Jemmie Boo ✨️

22 || obsessed with men old enough to be my father || MDNI

[drjabbotswife]

hi everybody, im jem and im realising im utterly obsessed with old men and the shows they're in.

currently watching the pitt and animal Kingdom, expect Jack abbot fics and Andrew 'pope' Cody fics very soon 🤭🤭

my requests are currently open for jack abbot/pope. honestly you could put anything in my inbox and i'd appreciate it.

this is a side blog for @dvg-tvgs

masterlist

[drjabbotswife]

pope cody falls in love with a girl working at the strip club

a hand slaps your ass, just below the fabric of your little denim skirt. you nearly dog the tray of drinks in your hand. that same hand shoves a wad of cash down your thong, the string snapping against your skin.

"why don't you take him out the back and show him a good time? it's his birthday."

you look at the man that shoved the money into your thong, another one of the girls already in his lap. you look at the other guy, the one who's birthday it is. the one sat, staring at his beer. gosh, he looks how you feel, like he doesn't want to be here.

you place another beer in front of him. it's fine, you'll work out the money later. "i'll be back in a minute, hon," you try to say softly. but softness is hard in a place like this.

there's something in the weight of his stare when he looks at you. like he's waiting for the whole world to watch him fail.

you hand the other beers to the customers that have already paid, get more money shoved into places you don't really want people touching you.

and then, you return to him. the man with the sad eyes, still staring at his beer. not watching the girls on stage, not reaching for any of the girls coming past, like the other three in his party.

you put your tray down and walk towards him, hips swaying from side to side. "c'mon, handsome," you say, laying your hand on his shoulder. he tenses and you almost expect him to flinch away. but he doesn't. he just turns to fix that crushing stare on you. "the birthday boy gets the special treatment."

you hope its sultry, the way you let your fingers dance down his arm, towards his hand. you take it in your own and pull him out of his seat. his party cheers, one of them reaching out to slap your ass as you drag him away.

you're playing the part as you weave through the groups and lead him to the back room. he's following along, looking more like a lost puppy than anything else. and, fuck, you feel so fucking bad for him.

you lead him into the smallest of the dressing rooms, usually reserved for an emptier week night, and lock the door behind you. the music is still loud; you can still feel the bass around you, but it's all just less in here.

a breath leaves your lips and you drop the act. "you didn't look comfortable out there," you tell him, turning to him as you grab a cardigan from the back of the chair.

but he stands there uncomfortably. like he doesn't know how to hold his body in open space. he's not looking at you, he's not looking at your skimpy outfit. he's staring at your shoes in a way that's just vacant and empty.

"it doesn't work," he says finally. "I can't..."

"that's okay," you say quickly. "we don't have to do anything." if he doesn't want to say it, he doesn't have to. "i only brought you out here because i thought you needed to get away from all that out there."

you fish out the wad of cash his party shoved into your thong and sit down. "here," you say, passing it to him. "consider it a birthday present."

he's staring at you again, staring at your outstretched hand. "you don't want it?" he asks, still standing there like he's uncomfortable. like he's scared of what you might do to him and how he might react.

"you don't need it?" he challenges.

you know how it looks, you working here. a lot of your colleagues would take the money, no questions asked. some would sleep with him, tell him it's okay that he can't get it up, they'll make it work for him. some would shove the money down their bra, muss up his hair and send him on his way.

but that feels dirty. you can't look at it as one particularly generous tip, either. you don't even work in the club to strip, but to make a little extra cash between your classes at san diego university.

honestly, you're happy for the break this offers you.

you wave the money at him again. "please," you say. "i don't want to have to go back out to your party and give it to them." you don't mention that they look fucking terrifying and you're gonna do whatever you can to avoid them after this.

he takes the money from your hand and you pull your cardigan closer. you offer him a seat, a glass of water, anything. but there's nothing you can do to make him comfortable. he won't let you make him comfortable.

"so," you begin, opening your bottle of water. "is it really your birthday or did they just say that to get you back here?"

he shakes his head. "no, it's my birthday," he answers, leaning back with his hips and his head forward. its a strange little posture, the posture of a man waiting for everything around him to break. "it's my sister's, too."

