but it fueled the heat and desire curling low in your stomach. Judging from the hard length of him you can just barely make out through his sweats, he was enjoying it, too. “I’ll never let you touch me again.”
His face fell, hardening into determination. “Is that so?”
“Yes - ”
Jack’s fingers pressed directly against your clit, rapidly drawing tight circles around your clit. It was like an electric shock to your body after so much of his teasing. Your back arched, eyes falling shut as your moans filled the air.
“How’s that? Is that what you wanted?”
“Shut - fuck - shut up!”
You were impossibly close, already wound so tightly that you were dangerously close to snapping beneath him.
“I thought you liked it when I was a dick?” Jack leaned even farther over you, his lips closing around your nipple, flicking the bud with his tongue and scraping over it with his teeth.
“Stop fucking talking, Jack!” You felt him laugh against your skin, sending vibrations through your breast.
Your hand tangled in his hair, yanking at the strands. He groaned, switching to your other breast and sucking hard.
You cracked, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand and hips. He didn’t let you, pushing his body even farther into yours to keep them open as he worked you through it. Your legs shook and your hips jerked against his fingers that were still going, drawing even more tremors and cries out of your lips.
You writhed beneath him, forced to let each wave crash over you as Jack held you through it.
“Fuck - no more,” it was nearly impossible to get air into your lungs, but as the sensations died down and overstimulation, Jack backed off.
He pushed back up, easing his hand out of your shorts. He let you breath for a moment, his hands rubbing over your thighs until their trembling slowed to a stop.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” your voice was breathy.
“Can I fuck you now?”
You cracked your eyes open to look at Jack. There was a small wet patch on his sweats, right over the head of his cock. Fuck, he looked long and thick.
“Yes, please,” your hands found the waistband of your shorts, pushing them down.
Jack laughed, his hands joining yours to help remove the shorts from your legs.
“I should have made you cum 3 years ago,” he threw the shorts over his shoulder once he got them free from your ankles. “So nice and polite.”
“Shut up and get naked, asshole,” you sat up, reaching for his sweats, tugging them down his hips.
Suddenly, you were face to face with his cock. He was bigger than you though. The flushed length of his cock slapped against his stomach when it was freed, the leaking head smearing clear fluid against his abs.
You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned forward, licking a stripe up the length from base to tip. The skin was smooth and soft, his cock twitching beneath your touch.
“Fuck!” Jack’s hand grabbed your hair, pulled your head back and away from him as he hissed. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna make me cum.”
“Isn’t that the goal of sex?” You smiled up at him, straining against the hold he had on you to try and get your tongue back on him.
“Yeah, but I’m trying not to embarrass myself and end this way too soon,” Jack guided you by your hair, easing you down onto your back again. “You can blow me later, right now, I think I might die if I don’t get inside you.”
“Then hurry up,” you lifted your legs, hooking them around his waist and pulling him down onto you.
“Alright, alright,” Jack slipped a hand between your bodies, grabbing himself by the base. You forced yourself to breathe as his tip swiped through your folds, coating his cock in your fluids before he was lining himself up. He pressed in slowly. You felt yourself part around him, your walls stretching around the crown of his head. You were impossibly full, and he was barely in you.
He kept pushing in, both of you panting and looking down, eyes locked on where you were joined. You didn’t think you could take anymore, but he kept going, your walls sucking him in and pulling him into your depths.
“Fuck,” your head dropped back when he bottomed out. He ground forward, staying fully seated inside you and letting you adjust.
“Oh shit,” Jack sat up between your legs, hands gripping your hips, keeping them pressed fully against his. The shift in angle had you keening. “Look at that.”
Your eyes cracked open, trying to figure out what he was talking about.
“Can fucking see myself, holy shit,” one of his hands left your hips, tracing around the very visible sight of his cock outlined in your lower stomach. You were transfixed, watching with bated breath as his fingertips brushed against your skin. Goosebumps broke out across your body at the sensation.
“I wonder…” Jack trailed off, eyes still focused on your stomach. His hand moved, gently laying over the outline of his cock. He let it sit there for just a moment, palming his length through your skin.
And then he pushed down.
Both of you cried out at once. You’d already felt full, but the added pressure of his hand made his length feel even bigger. He was everywhere, completely consuming you from the inside out.
“Holy fuck!” His hips jerked into you, snapping against a spot deep inside you that had you arching in his hold.
“Oh fuck, Jack!”
“Yeah? You feel that?” Jack started moving, his hips withdrawing and punching back into you, rapidly working his way up to a punishing pace. You couldn’t answer with words. He was pushing the breath out of your lungs with every thrust. “God, you’re so full of me, baby.”
And then Jack hiked your legs up over his shoulders, releasing the pressure on your stomach in exchange for keeping your thighs pressed tight to his chest. It opened you up even more to him.
“Oh my god,” Jack bent forward, burying his face back in your neck, pushing your legs into your chest, folding you in half. He was rutting into you, groaning as he chased his pleasure.
You were getting close again, too. Every thrust had the neatly trimmed hairs at the base of his cock grinding over your clit as his tip slammed home against your g-spot. Your eyes were closed, lost in the pleasure. You couldn’t move, completely pinned beneath him and forced to take the overwhelming pleasure.
“Jack! Please!” Your hand tangled in his hair again, holding the strands tightly. It was your only lifeline and you used it to tether yourself to reality.
“Oh fuck,” Jack was panting into the skin of your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m close. C’mon, cum for me. Please, need to feel you.”
You were so close, only a hair's breadth from your peak.
When Jack bit down on your shoulder and his hips stuttered, you came again. You clamped around him, walls spasming and squeezing while he rutted even deeper into you. Jack was groaning your name while he spilled deep inside of you. The hot pusles of his release propelled your own, the two of you pushing each other even higher.
He finally let go of your legs, helping to ease them down until they were resting on the mattress on either side of his hips. He didn’t move to pull out, though. The two of you stayed wrapped around each other, his softening length buried inside you, until the cold was too much to bear.
“So,” Jack gingerly climbed off of you, the cold air rushing in. “Can I take you on a real date now?”
“If you get me a washcloth to clean up with and get the fire started, I’ll marry you as soon as we get out of here,” you were shivering now.
Jack grinned, leaning back down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Promise?”
another little note: I'm trying out a new reader insert format. usually, I just keep it vague and don't use any form of y/n, but we're gonna do something a little different. my dear friend @fangirl-dot-com asked her followers how they felt about y/n and y/l/n, and someone in the comments said they prefer [name] and [surname] and I like that. its not really used here very much, but I wanted to give it a try. lmk if you hate it but, like, I like it so ill probably keep using it. unless all of you hate it
making out with jack and he has to keep reminding you to slow down…
MDNI 18+
based of this perfect ask from my sexy hot mootie 🫶🏽
Jacks got you perched on his lap on his couch, his big hands resting on your hips, slowly guiding them back and forth on his bulky thighs. Your arms are draped over his shoulders, tangling in the curls that rest at the nape of his neck.
You’ve been making out on his couch for about a half hour now, and it’s agonizing. You’re sure if you were to get up there’d be a wet splotch on his jeans from how wet you are.
But every time you try to speed things up he’s slowing you down again. Both of your chins slick with saliva, you move your lips quicker against his, pushing your head forward to get impossibly closer.
But he’s raising a big rough hand to your chin, pinching it between his fingers and manually slowing down your movements. You can feel the sleazy smirk he’s wearing as you whine and your hips buck up once more, his hand finally sliding off your face back down your body.
“Stop whinin’” he’s growling roughly from the time his voice has been idle it’s gone a little raspy, “got all the time we want, promise I’m gonna make you feel good, just wanna kiss on you a little” he’s whispering against your mouth before sloppily licking his own saliva off your chin and shoving it back into your mouth with his tongue.
Every time you speed up, even if you don’t notice it, he’s grabbing you and easing your jaw, pulling it down as he licks into your mouth, and slowly pushing it back up to connect with his own lips to yours, setting a speed, a rhythm. He’s nodding when you finally catch onto the speed he’s content with “theeree ya’ go” you can feel his teeth against your lips when he smiles and lets out a little “you’re learning now hm?”
And you’re just nodding and whimpering, hips grinding harder against his jeans.
Summary: At an awards ceremony, Jack makes a speech when he wins thanking everyone, especially his late wife. he just forgot one person: you, his fiancée. And it's only once you're gone that he understands how much you meant to him. Only it might be too late. (6.6k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x fiancée!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Smut—very descriptive with p-in-v, vaginal fingering, praise kink if you squint (this scene got away from me. I sincerely apologize); Angst; break-up and get back together; insecurities of the reader; comparing herself to Jack's late wife; psychiatrist reader; Parker Ellis is the reader's best friend; Jack calls the reader sweet girl and good girl in a scene; usage of y/n (sorry, not sorry).