"ah," you say and take another sip of water. "you guys twins?"

there's a very brief flash of happiness across his face. it's a look you've seen a few times in this place, a twenty-one year old kid getting their first dance and falling in love with their dancer.

"yeah," he answers. but he seems to remember himself just a moment later. "she, uh, died a few weeks ago."

your eyes go wide and you stand up from the chair. "shit, i'm sorry," you say, moving closer to him. no wonder he doesn't want to be here. "look, we can speed this whole thing up, if you'd like." you turn back to your vanity and grab your reddest lipstick. "just need to mess up your hair a little and give you some strategically place lipstick marks, maybe a hickey or two, if you're okay with that."

for the first time since you took his hand and dragged him out here, he looks at you. head tilted down, eyes up. it's a stare that makes you shiver, even with your cardigan wrapped around you.

"okay," he says and nods, averting his gaze.

you step closer. close enough that you can reach out and touch him, if you want. but you halt. "can i touch you?" you ask him.

his shoulders raise in a shrug, another smile flickering across his face. a different kind of smile, like he's just made a joke you don't yet get. "yeah, i guess," he says. it's the surest you've seen him all night and, somehow, it's funny.

you wrap your arms around his neck. there's a few moments where he stands there, unsure of what to do with his hands. "it's okay," you tell him, your fingers playing with hair that's desperately trying to curl but is just too short to. "you can touch me."

warm, freckled hands settle on your waist. you push your fingers through his hair, freeing the small, growing curls. for a moment you wonder what he'd look like if he let them grow, why he hasn't let them grow out before.

"what's your name, handsome?" you ask him

his mouth is open, revealing little crooked teeth. p- it's there, on the tip of his tongue. a name he hasn't been in three years because he was more protected that way. a name he rarely was before that, either.

"andrew," he says.

"andrew," you repeat, nails scratching at his scalp. he wants to hear you say it again. "can i kiss you, andrew?"

when he nods, you don't start with his face. you kiss his cheek and pull away, checking the red mark left behind. it's perfect, simply perfect. you press another to the side of his mouth, just to really sell the illusion.

your hands work the buttons of his shirt. popping a few of them open and buttoning them up wrong.

and then, you pull away. his hands are still on you as you turn back towards the mirror and apply another layer of lipstick. you turn back to him, your arms winding around his neck.

you kiss him, press your lips against his in a way that isn't rushed, isn't hurried. you don't put your tongue down his throat and he doesn't do the same to you. you don't expect him to kiss back, but he does. his hands leave your waist, come up to cradle your face. and it's sweet and gentle in a way you don't expect.

you want to moan. you want to let out a low noise that reassures him that you like this.

he lets go of you when you pull away. breathing somewhat heavily, his forehead pressed against yours. god, he looks a mess, lipstick smeared across his lips like it was a frenzy.

"how'd you feel about that hickey?" you whisper.

andrew nods. you pull back as his hands find you again. on your waist like they belong there. you look at the collar of his button up shirt, look for the best place to put a hickey. you want it visible, but not like it's trying too hard to be visible.

you kiss him there. red lipstick marks the spot. andrew stands, holding you steady as you suck at the mark, teeth grazing the skin. he releases a noise from his throat, something close to a moan. his eyes fall shut, his grip on you growing tighter.

you pull away, swipe your thumb over the mark to even out the lipstick. "there," you say and he drops his hands. the warmth disappear with it.

for a moment, he stands there. he looks to the mirror, takes himself in as you wipe off your smeared lipstick and replace it with a subtler colour. he looks at the door. "can we," he clears his throat, wipes his hands on his black jeans. "can we stay in here for a minute?"

you pull your cardigan back onto your shoulders. "yeah," you say and sit back down. "i've only got two hours left of my shift anyway. might as well kill some time." you offer him a sip of water as he leans against your dresser, finally looking somewhat comfortable. "and then it's a lovely long walk back to my shitty apartment," you mutter.

his eyebrows are raised as he turns to you. "you should really get a car if you're working this late," he says. it's quiet, but you're starting to think that's his normal speaking voice. you wonder what he sounds like when he's shouting, when she's getting loud and angry. you wonder, but you don't want.

"not that simple," you answer. "can't afford the car, can't afford to learn."

the way he stares at you, you can't decipher it. but his eyes are soft, begging you not to be afraid. he's not particularly asking for trust, just for you not to be scared. "what time does your shift end?" he asks.

a laugh leaves your lips and you shake your head. "slow down, handsome," you say, combing your hair back from your face. "i'm not in the habit of letting customers pick me up, remember?" you reach forward, tapping the thick wad of cash now in his pocket.

standing up, you shrug your cardigan off. you drape it over the back of your chair and check yourself in the mirror. "c'mon," you whisper ad reach for his hand. he lets you take it. "i gotta get back to work."

andrew laces his fingers through yours. you lead him out of the back room and into the thundering music. immediately, you know it's too much for him. his jaw is clenched as you weave him through the crowds, take him back to his party.

they cheer and clap when you lead him over. you press another kiss to his lips when he sits down, back to playing the part. his party look at him, eyes wide. "your friend was magnificent, by the way," you say and walk away, hips swaying as you pick up a tray of drinks and take it to another table.

there are eyes on you for the rest of the night. you can feel them as you walk between the tables, as men grab you and shove tips into your underwear. hands caressing you where you don't want to be caressed. touching you in the way they do when it gets later into the night and security gets sloppy.

and he's watching it all happen, his jaw clenched. at first, he watched you flinch away from the touches. but not anymore.

you meet his eye and head over to the bar. he tracks you as you speak to the bar tender and pull a note from your bar. you flatten it out as she grabs a bottle, opens the top and puts it on a tray for you. you pick up the tray and carry it over.

his eyes are still following you when you approach his table. you lean over his shoulder to place his beer down and pick up the empty bottles. "thought you'd be out of here by now," you say, just low enough for him to hear.

his eyes aren't so soft now, but that's not about you. "you let them touch you like that?" he manages over the music.

you shrug. because there's nothing you can do about it. not if you want the much needed tips to keep coming in. "is that why you're still here?" you ask him, leaning against his chair.

andrew doesn't answer. but by the way he's looking at you, you know. yes. he doesn't need to say it. "go home," you say and look at the boys in his party. three of them enjoying a lap dance, one watching you.

he breathes deeply. "okay," he says and stands up.

you wrap your arm around his neck and lean in close. his hands find your waist like it's natural. "don't be afraid to come back, handsome," you say and walk away, your hips swaying from side to side.

and andrew? he's hypnotized.

there's the potential for me to do more for these two. a massive potential. i've loved writing this and i've tried it for every fandom i've been in (and this is the first time it's stuck - shawn hatosy has me writing good again wtf)

[drjabbotswife]

stripper!reader x pope is getting longer than i thought so i thought i'd post a spoiler

you step closer. close enough that you can reach out and touch him, if you want. but you halt. "can i touch you?" you ask him.

his shoulders raise in a shrug, another smile flickering across his face. a different kind of smile, like he's just made a joke you don't yet get. "yeah, i guess," he says. it's the surest you've seen him all night and, somehow, it's funny.

you wrap your arms around his neck. there's a few moments where he stands there, unsure of what to do with his hands. "it's okay," you tell him, your fingers playing with hair that's desperately trying to curl but is just too short to. "you can touch me."

warm, freckled hands settle on your waist. you push your fingers through his hair, freeing the small, growing curls. for a moment you wonder what he'd look like if he let them grow, why he hasn't let them grow out before.

"what's your name, handsome?" you ask him

his mouth is open, revealing little crooked teeth. p- it's there, on the tip of his tongue. a name he hasn't been in three years because he was more protected that way. a name he rarely was before that, either.

"andrew," he says.

"andrew," you repeat, nails scratching at his scalp. he wants to hear you say it again. "can i kiss you, andrew?"

[drjabbotswife]

shawny hats the man that you are

[afterdarkbydel]

Hyrdrated Justice

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Summary: Jack Abbot’s wife has tequila, a grievance, and the full support of the worst possible group of coworkers. Jack has one arm around her waist, a glass of water, and absolutely no intention of letting her get into a bar fight.

Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, drunk/tipsy reader, bar confrontation, jealousy/possessiveness in a funny married way, body insecurity, brief rude comment from another woman, Jack being very husbandly, emotional reassurance, lots of teasing, language, no use of Y/N

Author’s Note: This was the fic leading the poll, which apparently means we are all deeply committed to a drunk feral wife reader and Jack Abbot performing husband-level crisis management in a bar. Honestly? Excellent choice. This one is chaotic, ridiculous, deeply married, and then softer than expected because Jack Abbot remains a menace to my emotional stability. Hydrated justice is still justice.

Xoxo, Del

The thing about Jack Abbot was that he never seemed to understand the effect he had on people.

Or maybe he did understand and simply chose to ignore it, which was honestly worse.

He stood at the bar between Robby and Shen, one elbow resting against the worn wood, his dark shirt rolled at the forearms, his wedding ring catching every now and then in the low amber light when he lifted his glass. He looked unfairly good. Relaxed in that very Jack way, which meant not actually relaxed to anyone who did not know him, but relaxed enough that his shoulders were not squared for battle and his mouth had softened around the edges.

You knew that mouth. You liked that mouth. You were trying very hard not to stare at it from across the room.

“You’re up,” Santos said.

You blinked and looked at the dart she was holding out to you. “I know.”

Santos’s brow furrowed. “You were not looking at the board.”

“I was assessing the room,” you corrected her.

“You were assessing your husband,” Santos shot back.

Mel leaned against the small high-top beside the dartboard, her drink untouched in her hand and her face carefully neutral in a way that meant she was absolutely entertained.

Ellis grinned. “To be fair, her husband is assessing her back.”

You glanced toward the bar. Jack was looking at you. Caught, he did not even bother pretending he had not been. He simply lifted his glass slightly, the corner of his mouth moving into something small and private and yours. Your stomach did something ridiculous.

“Disgusting,” Santos said. “He’s obsessed with you.”

You rolled your eyes. “He is not.”

“He is,” Mel said.

You looked at her. “You’re supposed to be the reasonable one.”

Mel shrugged. “I am being reasonable.”

Ellis nodded toward Jack. “Reasonably obsessed.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when you turned back toward the dartboard. The bar was warm and loud around you, all low music and clinking glasses and off-shift laughter. You had tequila in your bloodstream, your favorite boots on, and your husband looking at you like he was still pleased to find you in every room.

It was a good night. You should have known better than to trust that. You threw your dart. It hit the board. Not where you had aimed, exactly, but on the board, which you felt deserved recognition.

Santos squinted. “Bold strategy.”

You shrugged. “It landed.”

“Barely,” Santos replied.

You reached for your drink, laughing, and that was when you saw her. She approached Jack from his left, all loose hair and sharp smile, sliding into the empty space near the bar as if she belonged there. At first, nothing in you moved. People talked to Jack. People looked at Jack. You were not new to being married to a man who drew attention without trying.

Then she touched his arm. Not a brush. Not an accident. Her fingers landed on his forearm, right below the rolled sleeve of his shirt, and she laughed up at him like she had said something clever enough to deserve contact.

Your smile died.

Santos followed your gaze. “Uh-oh.”

Mel turned. “What?”

Ellis straightened. “Oh. She saw something.”

At the bar, Jack shifted away immediately. It was subtle. A half step back, his arm moving out from under her touch, his glass switching hands so his left came into view. The ring flashed under the bar lights.

Good man.

The woman leaned closer.

You inhaled sharply.

Santos grinned. “Oh, I know that face.”

Mel looked between you and the bar. “Maybe we just let Jack handle it.”

You set your drink on the high-top without looking away from the bar. “I am letting Jack handle it.”

Santos looked down at the glass, then back at your face. “You put your drink down like you were preparing for combat.”

“I’m just observing,” you said.

Ellis took a slow sip of his beer. “That is the least reassuring thing you could have said.”

Across the room, Jack’s expression had gone polite in the way that meant the conversation was already over for him. Robby, beside him, had noticed too. Shen had turned his head, brows raised slightly, watching with the same calm interest he usually brought to terrible triage decisions.