Credit: GIF by @iluvseb and idea by @lunarayletters
You can tell that Jack is nervous even though he’d never admit it, you can tell by the way he’s smoothing his hands incessantly against the fabric of his pants, expression darker than normal and attention set on the stage, on a fixed point never wavering. Jack never likes to admit that he’s a normal human, that he feels nervousness like everyone else because for so long he wasn’t. He couldn’t.
He’s told you this, how showing nerves could sometimes be the difference between life and death. A steady grip on a rifle was needed when someone’s life was in the balance. But you’ve also reminded him that nerves about things like this, awards, are different. They are by their nature, self-directed things, no one else is relying on you for anything.
It doesn’t mean he listens.
“Jack,” you whisper, reaching over and lifting one of his hands, stopping his ceaseless rhythm of rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, Adam’s apple bobbing, bobbing, bobbing. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Hm…what?” he asks you, tearing his eyes from the stage, the movement looking pained as if the stage is the only thing that really exists, the only thing holding him together, right hand still rubbing, left held in yours, palm sweaty, clammy, cold.
“It’s going to be okay,” you tell him, the words said slow and calm and enunciated clearly. You do not want the ringing in his ears, the one that gets worse when he’s nervous, when his blood pressure is high, to drown out what you’re telling. To drown out your assurances.
“I know,” he says, the words fast and bitten out, his eyes shifting, roving over your face, taking in every detail as if he’ll forget, as if he needs it all to bring himself back for a moment. “I know,” he says again, slower this time, less believing.
“No, you don’t,” you say and his eyes flick up from where they’ve settled on your lips, the eyes like sun through fall bare branches fixing on yours. “But it’s okay because I do. You are going to win this award and go up there and give your speech and everything will be. Okay.”
“You just can’t stop being a psychiatrist, can you?” he asks with a broken kind of laugh, a cracking, breathy chuckle, deep and dark and bitter.
“Do you want me to give your speech a read through before they call the winner? You haven’t let me see it so…” you pause, but he shakes his head, simply squeezing your hand with his left, his right stilling its ceaseless motion.
“I’ll be okay,” he whispers, lips curving into his crooked grin as the announcer steps up to the podium, feedback crackling from the microphone, the kind of staticky sound echoing, squealing around you, fading slowly, slowly, slowly.
“You’ll be better than okay,” you tell him as the announcer’s voice cuts through the last of the feedback, calling up the award for PTMC Doctor of the Year.
“…Jack Abbot, everyone! Can we please put our hands together for Dr. Abbot, our new Doctor of the Year!” Jack is frozen, every muscle rigid, the paper on which he wrote his acceptance speech by hand crumpling in his fist. You teased him about the old-fashioned writing of his, the speech he wrote in between traumas and consults and cases, but really you loved that he wrote it by hand, on paper, the way you love to do everything.
“Jack, honey,” you whisper, your free hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades, shaking him awake from his frozen, dazed stupor. “You won. Go up there.” And he does, albeit shakily, his body seeming to move on muscle memory alone, programming from the time he was a toddler, learning to walk, learning control over the intricate network of his skelature.
He looks dashing, silver curls glinting in the gleam of the overhead lights as he steps onto the stage, his movements wooden, but the grin on his face anything but. He shakes hands with the announcer, accepting the engraved glass plaque and stepping up to the podium, setting the award on it along with his speech, his hand smoothing away the creases from his previous clenching of it.
“Good evening, everyone,” he says, voice low and sultry even without trying, his voice quiet but amplified without feedback, just perfect. Like him. “I would like to start off by saying thank you for the award. It means so much to me to know that I have helped people and that I have helped enough, well enough, to be…well, doctor of the year.
“But I would not be doctor of the year without the rest of the dedicated staff at PTMC. Even if you don’t work in the ED, I rely on you for consults and beds and patient help so I would not be the doctor that I am without all of you. Most importantly, I want to acknowledge the most important person in my life,” you know it’s not you, you know what’s coming, your hand fidgeting with your engagement ring, waiting for her name even as the people around look at you, smiling, mistaken.
“My late wife, Regina. She was everything to me, my supporter and my partner and the one who held me when I couldn’t hold myself up. She gave me enough to keep going so that I could keep everyone else going. She was my opposite, preferring to stay at home and keep it and that’s what she did. She told me that I could save the world and she would save me so even though I’ve been missing her for years, I still want to thank her. Losing her was the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but…” you wait, thinking now. Now he’ll address you, but I was lucky enough to find love again. Not a replacement, that’s not what you are, but someone else.
“But I was not alone, my best friend, Robby, helped me through it. He kept me going and told me that the ED needed us, that we needed to keep it running. So, I stayed. Because he reminded me that it needed me. I also want to thank,” me, you think. Me, “Dana Evans, Parker Ellis, John Shen, Crus Henderson and Lena Handzo. My team. And again—”
You can feel the tears in your eyes, a burn and sting that echoes in your throat, so bitter a taste that it spreads through your mouth as your throat thickens and tightens, seizes with a sob you can’t let out. Even through your blurring vision, you can see that he’s not looking at you and so you rise from the table, feeling just a bit unsteady, feet burning in the heels you bought, torso feeling squeezed by the dress’s tight bodice. The dress you bought for him, for tonight.
It’s a familiar pain, one that you know. The feeling of inadequacy, the one you have every time you’ve been forgotten, like you are not enough. Never enough for anyone. That’s how it’s been your entire life, but you thought Jack was different. You thought he saw you, but apparently he didn’t.
You didn’t even warrant a single line in his thank you address, not even thank you to my fiancée. Not even thank you to Y/N. You didn’t even warrant a single fucking mention. And that hurts. It hurts because of the mention of Regina and Robby, the way he twined the two and left you out. It’s like the four years you’ve been his have never mattered at all. What were you? Just some warm body in his bed?
Some Barbie doll replacement for the wife he lost? Were you just something he thought he should have?
Did he ever see you at all?
You don’t want to know, you realize, as you leave the hall, flagging down a taxi, your hands gripping your clutch so tightly that your knuckles feel stiff, fake, wooden. False. Your nails are bending from the way they’re digging into the fabric and the clasp, but you don’t care. Pain is good.
Pain is a distraction from the image in your head as you climb into the taxi, whispering your address, the vehicle screeching away from the curb, tire tracks no doubt left behind on the damp asphalt road. Pain distracts you from the image of Jack, finishing his speech and walking back to the table, sitting down, unaware of your empty spot at all.
Almost like you were never there at all.
You’ve forgotten how many material things you seem to acquire over a life, things you can’t let go of even when they’re stupid, silly, materialistic. Like the mug Parker got you back when you were in med school, the one with a picture of a pipe and the Freud quote Sometimes a pipe is just a pipe. They always did like to tease you about your profession.
Or the wooden car you picked up at a flea market when you were abroad, the one carved and painted by hand to look like a Corvette, your favourite type of car. Or, even, the stuffed snake Parker got you when you held one for the first time even though it scared you.
Stupid things really, but all pieces of a life. But everything Jack is staying here, like the hoodie he brought you one day when you came in for a consult, the one he gave because he noticed you were cold the last time you were down. Or the Lego bouquet of flowers that the two of you spent a rainy afternoon assembling together.
Those are pieces of the life you’re leaving. You wish you could say that you were just overreacting to a one-time event of being forgotten, but you’re not. Because this wasn’t the only time.
You knew when you fell in love that he had already been in love and you do not begrudge him that or hate that or her. You hate that he has expected you to be her. When you get home late and he asks why you weren’t already home and you explain for the millionth time that you have work, patients, your residency and he makes some off-hand comment about Regina always being home.
You hate the comparison that’s always drawn between you and her, her and you, but it’s so automatic, that’s the worst part. You don’t even think he’s noticing it, as if he’s just hard-wired to compare everyone to her. And you keep coming up short.
“What are you doing?” you hear Jack say from behind you, his voice confused, but not broken. It’s like he’s just curious and doesn’t even wonder why you left the ceremony. He just wonders why you’re packing your bags, the suitcases your parents gave you when you graduated high school.
“I’m leaving,” you tell him, your voice thick and pained and broken. You can hear him stepping into the room, pulling open the closet door, the wood squeaking just a little along the metal tracks.
“Where? Did you get called away for something?” he asks, his voice seeming distracted, the sound of him undressing, shirt unbuttoning and being pulled from his body enough to make you turn around, the ever present tears burning away, evaporating as you look at him with anger.
“I’m leaving you,” you tell him and that’s enough to have him pause, muscles frozen mid-flex, the shirt half-off, half-on. You can tell by the slight shift in his head, the slight cant to the right that he sees your missing clothes, missing shoes and everything else.
“Why?” The question sounds broken now, his voice cracking into that huskier register he has, the one you know from when he wakes you at night with screams caught in his throat, mind on rains of bullets and cold, limp hands, beeping medical monitors and all his other demons.
“In your entire speech,” you say, your voice flat, broken no longer breaking, “you never once thanked me. Not that I need it, but you thanked Shen and Parker and Lena and Dana and Robby and Regina, but I never warranted a mention aside from everyone at PTMC.”
“You knew my wife was important to me,” he says, turning around, his face set like stone as you shake your head, the exhale sounding more like a whispered cry as you haul your first suitcase off the bed.
“That’s not the problem, Jack,” you tell him, pulling the second one, the last one, the others in your car already except for these two. “The problem is the fact that you spent time waxing poetic about Robby and the ED, but I, your fiancée didn’t get a single line. I didn’t get anything and that hurts.”
“Then let’s work through this,” he says, stepping towards you, shedding his shirt in one fluid motion and reaching for your hands in another, “instead of just leaving.”
“You didn’t mention a fiancée, Jack,” you whisper, wrenching your hands from his and pushing him away with both hands flat on his chest, “so you don’t have one.” The back of your throat is stinging with tears, thick and pained and your skin is drawn is too tight.
“No,” he says, his hands taking yours from where they’ve been resting on his chest, left ring finger bare except for a faint line from where the ring had been. “No, you’re not leaving.”
“Yeah, I am,” you say, but he shakes his head, jaw tense as he pulls on your hands, tugging you towards him, his head canting, lips pressing against yours in a kiss that burns, a kiss that tastes like fire and pain and ash. Like everything broken.
“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers against your lips, the vibrations of his words echoing through you, down your spine, shivers in its wake. His hands tighten on your wrists, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that you can feel it, feel him.
“You don’t really want me to stay either,” you reply, pulling back and taking in the way his eyes are heavy-lidden and pupil-blown, lips swollen from the kiss, from the way it was each side taking, a sheen of saliva lingering on his bottom one.
“I do,” he whispers, stepping towards you, pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed, the springs bouncing underneath you as he stands over you, his hands still holding your wrists, “let me show you how much.”
He lifts your hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against each one, that look in his eyes that you know well shining through, the one that says he wants you, the one that looks for all the world, like he’s hungry. Like he’s the predator and you’re the prey.
“What are you gonna do to change my mind?” you whisper, that feeling of burning inside of your skin taking over because even though you feel invisible, you cannot deny that sex with Jack Abbot is perfect. Kind and gentle and rough and explosive in equal measures.
“You know what,” he whispers, letting go of your hands and smiling that roguish smile he has at you, the one that promises fun and good times for a little while. Until reality decides it’s time to come back, but you don’t care now.
You want the good times, the fun. You can handle reality’s crash-landing after. Because you’d rather not feel right now.
He looks at you, right now, with desire and want and love, but the burning in your body is only lust and hate. Because a part of you does hate him for the you that you are becoming. He reaches for your hands, drawing you up from the bed again, hands drifting to the hem of your shirt as he presses his lips against you, hands sliding underneath the t-shirt and up your stomach, fingers trailing across, inching towards your breasts while his lips move against yours.
It’s an open-mouthed kiss, desirous and destructive and the way his tongue slides against yours, the feelings it elicits, should be illegal. His hands are cool against your fevered skin, your one hand on his back, fingers digging in, the other twining in your hair, the two of you moving, shifting your back slammed against the bedroom wall.
“I hate you,” you whisper as he pulls back from your lips, a kiss-drunk expression on his face as he trails his lips over your jaw, the hot press of his mouth causing the ache in your stomach to grow.
“No, you don’t,” he whispers against you, his hips grinding against yours, hands roaming over the expanse of your lace-clad dress. When you got home, climbing out of the taxi with tear-stained cheeks, you stripped out of the dress, pulling on boxers and an old t-shirt, perfect for leaving and crying on a warm summer’s night.
“I do,” you whisper, your breath hitching as he sucks on the sensitive skin of your neck, the spot just below your ear, your back arching, pressing you deeper against him, wetness pooling between your legs as his hips continue to move against you. “But I also love you.”
You’re rewarded for that admission by a pinch of both your nipples, the ones covered only by the thinnest expanse of lace.
“Good girl,” he whispers, pulling back from you, hands sliding back down the expanse of your stomach, fire burning in your skin with every trail of his fingers on your skin. “I don’t like it when you lie.” You hate the way your body reacts to his good girl, the way he says it in that raspy voice, his hands now at your t-shirt hem, pulling it up in slow drags along your body. “Arms up, baby girl.”
You hate how you listen, lifting your arms as he lifts the shirt up and over your head, along your arms, tossing it aside, his hands on your waist, hot and firm and possessive. His pupils expand even more when he takes in your body, in your breasts, a sight that every time seems to short circuit him.
That’s the worst part of this losing because he likes you, he just can’t love you. He sees your body not your soul and you can’t stay with someone who is only a spark and not a fire. A bonfire over a blaze. In truth, you want water over fire, something essential and lasting and life sustaining.
His mouth is hot on your chest, the touch bringing you back here and now, the way he trails his mouth across the lace, pressing kisses along it as your breath hitches, breathing changes and a throbbing begins to take place with vigor between your legs. His hands trail up from your waist to your bra, unhooking the strapless number, the material falling away in the space between one breath and the next, his mouth instead on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting at his touch.
“God, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your breasts, eyes flicking up to you, dark and pupil blown, “the things you do to me.” One hand is steady on your waist, but the other dips below the waistband of your boxers (his boxers, actually, ones he gave you, but they were too comfortable not to keep in the leaving) finding your folds, stroking them, taking in the feeling of your pussy, your arousal.
“Fuck,” you breathe as he dips one finger between them, the tip of it touching your entrance, pressing against it but never entering, rather teasing you with the pressure and the presence.
“Do you like that?” he whispers, thumb straying to your clit, circling it and pressing on it at the same time.
“I hate you,” you hiss at the same time that he pushes a singular finger into you, the stretching feeling not too much, but he curls his finger inside, dragging it along your walls before pulling back out and pushing back in, the sound of skin in slickness dulled by the layer of cloth still covering you.
“Really, sweet girl?” he asks you, his lips back on your neck. “Because it doesn’t feel like you do.” He plunges two fingers into you, his other hand rising from your waist, trailing along the side of your body, your ribcage, his fingers drumming a rhythm on your skin as he inches towards your breasts.
He flicks your nipple as he plunges a third finger inside of you, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, the coil in your stomach drawing tight, tight, tight as his thumb circles your clit in lazy gestures.
It’s when he puts four fingers inside of you, curling one and pulling out, followed by another and another, the last one dragging lazily down and out of you that you can feel your orgasm coming, can feel it when he slips his index finger back in, applying pressure to your clit, just enough to have you shattering around him, his smile growing as he waits out your aftershocks before withdrawing his fingers and popping them into his mouth, the mouth that was previously on your neck, the one that has left hickeys on your skin for sure, the mouth curving into a smirk as he releases his fingers with a pop.
“Don’t think you hate me, sweetheart,” he whispers, hands bracketing you on the wall as he leans forwards, aiming to give you a kiss, but you turn your head, removing your hands from where the nails have dug into his back, the back of his neck, planting them on his chest and pushing him back and away until he falls onto the bed.
“I do,” you whisper, kneeling before him, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your hands going to the waistband of his pants where a noticeable bulge sits. “I just like fucking you more.” You help him out of his pants and boxers, his lower half free, cock up, hard, a vein on the underside prominent as your hands find his prosthetic, releasing it and pulling it off, setting it aside.
“Sweet girl,” he whispers, watching as you stand, stepping out of the boxers, letting them fall to the floor, now as naked as him. You step over, lining yourself up with the head of his cock, teasing him as you move back and forth, his hands flying to your hips, gripping them tight. He makes a small noise, one from the back of his throat as you move back and forth, back and forth, teasing him. “Stop teasing me.”
“Why?” you ask him, your voice breathy as you stop, just hovering over him. “How badly do you want it?”
“Badly,” he growls, pushing down on your hips, pushing you down on his cock. You give a surprised cry as he pushes you down, down, down until you’re sitting on him and he seems to be everywhere, stimulating every inch. “You started this game,” he whispers, leaning forwards, his lips inches from your own, “now finish it, sweet girl. Ride me.”