The woman said something you could not hear. Jack shook his head once.

Then he lifted his left hand slightly, not waving it around, not making a production of it, just enough to show the ring. Your ring. Well. His ring. The ring you had put on his finger.

The woman glanced at it. You expected her to back off. She did not. Instead, she smiled wider.

Oh, absolutely not. You started walking.

“Here we go,” Santos said, immediately falling into step behind you.

Mel sighed. “Santos.”

Santos lifted both hands. “What? I’m supervising.”

Ellis followed too, because apparently nobody in your group had ever met a bad decision they didn't want a front-row seat to.

Jack saw you coming before you got halfway across the bar. His face changed. Not much. But enough. His eyes went from the woman to you, and something in his expression softened for half a second before sharpening again with warning. ‘Baby, do not,’ that look said.

Unfortunately, tequila had made you immune to silent husband warnings. You slid in beside him and put a hand against his chest, smiling brightly enough to hurt your own face. “Hi.”

Jack’s hand came automatically to your waist. “Hi.” His voice was low. Careful.

You ignored that, too.

The woman looked you over. Actually looked you over, from your hair to your shoes and back again, slow enough that you felt every inch of it.

Jack’s fingers tightened once at your waist. “This is my wife,” he said.

There was no hesitation in it. No apology. No reluctance. My wife. Usually, that did something lovely to you. Right then, it mostly made you want to bare your teeth.

The woman’s smile went thin. “Oh.”

You smiled back. “Yeah. Oh.”

Jack’s thumb pressed lightly into your side. Warning number two.

The woman glanced at Jack, then back at you. “You’re his wife?”

Santos made a tiny sound behind you.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”

The woman gave a little laugh, airy and mean around the edges. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.”

For one second, everything went very still. The bar noise blurred. Your smile stayed exactly where it was. Jack’s hand went tense at your waist.

Robby muttered, “Oh, shit.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, sweetie.”

Jack moved immediately. His arm came around your waist before you made it one full step forward. “Nope,” he said.

You kept your smile fixed on the woman. “Jack.”

Jack’s hold stayed firm. “No.”

You did not look away from the woman. “I just want to talk to her.”

Jack tightened his hold and took one step back, bringing you with him. “You absolutely do not.”

You tried to plant your feet. “I do.”

Jack shifted his body between you and the woman. “You do not.”

You finally looked up at him. “She said something rude.”

Jack looked down at you. “I heard her.”

You pointed past his shoulder. “Then let me respond.”

Jack caught your wrist and lowered your hand. “No.”

You blinked at him. “Jack.”

Jack’s face stayed calm. “Baby.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I can be civil.”

Jack glanced toward the woman, then back at you. “You said ‘oh, sweetie.’”

You lifted your chin. “That was civil.”

Jack started backing you away from the bar. “That was a warning shot.”

The woman’s mouth twitched like she thought this was funny. That was her mistake.

You tried to step around Jack. Jack stepped with you, broad shoulders cutting off your path like an exceptionally attractive barricade.

“Jack,” you said, still sweetly. “Move.”

Jack did not move. “No.”

You tried to look around his shoulder. “I can take her.”

Jack’s arm tightened around your waist. “That is exactly why we’re leaving.”

You looked up at him. “I didn’t say I was going to hit her.”

Jack started walking you backward from the bar. “You said you could take her.”

You planted one hand against his chest, trying to slow him down. “I was making an observation.”

Jack looked down at you. “You were making a threat.”

You pointed past him toward the woman. “I was making a promise.”

Jack caught your hand and lowered it. “That is worse.”

His arm tightened around your middle. Not hard. Not rough. Just firm enough to turn you away from the woman and start guiding you back across the bar. Your feet were still very much on the floor, but forward motion had become nonnegotiable in the way it did when Jack decided someone was leaving a situation.

Unfortunately for him, you were not done with the situation.

“Jack Abbot,” you said, twisting in his hold.

Jack kept his arm firm around your waist. “No.”

You tried to pull against him. “Let me go.”

Jack guided you another step away. “No.”