And you do, pushing up, swirling around the tip before sinking back down. He lets out a noise, another one from deep in his gut, a dark, deep sound that echoes through the room as you build a steady rhythm, up, swirl, down, over and over.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Good girl.” You hate how much his words effect you but it is what it is and you like how he is as you ride him, the noises he makes, the praise he gives, the way he kisses your neck and your breasts and your lips. The way his eyes darken even more when he takes in the sight of you bouncing on him, using him like his good girl.
It’s not long before your release is close, your legs shaking from the pose, from the feelings. You know that Jack is close too, can tell by the way he groans, his head falling forwards into your chest. “Keep going,” he urges, his hands on your hips, helping you up and down, but then you’re orgasming, your walls clenching once hard around him, enough to pull his own from him too, his cock twitching inside of you as your walls flutter with the aftershocks of your release.
“I finished the game,” you whisper, your voice tired but teasing as he leans forwards, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, helping you up and off of him.
“That you did,” he replies, watching as you walk around, legs shaking as you fall beside him in the bed. Already you can feel reality crashing into you, but you’ll let Jack think he’s won. That you’re staying, but you can’t.
You wait until he falls asleep, his breathing heavy and even and then you climb from the bed, dressing quietly, taking the last two suitcases and slipping from the bedroom, from the house, out to your car.
You dump your suitcases into the trunk, climbing into the driver’s seat, your phone waiting for you, a text from Parker glowing on the screen.
Parker: Your room’s waiting, bestie
Parker: Come home.
“Jesus!” you whine at the bright white light shining through your curtains. Your suspiciously drawn-back curtains. “PARKER!”
“Get out of bed,” they say, arms crossed and lips pursed as they look at you. You know what they see. Someone who hasn’t gotten out of bed all weekend, who changed their number just to avoid seeing messages from their ex. Someone who is falling apart because they weren’t enough.
“I don’t wanna,” you whine, pulling your comforter over your head, but they’re there already, pulling it back off.
“We’re going to the farmer’s market,” they tell you. “And if I have to drag you kicking and screaming from this bed into a shower and into clothes, I will. Do not doubt me. I have dealt with worse.”
“Why can’t you let me mourn in peace?” you grumble, pushing yourself up to sitting as they sit down on the edge of the bed, holding out one hand to you which you take, their palm calloused against yours.
“Because you’re not mourning,” they say, “you’re self-deprecating, okay? You may not have been enough for that fucker Jack Abbot, but you are more than enough for me, okay? You’re my best friend and I don’t hang around with losers.”
“You hang out with Shen,” you point out, your eyebrows rising and they roll their eyes, standing up from the edge of the bed, pulling you along with them. Your feet land on the cold hardwood floor, the rough unsanded finish scraping against the soles of your feet.
“He’s not that bad,” they tell you and you shrug.
“Just saying.” They roll their eyes at you, their hands going to your shoulders as they peer at you, their gaze unrelenting, warm, steady and familiar.
“You. Are. My. Best friend. And, you know what? That is not nothing, that is everything, okay? You are more than enough for me so let me be enough for you right now, okay?”
“Okay.”
“There’s an ED consult,” Nurse Gia says, knocking on your office door, you look up from your computer, from the file open.
“You know I’m not taking those,” you tell her and she sighs, scuffing one sneaker on the carpeted floor. Only Psychiatry has carpet floor and you will never understand why. Blood flows out of everyone, this floor is no exception to that rule. “Pass it onto Caleb.”
“You know,” she says, thick black eyebrows arched as she takes a step backwards, out of your office, “you tell your patients to confront their demons, yet…have you?” She wiggles her brows and you shake your head at her.
“Go nurse the patients!” you tell her, but your voice is teasing and she laughs as she closes your door, the consult onto Caleb while you sit at your desk, feeling the familiar, ever-present thickness in the back of your throat.
You have felt hollow, relentlessly, endlessly hollow since you left Jack, since you left him when he was sleeping, the rings left on the dresser, right on top with the note, the one where you told him sorry. The one where you told him that you felt like you were never enough for him because you were not Regina. You were not a stay-at-home wife. You were a career woman, building her life, her name in psychiatry and you felt like that was not right for him. The one where you told him that you needed to feel seen, something you had never felt before.
The one where you told him that you wanted to feel enough for someone and you weren’t for him.
You feel hollow though, that loss of him even knowing that it was right, that now you can heal.
You just wish it didn’t have to hurt so bad.
You see a glimpse of Jack’s back in the parking lot and you duck down, breathing fast as you crouch behind your car, heart rate elevated, ears ringing from the increase in your blood pressure. Just the sight of him is enough to hurt you.
You wish it didn’t, but it does and as your breathing continues to stay fast, heart rate elevated, you realize that you’re crying, tears slipping down your cheeks, silent tears, silent cries.
“Oh, babes,” you hear Parker and you look up at them, noticing the hand they hold out to you, one which you take. “Go home.”
“I was—going to,” you hiccup and they draw you against them in a tight hug, tears falling on their black scrubs.
“You saw him, right?” they ask and you nod against them, their arms tightening in response. “Well, fuck him, okay? Not actually,” they say, drawing back, holding you at arm’s length, your tears having dried and stopped now. Breathing even.
“I’m good,” you tell them and they nod.
“You’re better than good,” they say and you can feel a smile growing on your face, cutting through your sadness as you say, “hell yeah, I’m badass.”
“Kicking ass and taking names, right?” they ask, holding out a pinky for you and you respond, linking your pinky with theirs, the two folding down.
“Right,” you tell them, “kicking ass and taking names.”
“You up for Backrooms?” you call out to Parker and they step out of their room, dressed in a Black Sabbath concert shirt the two of you found when thrifting and plaid pj pants—a matching outfit to yours.
“Does it look like it?” they ask, striking a dramatic pose, one hand waving down their body.
“Hell yeah!” you reply, holding a hand out which they slap, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the house, a stinging, burning feeling in your hand. “That was at least an eight of ten,” you say.
“I would go a solid nine on the high-five scale.”
What can you say about this year without Jack?
Well, it was long and hard and painful, but you’re here, you’re present. You hear his name and see his back and you don’t cry anymore.
And yesterday…yesterday you noticed the sunrise.
It’s hard, but it’s not worthless.
You hate award ceremonies, you truly do and you would not be here if you had not been nominated for the same award that ended with your heart in tatters one year ago today. But this time, you’re not wearing a dress, rather a dark emerald green suit, Parker as your guest in a matching suit, navy to your emerald green.
“And now,” the announcer says, as the applause for the last award dies down, “our second last award of this evening, PTMC Doctor of the Year. This year the award goes to a doctor who is strong and smart and willful. She is known for her recent publication on the systemic prejudice in the healthcare sector against those with schizophrenia. Please give a warm round of applause for Dr. Y/N L/N!”
You rise from your seat, a little light-headed as you smile, waving at people, walking up the stage to the sound of applause, your acceptance speech tucked into your suit jacket pocket. You shake hands with the announcer, their palm sweaty against yours; you accept the plaque and then you stand at the podium, pulling your speech from the inside pocket and laying it flat on the wooden surface of the lectern.
“Thank you, everyone. It means so much to be recognized tonight for my achievements in a room full of my peers who are just as accomplished, if not more, so thank you for this honor. I truly did not expect to win so my speech is a little bare bones, I apologize. I want to thank everyone at PTMC, doctors, nurses, social workers, all the staff. I want to thank my colleague, Dr. Caleb Jeffereson in particular for balancing a floor with me, which I do not believe is easy. And I want to thank my best friend, Dr. Parker Ellis, who refused to let me fly solo to this and insisted I needed to use that plus one ticket. Thank you, bestie, for never letting me fly solo. Um…yeah, thank you, everyone!” You wave again, taking your award and stepping off stage, feeling the burn of eyes upon you, eyes the colour of sunlit fall bare branches.
“Now,” the announcer says, their voice echoing behind you as you sink back into your seat at the table, double high-fiving Parker once you’ve set the award on the table, “the final award of the evening. The award of Most Integral PTMC staff member. This award goes to a very familiar face, known for winning Doctor of the Year just last year. Let’s give a round of applause for Dr. Jack Abbot everyone!”
You can feel the blood drain from your face, throat tightening at the sound of his name, but you are better, you are better. Seeing him will not hurt you like before. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
You watch him with blurry vision, tears just lining your eyes, just a hint if you look down, enough to make his form blurry until he steps out onto the stage and you blink your eyes, blinking away the last of the pain, the last bit of tears, two slipping down your cheeks, framing from each eye. Your tears the frame for the portrait of your pain.