You glared at the woman over his shoulder. “She started it.”

Jack said, “I know.”

That stopped you for half a second. Jack glanced down at you, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead as he steered you away from the bar. “I know, baby. And I’m handling it by not letting my wife get thrown out of a bar.”

“I would not get thrown out,” you said, still trying to twist enough to look back at the bar.

Jack kept walking you backward toward the table. “You absolutely would.”

You huffed. “I would be elegant.”

Jack looked at you. “You are attempting to fight me in public.”

“I’m not fighting you,” you said, bracing one hand against his chest. “I’m attempting to pursue justice.”

Jack caught your hand against his shirt before you could use him for leverage. “You are attempting to pursue a misdemeanor.”

You looked up at him, offended. “That is a very cynical interpretation.”

“That is a very sober interpretation,” Jack countered.

You glared at him. “I don’t like your tone.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

From behind you, Santos cupped her hands around her mouth. “Kick her ass!”

Shen lifted his glass from the bar. “You could take her.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen her angry. My money’s on your wife.”

Jack stopped walking just long enough to turn his head. “Do not,” he said, voice flat, “encourage my wife to get into a bar fight.”

Santos pointed at you. “She has passion.”

Jack looked back at Santos. “She has tequila.”

“I have justice,” you snapped.

Jack looked down at you. You looked up at him, furious and flushed and trying very hard to lean around his body. For one dangerous second, his mouth twitched. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and hauled you the last few steps toward the table.

“I heard support,” you said, pointing back toward Robby and Shen. “This encouragement means I should do it.”

“That is not what that means,” Jack said, still steering you toward the booth.

You pointed toward Robby, Shen, and Santos with great conviction. “It is when it’s unanimous.”

Jack looked down at you. “It is not unanimous.”

You twisted in his hold and looked toward Mel, who had followed at a much calmer pace and now stood near the edge of the table with one eyebrow raised.

“Mel?” you asked.

Mel took a slow breath. “I abstain.”

You gasped. “Coward.”

Mel lifted her drink. “Alive coward.”

Santos slid into the booth, delighted. “For the record, I did not abstain.”

“For the record,” Jack said, easing you down into the booth, “nobody asked.”

Santos slid into the opposite side of the booth and lifted her brows. “You should ask more often. I have good instincts.”

Jack kept one hand at your waist until you were fully seated. “You told my wife to kick someone’s ass.”

Santos leaned back against the booth, completely unbothered. “And I stand by it.”

Jack looked at her for a long second. “That is not helping your case.”

“It was never my case,” Santos said. “It was justice’s case.”

Jack exhaled through his nose and turned back to you. Apparently deciding you still looked like a flight risk, he stayed standing in front of the booth, his body blocking your view of the bar.

You craned your neck around him. “You’re in my way.”

Jack did not move. “I know.”

You leaned the other direction. “I can’t see her.”

Jack kept his body planted in front of you. “That is also on purpose.”

You looked up at him, indignant. “I need to know if she’s looking over here.”

Jack stared down at you. “You do not.”

“I do,” you said.

“You don’t,” Jack said.

You said his name like a warning. “Jack.”

Jack answered in the same tone. “Baby.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

He stared back, calm and immovable and far too handsome for a man interfering with justice. Then Jack looked toward Mel. “Watch her.”

Mel blinked. “Me?”

Jack looked at Mel. “You’re the only one here I trust not to encourage her.”

Santos pressed a hand to her chest. “Wow.”

Ellis lifted his beer. “Accurate, though.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t need watching.”

Jack looked down at you. “You tried to circle me like a raccoon with a grievance.”

“A wife with a grievance,” you corrected.

“That too,” Jack said. He pointed at Mel again. “Watch her.”

Mel sighed and slid into the booth beside you. “I’ll do my best.”

Jack nodded toward Santos and Ellis. “Do better than them. Low bar.”

Santos pressed a hand to her chest again. “I am being slandered.”

Jack looked at her. “You are being quoted.”

Santos smiled. “Still feels hostile.”

Jack turned back to you. “Baby, please stay here while I get you water.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded bossy.”