“Hello, everyone,” you hear him say and god, his voice is just like you remembered it. Deep and dark, but light in a way too, the sound singing in the marrow of your bones, that masochistic part of yourself that doesn’t mind being invisible.
Honestly though, they say psychiatrists become psychiatrists because they’re broken inside and trying to fix themselves and yeah that fits you. You so badly want to fix yourself and you had thought you had plastered up all your cracks, but the sound of his voice is enough to have them breaking all over again.
“Last speech I gave, I messed up. I forgot someone who meant everything to me and it was the last straw for her and she…well, she left. And I can’t blame her. I did at first when I woke up alone, but in her absence, I realized that I messed up because she felt like she was never enough for me because I forgot to tell her something.
“I forgot to tell her that she is ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. I lost her because I forgot to tell her that, I forgot to tell her that I saw her, every inch of her, that I still do. That I still wait for her and always will because no one has fit me like her,” you lift your gaze from where you’ve had it trained on the tablecloth to meet his eyes, those sun dappled branches in brisk autumn light. It’s steady and warm and clear and you know. Oh, you know, he’s telling the truth.
“I forgot and I will regret it every day of my life but this award is only because of her. So, every thank you I have goes to her and only her. Always and forever. Thank you.” He steps back, confused applause sounding as he steps back, eyes never once leaving you.
And as you leave that night, walking with Parker, away from the man who left your heart in tatters but who is also repairing those same cracks, you feel more confused than ever.
“Jack Abbot!” you hiss, marching across the ED floor towards where he stands at the nurse’s station, his cocky grin set on his face as he watches you march towards him, heeled boots clicking on the tiled floor. You love psychiatry because you don’t have to wear scrubs, rather whatever you want, shoes always announcing your presence.
“What’s up, sweet girl?” he asks and you grab his arm when you reach him, electricity sparking across your skin at the contact. You pull him off to the side, into a small nook, jabbing a finger into his chest.
“I hate you,” you tell him, but your words lack the conviction, rather sound like a wish. His words of ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough having rung through your head all night.
“No,” he whispers, stepping closer, the cocky smirk fading away to a pensive, mournful expression as he reaches one hand beneath his scrubs, fingers hooking on a chain, “you don’t.” He pulls the chain from underneath his scrubs, revealing the ring you left behind, the simple, classic one with the diamond set in the solid gold band.
“You’ve been wearing that all year?” you ask him, your voice squeaking a little as he lets the ring hang there, his hands finding yours, fingers interlacing.
“Yeah,” he says, “because I’ve been waiting.”
“For me?” you clarify and he nods, a soft smile breaking across his face as he steps closer to you, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Always for you,” he whispers, “because you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. Now, can we try again?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking into those eyes that you love, eyes that look at you like they see you. “I think so.”
“…I vow,” he says, “to always remind you that you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough every day. I vow to never make you feel unseen. I vow to listen when you speak because you’re everything. Because you understand me. I vow to you the rest of my life.” You can’t fight the tears that slip down your cheeks as you smile, laughing just slightly, a watery laugh that makes him smile at you, tear tracks on his own face from when he watched you walk down the aisle in your dress.
“Then,” Robby says, his voice thick and happy, “if there are no objections, I now pronounce you woman and husband.” You can’t help but laugh at Robby’s word choice, stolen from Enola Holmes 3, the movie you made him and Jack watch when it came out. “You may now kiss the husband.”
And you do, stepping forwards and placing your hands on his stubble covered cheeks, drawing him down into a kiss.
And this kiss doesn’t taste like fire or ash or burning. It tastes like love and light and second chances. The kind that work.
“God, I love you, sweet girl,” he whispers when you pull back and you smile at him, a happy one.
“Ditto, Jack.” And in this moment, with the way he’s looking at you, you know that he’s been speaking true.
Not all of the people reading your x reader fics have white skin
Just a gentle reminder before you write characteristics that assume whiteness and exclude your black/indigenous/poc supporters-specifically in 'x reader' works.
I love and appreciate writers, but this is a recurring avoidable issue (going on for decades now).
"your dusky pink nipples" "your face turned just as red as his" "he could see the blush on your face" “your cheeks furiously blushed” “your ears burn bright red” “The look in your reddened face” “your knuckles white with effort” “bruised purple against your light skin”
Describing the physical feeling instead of the visual change helps include your readers while also elevating your writing IMO.
Anyone can say "Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment" or "Your face flushed" but wouldn't you rather say "A burning heat rushed across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling right underneath the surface. You look anywhere but him, hoping your newfound interest in the buildings ceiling tiles will ease the fire tightening beneath your skin" And instead of the other character pointing out that the readers face is red, they can point out the obvious flustered facial expression/body language.
If you want your reader insert to have white/fairskin, then just label them white!reader or put the mention in the warnings/summary.
↪I have reached out to writers I favored/supported before and sometimes I have been met with severe hostility and defensiveness. I often wonder if people are doing this purposefully or for some reason think only white people read their fanfics (?)-if that's the case then be upfront and label your reader inserts as white!reader or something PLEASE. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like black women and other POC aren’t wanted or considered in these fandoms because it comes off like that in your writing. If you need a different motivation, just know you're missing out on more interactions, reblogs, and a bigger reader base. I don’t know why white is the default for so many writers in unspecified x reader/reader insert fics-the people on your blog following, reading, and supporting you aren’t all white and fair-skinned.
I am not talking about OC fics or fics where race/skintone is x specified in summary or warnings. This is specifically about unspecified "x reader" where whiteness is assumed as the default
Put in the comments good replacements for writers to use!
Summary: Summer 1985 at Starcourt Mall. You work at Lovelace Lingerie right next to Scoops Ahoy, where Steve Harrington is stuck in that ridiculous sailor uniform. What starts as a cute (and slightly embarrassing) meet-cute over a misplaced box of panties turns into stolen ice cream breaks, awkward but endearing flirting, Robin’s relentless teasing, and Steve falling head over heels for his “panty girl.”
Word count: 6.8K
Warnings: NSFW, smut (detailed oral, penetrative sex, lingerie kink/play, semi-public elements), awkward flirting, canon-typical Steve self-doubt, set in Starcourt Mall summer ‘85 (fluffy AU, no Upside Down drama)
A/N: I was inspired by the lovely @keeryspullman when I learned that Scoops Ahoy is literally right next to Lovelace Lingerie in Starcourt Mall. What a perfect setup! And what better way to celebrate the 7-year anniversary of Stranger Things Season 3 than putting our favorite sailor (and his ridiculous uniform) back in action?
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You never thought your summer job would involve this much lace, silk, and awkward male customers asking if things came in "sexy" sizes. But here you were, working at Lovelace Lingerie in the brand new Starcourt Mall, right next door to Scoops Ahoy. The nautical-themed ice cream parlor with its blue and white striped everything and sailor-uniformed employees was a constant source of amusement and lately, a source of butterflies in your stomach every time you caught a glimpse of a certain brown-haired boy through the glass divider or in the mall hallway.
The stores shared a wall, and on slow days, you could sometimes hear the faint "Ahoy!" greetings and the bell of the register from next door. Your store was all soft lighting, perfume samples, and mannequins posed in delicate bras and panties that made even the most confident shoppers blush. You spent your shifts folding panties into perfect stacks, helping women find the right fit for date nights or honeymoons, and politely redirecting the occasional creep who thought "trying on" meant something else.
It was a Tuesday in late June, the mall still buzzing with the excitement of its grand opening. You were in the back stockroom, sorting a new shipment of imported French lace panties, black, red, baby pink, with tiny bows and intricate patterns when the front bell chimed. You wiped your hands on your simple black skirt and blouse uniform and headed out, expecting another early bird customer.
Instead, standing there holding a large cardboard box labeled "Lovelace Lingerie - Fragile - Assorted Panties & Bras" was Steve Harrington.
He looked exactly like the rumors from high school: tall, athletic build, perfectly styled hair that somehow survived the sailor hat perched on his head, and that easy smile that had probably gotten him out of trouble more times than you could count. But up close, in the ridiculous navy blue shorts and striped shirt with the Scoops Ahoy logo, he looked less like the king of Hawkins High and more like a guy who was just trying to make it through the summer without losing his mind.
"Uh, hi," he said, shifting the box in his arms. His voice was warm, a little hesitant. "The delivery guy dropped this off at our store by mistake. Said it was for the place 'right next door.' I figured it wasn't for the ice cream, unless you guys are branching out into edible underwear or something."
You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing softly in the quiet store. "No edible underwear here. At least not yet. Thanks for bringing it over. That box looks heavy."
He grinned, and it did something to your chest you weren't ready to examine. "No problem. I'm Steve, by the way. From Scoops Ahoy. The one in the dorky sailor suit."
You took the box from him, your fingers brushing his for a second. It was heavier than you expected, and you set it on the counter with a small grunt. You introduced yourself as the girl working at Lovelace Lingerie. The one surrounded by... well, all this." You gestured to the racks of bras and the table displays of panties in every color and style imaginable.
Steve's eyes flicked to the open box: delicate thongs, bikini cuts, high-waisted briefs with lace trim, and his cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. He quickly looked back at your face, polite and respectful, but the tips of his ears betrayed him. "Yeah. Panty central. Got it. Cool store, though. Very... lacy."
You smirked, already liking his awkward charm. "That's the point. Thanks again for the delivery. If you ever need help carrying ice cream tubs or something, I'm right here. Though I might not be as strong as you look."
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Deal. And hey, if you need any ice cream to survive the day—on the house—come on over. We have this new flavor, U.S.S. Butterscotch. It's pretty good. Not as good as whatever fancy stuff you sell, but..."
"I'll keep that in mind, sailor," you teased, and the nickname made his smile widen.
He lingered for a moment longer, glancing around the store like he was trying to find an excuse to stay. "Alright, well... see you around, panty girl."
The words slipped out casually, and his eyes widened as soon as he said them. "Wait, I didn't mean—"
You waved it off with a laugh. "It's fine. I've been called worse. Panty girl it is. See you around, ice cream boy."
He left with a wave and a sheepish grin, and you watched him go, the box of panties forgotten for a second as you wondered what the hell just happened. Steve Harrington had just called you "panty girl" and it hadn't felt creepy at all. It had felt... cute. Flirty, even.
That was the beginning.
The next day, during a lull between customers, you were arranging a new display of satin panties near the front window when you saw him again. Steve was at the Scoops Ahoy counter, serving a group of giggling teenage girls who were clearly more interested in him than the ice cream. Robin Buckley, his coworker with the sharp tongue and short hair, was rolling her eyes behind him, probably adding another tally to the "You Suck" side of their whiteboard.
You tried not to stare, but it was hard not to notice how the sailor uniform somehow made his shoulders look broader and his legs look longer. He caught your eye through the glass and gave a small wave. You waved back, feeling silly but warm inside.
Steve's internal thoughts during the first week were a constant loop of "Don't screw this up" and "She's actually talking to me." Every time he saw you through the window, arranging panties or helping a customer, his chest did this weird tight thing that wasn't entirely unpleasant. He caught himself practicing conversations in the mirror at home, trying to sound cool and not like the nervous wreck he felt around you. Robin noticed, of course. She always noticed.
"You're gone, Harrington," she said one afternoon while they were wiping down tables. "Like, full-on heart-eyes, can't-stop-talking-about-her gone. It's cute. Disgusting, but cute."
"Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. "She's... different. She doesn't expect me to be anything. I can just be Steve. And she likes that Steve."
Robin softened a little. "Then don't mess it up. Be honest. Bring her ice cream. Ask her out before some other mall guy does. There are plenty of dudes staring at that store."
The thought of someone else asking you out made his stomach twist in a way that surprised him. Jealousy wasn't new, but this was protective, possessive in a way that felt right instead of toxic. He started making excuses to walk by your store more often. "Just stretching my legs." "Checking the mall directory again." Robin called him on it every time.
Later that afternoon, when the mall traffic slowed, Steve appeared at your store entrance again, this time holding two ice cream cones.
"Hey, panty girl," he said, grinning like it was an inside joke already. "Brought you a peace offering. U.S.S. Butterscotch. Figured you might need something sweet after dealing with mall weirdos all day."
You accepted the cone, your fingers brushing again. "Thanks, Steve. That's really nice. What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. Consider it a neighborly gesture. Or, you know, an excuse to come say hi without looking like a total creep who hangs around lingerie stores."
You laughed and took a lick of the ice cream. It was creamy, buttery, with swirls of caramel. "It's good. Really good. And for the record, you're not a creep. The guys who come in here asking if we have 'crotchless options for their girlfriend'—those are the creeps. You're just... the ice cream guy who delivers boxes."
He leaned against the counter, watching you eat the ice cream with an intensity that made your stomach flip. "Yeah? Well, this ice cream guy thinks your job is way cooler than his. You get to touch all this fancy stuff all day. I just scoop frozen dairy and get yelled at by kids when we run out of sprinkles."
You spent the next twenty minutes chatting. He told you about how his dad had basically forced him to get the job after his grades weren't good enough for the college they wanted. How he used to be "King Steve" but that crown felt heavier every year. You told him about how you took the job at Lovelace because the pay was decent, the hours flexible around community college classes, and you actually liked helping people feel confident in their own skin.
"No judgment here," he said sincerely. "My exes always said I was clueless about girl stuff. Maybe I could learn something from you."
You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Planning on buying something?"
His ears went pink again. "For my mom! For her birthday. Yeah. Totally for my mom. She likes... nice things."
You didn't call him on the obvious lie. Instead, you spent the next half hour helping him pick out a tasteful satin robe and matching chemise set in soft lavender. You described the fabric, how it felt against skin, the way the lace details made it elegant rather than trashy. Steve listened like you were teaching him the secrets of the universe, his eyes on you more than the lingerie.
When he left with the bag, he turned back at the door. "Thanks, really. And... you can call me dingus if Robin does it too much. It's her thing."
You smiled. "I'll stick with sailor. Or Steve. Steve's good."
That night, you went home thinking about the way he said your name.
It became a routine.
The first week after the delivery felt like a dream you didn't want to wake up from. Every time the bell above the door at Lovelace Lingerie chimed, your heart did a little flip, hoping it was Steve. Most of the time it was just regular customers: women looking for bridal sets, teenagers giggling over push-up bras, the occasional husband dragged in by his wife looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. But the anticipation made even the mundane tasks fun. Folding panties became less of a chore when you could glance over and see Steve through the large glass windows that separated your stores in the open mall layout.
Starcourt Mall was still new and shiny in the summer of 1985. The air conditioning fought valiantly against the Indiana heat, but on particularly warm days, the smell of popcorn from the theater and pretzels from the food court mixed with the floral perfumes you sprayed on test strips at your counter. Scoops Ahoy had its own signature scent: sweet waffle cones, vanilla, and the faint ocean like cologne they probably gave the employees to stay in theme. You liked it. It reminded you of Steve.
On Thursday, two days after the box incident, you were helping a young woman pick out her first "sexy" lingerie set for a college boyfriend when you saw Steve again. He was outside the store, pretending to read the mall directory map but clearly watching you through the window. When you caught his eye, he startled like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar and waved awkwardly. You excused yourself for a moment and stepped out.
"Lost?" you teased, crossing your arms.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the sailor hat tilting slightly. "Nah. Just... checking out the mall. New job, you know? Trying to learn the layout."
"Uh huh. And the layout just happens to include staring into Lovelace Lingerie?"
His ears turned pink, a recurring theme you were starting to find endearing. "Okay, busted. I was hoping to see if you wanted to try that butterscotch again. Or... I don't know. Just say hi without it being weird."
"It's not weird," you assured him. "I like seeing you. Even in the sailor suit. It suits you. Pun intended."
He laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "You're too nice to me. Most people would be making fun of the shorts."
"The shorts are... something. But you pull them off. Tall, dark, and nautical."
"Flattery will get you free ice cream for life," he said, stepping closer. The mall crowd flowed around you, teenagers laughing, moms with strollers, but it felt like you two were in your own bubble. "Seriously, though. If you get a break, come over. Robin's been asking about the 'mystery panty girl.' I may have mentioned you."
"You mentioned me?"
"Only good things. Like how you didn't kick me out when I brought the box. And how you're the only person in this mall who doesn't treat me like I'm still wearing a letterman jacket and being an asshole."
You touched his arm lightly. "I like this Steve. The one who delivers misplaced packages and offers free cones. Keep him around."
His smile softened. "I'm trying. Every day."
That afternoon, during your fifteen-minute break, you did go over. Robin was behind the counter, serving a family, while Steve was in the back restocking napkins or something. The store was cute in a kitschy way, the counter looked like a ship's deck, complete with fake portholes and a bell. The menu board listed flavors with nautical puns: "The Mint Void," "U.S.S. Butterscotch," "Starcourt Strawberry Cheesecake."
Robin spotted you immediately. "Ah, the famous panty girl arrives. Steve's in the back. Try not to make out in the supply closet. Or do. I don't care as long as I don't have to hear about it for the next week."
You laughed. "Nice to meet you properly, Robin."
"Figured. He's been 'Steve Harrington, professional ice cream scooper and professional piner' since Tuesday. It's disgusting. In a cute way. You want a cone? On the house. Or on Steve's tab. Same thing."
Steve emerged then, wiping his hands on a towel, and his face lit up when he saw you. "Hey! You came."
"Break time," you said. "Thought I'd take you up on that offer."
He made you a double scoop of butterscotch in a waffle cone and led you to one of the small tables near the window. Robin gave you both a knowing look but stayed busy with customers.
"So," Steve said, licking a bit of ice cream from his thumb in a way that shouldn't have been attractive but was. "Tell me something about you that isn't 'works at the lingerie store and is way out of my league.'"
You thought for a second. "I go to community college part-time. Business classes, but I really want to do something with fashion or design eventually. Maybe work for a real lingerie brand someday, not just sell it. And I love old horror movies even though they scare me, and my favorite color is actually green, not black like my work clothes might suggest."
"Green. Got it. Horror movies—I'll remember to hold your hand during the scary parts." He grinned. "My turn. I used to be... not great. In high school. Thought being popular meant being a jerk sometimes. Lost a lot of friends when I realized that. My parents are... complicated. Dad's disappointed I'm not at some fancy school. Mom tries but doesn't really get me. I like kids, actually—babysat a lot last year. They're cool. And I have this weird fear of failing at everything now that I'm not 'King Steve' anymore."
You reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "You're not failing. You're working, figuring it out. That's more than a lot of people do. And for what it's worth, I think this version of you is pretty great."
He looked at your joined hands like it was something precious. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Now eat your ice cream before it melts, sailor."
The rest of the break was easy conversation, favorite bands (his: The Police, yours: Madonna and some older rock), worst customer stories (his: a kid who cried because the ice cream wasn't blue enough; yours: a guy who asked if the store sold "dominatrix gear" for his "very specific" girlfriend). By the time you had to go back, you felt like you'd known him longer than a few days.
Friday brought the first real test of whatever this was becoming. A group of guys your age came into Lovelace, loud and laughing, clearly there on a dare or something. One of them kept making comments about the mannequins, asking if you were "the model" for the displays. You handled it with professional detachment, but it was grating.
Steve must have seen the tension from next door because he appeared at the entrance like a knight in sailor armor. "Hey, babe," he said loudly, striding in and wrapping an arm around your waist. "These guys giving you trouble?"
The leader of the group sized him up. "Who's this? Your boyfriend?"
Steve didn't hesitate. "Yeah. Problem?"
They backed off quickly after that, muttering about "not worth it." When they left, you sagged against Steve a little.
"Thanks," you said quietly. "I hate when they do that. Makes me feel gross even though it's just a job."
He rubbed your back soothingly. "I get it. People can be assholes. But you've got me now. Or... at least, I'd like to be that person for you. The one who shows up."
You looked up at him. "I'd like that too."
That was the day Robin officially declared you "official" on the whiteboard with a big heart and "Steve's panty girl" written in her messy handwriting. Steve didn't erase it. He added a little doodle of an ice cream cone next to it.
The weekend passed in a haze of work and growing closeness. Saturday was busy for both stores, moms buying back-to-school clothes for kids meant more foot traffic, and you sold several "date night" sets. Steve was swamped with families wanting cones before the movie theater. But during a rare simultaneous lull, he snuck over with a small bouquet of daisies he'd apparently bought from the flower cart near the food court.
"For you," he said, handing them over like they were made of gold. "Figured your store could use something that isn't lace or silk. Though those are nice too. Especially on you. I mean—not that I've seen you in them. Not that I was imagining—"
You cut him off with a quick kiss on the cheek, mindful of customers. "They're perfect, Steve. Thank you. And for the record, imagining is allowed. Encouraged, even."
His eyes darkened a fraction. "Noted."
Sunday was your day off, but you found yourself at the mall anyway, "just browsing." You ended up at Scoops Ahoy, watching Steve work. He was good at it: charming the customers, making the kids laugh with silly faces while scooping, remembering regulars' orders. Robin caught you watching and dragged you behind the counter.
"Break room," she said. "Go. Ten minutes. Don't get caught by the manager."
The "break room" was really just a small closet with a table and lockers. Steve joined you a minute later, closing the door behind him.
"Hey," he said, suddenly shy again now that you were alone in the small space. "Didn't expect to see you today."
"Couldn't stay away," you admitted. "Missed the view."
He stepped closer, backing you gently against the lockers. "The sailor suit view?"
"The Steve view," you corrected, pulling him down for a kiss.
It was the first real kiss, deep, exploratory, his hands on your waist, yours in his hair. He tasted like the sample spoons of ice cream he'd been trying. When you broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.
"This is crazy," he whispered. "I've known you less than a week and I already... I don't know. Feel like this could be something big."
"Me too," you said. "Scary big. But good scary."
He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the feel of your lips. "I want to do this right. Take you out. Show you I'm serious. Not just the guy who flirts in the mall."
"I'd like that."
The rest of the break was spent talking in low voices, sharing more stories. He told you about the time he and his old friends had spray-painted something stupid on the school and got caught. How it was the beginning of the end for his "king" status, but also the start of him realizing he wanted more. You told him about your family, supportive but distant, proud you were in college but not understanding why you liked "frivolous" things like fashion and pretty underthings.
"They're not frivolous," Steve said firmly. "They make people feel good. Confident. That's important. You're important."
By the time Robin knocked on the door with a "Time's up, lovebirds," you were both grinning like idiots.
Monday brought more customers and more tension-building. A regular at your store, an older woman who came in every week for "something new to surprise my husband," asked about Steve when she saw him wave from next door.
"That's the ice cream boy, isn't it?" she said with a knowing smile. "He's been mooning over this store for weeks. Good for you, dear. He seems sweet."
You blushed but didn't deny it. "He is."
She bought an extra set "for your honeymoon" and winked on the way out.
That afternoon, Steve came over with a proposition. "So, Robin and I were talking. There's this thing at the food court this weekend—live music or something. Not a date if you don't want it to be, but... it could be. If you want."
"It's a date," you said immediately. "But only if you promise to wear the sailor hat. It's growing on me."
He groaned but agreed.
The days leading up to the "date" (which was really just hanging out in public as more than friends) were filled with more visits, more ice cream, more stolen moments. You helped him practice "cool guy" lines for customers, which mostly ended in both of you laughing. He helped you carry a heavy box of new inventory without being asked. The sexual tension was simmering, little touches that lasted too long, looks that said more than words, the way he'd bite his lip when you described a particularly sexy piece of lingerie to a customer.
One evening, after closing, you were both lingering in the hallway between your stores. The mall was mostly empty, janitors cleaning, a few stragglers heading to their cars.
"I can't stop thinking about kissing you again," Steve admitted, leaning against the wall. "Is that okay to say?"
"Very okay," you said, stepping into his space. "I think about it too. A lot. Especially when I'm folding all those panties and wondering what you'd think if I wore some of them for you."
His breath hitched. "You..."
You kissed him then, right there in the semi-public hallway, his hands sliding under your blouse to touch bare skin. It was heated, a promise of more. When you pulled back, his eyes were dark.
"Friday," he said roughly. "After the food court thing. My place. Or yours. Wherever. I want... I want all of you."
"Yes," you said. "Friday."
The anticipation made the rest of the week deliciously torturous.
On Friday, the food court event was a local band playing 80s covers: Madonna, Michael Jackson, some Springsteen. You and Steve danced a little, his hands on your waist, your head on his shoulder during the slow songs. Robin was there too with some friends from band, giving you both thumbs up from across the court. It felt normal and special at the same time. Like you were just two people falling for each other in a mall, not aware of any bigger dangers or futures.
After the music ended, Steve drove you to his house. It was nice, suburban, a little empty feeling, but clean. His parents were out of town, he explained. You didn't care. The second the door closed, you were on each other.
Clothes came off in a trail to his bedroom. Your sundress, his nice shirt. You pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, still in your bra and panties, the black lace set you'd worn specifically for this.
"Jesus," he breathed, hands roaming your thighs, his voice cracking a bit in that awkward but endearing way he had when he got flustered. "You're... fuck, you're everything. I mean, wow, I can't even—your skin is so soft and this lace... it's killing me already."
You ground down against him, feeling how hard he was through his jeans. "Show me."
He flipped you gently, hovering over you, his cheeks flushed as he tried to play it cool but his voice came out a little shaky. "Tell me if you want to stop. Any time. I don't want to rush or anything, I mean, you're just so... perfect, and I don't want to mess this up."
"I won't want to stop," you reassured him, pulling him closer.
He kissed down your body with hesitant reverence at first, his lips brushing your collarbone, then lower. His fingers fumbled slightly with the clasp of your bra before it gave way, and he let out a soft, awkward laugh. "Got it. Sorry, I'm usually better at... never mind." He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then with more confidence as your back arched and you moaned, his other hand kneading the soft flesh of your breast. He switched sides, lavishing attention, his tongue swirling and teeth grazing lightly, drawing out whimpers from you.
Then he moved lower, kissing a trail down your stomach, his breath hot against your skin. He peeled your panties down your legs slowly, reverently, like unwrapping a gift, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of you. "My panty girl," he murmured against your inner thigh, voice thick. "All this lace and you're still the prettiest thing in the room. God, I can't believe you're letting me do this."
His mouth found your center, tentative at first with soft kisses and licks, learning what made you gasp and buck your hips. He grew bolder, tongue circling your clit, two fingers sliding inside you, curling just right as he listened to your moans and adjusted. The sensations built quickly, his warm mouth, the slight stubble on his cheeks brushing your sensitive skin, the way he hummed in pleasure against you. You came hard, thighs shaking around his head, fingers tangled in his perfect hair, chanting his name like a prayer.
When you recovered, panting, you pushed him onto his back. "My turn." You took him in your mouth, slow and teasing at first, tongue swirling around the head, then taking him deeper, using your hand in tandem. He was a mess of gasps and awkward praises: "Oh fuck, that feels—wow, you're amazing, I don't deserve—shit, keep going." He threaded his fingers in your hair gently, not pushing, just holding on as he panted and begged. "Baby—please, I'm close—"
You climbed on top, sinking down slowly onto him, both of you gasping at the tight, hot stretch. It was perfect, slow rolls of your hips building to a steady rhythm, his hands guiding your movements, mouth latching onto your breasts again, sucking marks into your skin. He sat up, arms wrapping around you tightly, thrusting up into you as you rode him harder, skin slapping, breaths mingling in messy, desperate kisses. "Love you," he panted against your neck, voice breaking with emotion and pleasure. "Love you so much already. Feels so good, so tight and wet and—fuck."
The coil in your belly tightened again. You came with a cry, clenching around him, pulling him over the edge too. He followed with a broken moan of your name, burying his face in your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the condom.
Afterward, you stayed connected for long moments, catching your breath, before cleaning up and collapsing tangled in sheets. He held you close, pressing soft kisses to your hair, your forehead, your lips. "I think I'm falling in love with you, panty girl," he said softly, almost shy. "Is that crazy? It's only been a few weeks."
You smiled against his chest. "Not crazy. I feel it too. My ice cream sailor."
Later, cleaned up and curled under his blankets, he traced patterns on your back. "Stay the night? I can drive you home in the morning. Or... whenever. No pressure."
"I'll stay," you said. "But only if you make me breakfast. And maybe bring me ice cream in bed."
He laughed. "Deal. Anything for my panty girl."
The next morning was domestic and sweet: pancakes (slightly burnt), coffee, him in boxers and you in his t-shirt, making out against the kitchen counter between bites. He drove you home with the radio playing loud, both of you singing along badly.
From then on, it was official. You were Steve Harrington's girlfriend. The panty girl to his ice cream sailor. You spent nights at each other's places when you could, weekends exploring Hawkins beyond the mall, introducing him to your friends, meeting his (Robin was already your favorite). He brought you coffee in the mornings before shifts, you brought him lunch from the food court. The whiteboard at Scoops got so many hearts and doodles that the manager made them clean it, but they just started a new one.
One particularly memorable night, you convinced him to let you "close up" the lingerie store with him there. After the last customer left and the lights dimmed, you locked the door and turned to him with a mischievous smile.
"Want a private showing?"
He nodded, speechless, eyes wide as you disappeared into the back. You came out first in a delicate white lace babydoll that skimmed your curves, the sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination. Steve's jaw dropped, his hands twitching at his sides. "Holy— I mean, wow. You look... incredible. Like, I don't even have words. Is this real life?"
You twirled playfully, then moved to the next piece, a red corset set with matching garters that cinched your waist and pushed your breasts up enticingly. Steve stood, reaching for you with trembling hands. "Can I... touch? Please? This is better than any fantasy I've had."
You let him. His fingers traced the lace edges, clumsy at first in his eagerness, then more sure as he kissed along your neck, down the swell of your breasts. He fumbled with the hooks of the corset, muttering, "These things are tricky, but worth it." Once it fell away, he worshipped every inch of exposed skin with his mouth and hands, whispering awkward but heartfelt compliments: "Your body is insane. Soft here... and here. I could do this all night."
Piece by piece, the lingerie came off. You ended up naked on the plush fitting room carpet, Steve's sailor hat perched comically on your head as he knelt between your thighs again. His tongue and fingers worked you open until you were writhing, begging. Then you pulled him up, rolled a condom on him, and sank down, taking him deep. You rode him slowly at first, savoring every inch, then faster, your hands on his chest, his on your hips, guiding and thrusting up to meet you. The store's soft background music mixed with your moans and his grunts, the mannequins silent observers to your passion. He came with a groan, holding you tight as waves of pleasure crashed over both of you.
After, wrapped in a discarded silk robe, you fed him pieces of chocolate you'd stashed in the break room. "Best closing shift ever," he said.
"Even better than scooping ice cream?"
"Way better. Though I might need to bring some butterscotch next time. For... reasons."
You laughed until your stomach hurt.
As the summer wound down, the reality of the future loomed, college for you, maybe a better job for him, the mall still standing but your time there feeling temporary. But Steve made it clear he wasn't going anywhere.
One evening, as you closed up together, he pulled you into his arms in the quiet hallway.
"Whatever happens," he said, "I'm in this. You and me. I love you. More than I thought I could love anyone this fast.
You kissed him, slow and deep. "I love you too, Steve. My unexpected summer romance. My favorite person in this whole ridiculous mall."
He smiled against your lips. "Even with the sailor suit?"
"Especially with the sailor suit."
And as the mall lights dimmed around you, the scent of ice cream and perfume lingering in the air, you knew this was just the beginning. The king had found his match in the most unexpected aisle right between the ice cream and the lace.
Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.
Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)
Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics — the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.
“I kind of want to get shitfaced.”
Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.
His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone.
“What about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?” Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.
Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating — and pining for a lot longer than that — he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.
You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. “Uh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake ‘your computer is down’ screen on Shen's laptop,” you tell proudly.
“Dear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from your…prank?” Jack's voice caught on the word “prank” as if it deeply amused him.
You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front — a tiny whine left your lips.
Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. “You know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?”
His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. “Okay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.”
You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. “I want to know what it's like. It makes everyone so…” your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself.
“Joyful,” you finished.
“Okay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,” he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.
“I would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.”
He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, “Brat.”
You grin widely, “You'll be there, right?”
“With a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,” he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.
Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. “What did I tell you before leaving?” His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.
You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets — you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.
You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, “Mine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.” And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were.
“That Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-”
“The other one, honey.”
You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.
“That I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?” you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.
Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.
“But I had my ID and pepper spray in there,” you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.
Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, “ID,” his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. “And you don't need pepper spray. You have me.”
But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.
His fingers snap in front of you, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.
“Why haven't we fucked?” You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesn’t make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.
Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. “Wow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.”
You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. “Answer me.”
As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. “I'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,”
You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. “Like hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.”
Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.
“Because we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. And…it's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And me…well, I'm not what I used to be.”
Your eyes soften, “But do you want me?” Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.
Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, “What do you think, baby?” his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.
You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.
“I see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.” His throat catches at the ‘doctor’. Oh, you are not a fair player.
“Well, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.” His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.
A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. “But-”
“No buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.” The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.
The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, “Louder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.”
Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.
“Kids and their hormones,” he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.
“Is that so, grandpa?” Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.
His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, “Careful, brat.” His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.
Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.
Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft “uh-uh” leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.
“You're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.”
“You are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,” it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.
His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.
“I am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.”
You look at him, as if to say “so?” and hearing the adoration — despite the choice of words — in your voice completely decentres him. “Glad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.”
He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.
A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.
“Let me help you, doctor. Please” you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.
A pause.
He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.
“You are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.”
“Speaking of horny and my ass-”
He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. “Nope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, “together?”
“No, you pervert.” Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.
Show-off.
So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Ray's mind.
Jack doesn’t stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.
He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.
“How am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?”
“Jesus,” he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.
He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, “Shower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?”
Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?
“Sir, yes, sir.” You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.
Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.
You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.
He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur.
“One second, honey.” Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.
“There you are,” he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.
“You didn't like the freaky me?” You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after.
“I like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.” His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.
You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. “Can we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?”
Your boyfriend murmurs a “yes, baby,” against your forehead.
“Okay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.”
“Shut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.”
If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?