“That was me asking nicely,” Jack said.

“No, it wasn’t,” you said.

Jack leaned down just enough for his voice to drop. “Baby, please stay here while I get you water.”

You stared at him. He stared back. “Fine,” you muttered. “But only because you said please.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”

He walked away before you could respond, heading back to the bar with the measured calm of a man who had removed many people from dangerous situations and was only mildly surprised one of them had turned out to be his wife.

The second he was gone, you leaned to look around Mel. Mel said your name. You froze. “What?”

“Don’t,” Mel said.

“I’m observing,” you said.

Mel angled her body slightly, blocking your line of sight. “You are rotating like a security camera.”

“I have to maintain visual,” you said.

Mel gave you a look. “No. You have to sit here and not get arrested.”

You frowned at her. “I wasn’t going to get arrested.”

Santos leaned over the table. “You were at least going to get escorted out.”

“Elegantly,” you said.

Mel’s expression did not change. “That does not make it better.”

Before you could argue, Robby and Shen reached the table, both of them looking far too entertained for men who had allegedly taken an oath to do no harm.

Robby dropped into the chair across from you. “I want to be clear. I support you.”

Mel pointed at him immediately. “No.”

Robby looked at her. “What?”

“Abbot put me in charge,” Mel said.

Shen slid into the chair beside Robby and lifted his glass. “For what it’s worth, I also think she could take her.”

Mel closed her eyes. “This is exactly why he asked me.”

You pointed across the table. “This encouragement means I should do it.”

Mel opened her eyes. “It does not.”

You looked at Robby, then Shen, then Santos. “It does when it’s unanimous.”

Mel shook her head. “It is not unanimous.”

You looked at her.

Mel lifted her drink. “I still abstain.”

You gasped. “Still cowardly.”

Mel lifted her chin. “Still alive.”

Robby leaned back in his chair, deeply pleased with the evening. “I feel like democracy is happening.”

Mel turned toward him. “Democracy is not happening.”

Santos lifted her glass. “Hydrated justice is still justice.”

You looked at your empty hands. “I don’t have water yet.”

Santos nodded solemnly. “Pre-hydrated justice.”

Mel looked at Santos. “You are not helping.”

Santos smiled. “I rarely do.”

Jack returned with a glass of water before the table could deteriorate any further. He set the water in front of you. “Drink.”

You looked at the glass, then up at him. “Is this because you think I’m drunk?”

“This is because I know you’re drunk,” Jack said.

You lifted your chin. “I’m emotionally lucid.”

Jack looked pointedly at the water. “You said you had justice.”

“I do have justice,” you said.

Jack nudged the glass closer. “Drink the water.”

You stared at him for another second. Jack did not move. Fine. You picked up the glass and took a sip with as much dignity as you could manage under the circumstances.

Jack watched until you swallowed. “Good.”

You lowered the glass slowly. “Don’t use your attending voice on me.”

Jack said, “Then stop acting like a patient elopement risk.”

Robby choked on his drink. Shen looked down, his shoulders shaking.

You turned to Jack. “I am not a patient elopement risk.”

Jack sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. “You tried to leave the table before I made it three steps away.”

You looked at him. “To pursue justice.”

Jack looked back at you. “To start a fight.”

You lifted your chin. “Allegedly.”

Santos raised her glass. “Hydrated justice is still justice.”

Jack pointed at her without looking away from you. “Do not help.”

Santos lowered her glass, but she did not look sorry.

You took another drink of water, mostly because your mouth was dry and not because Jack told you to. Across the bar, the woman looked over. You saw her over Jack’s shoulder. She looked away too slowly.

Jack turned away for one second. One second. That was all you needed.

You looked directly across the bar and lifted your middle finger with the solemn conviction of a woman defending sacred vows.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jack muttered, catching your hand and lowering it.

You looked at him. “What?”

“You know what,” Jack said.

You pointed your water glass toward the bar. “She looked over here.”

Jack kept your hand in his. “And you chose diplomacy?”

“I chose communication,” you said.

Santos raised her glass again. “Clear communication.”

Jack pointed at her. “Enough.”

You picked up your water and took a deeply dignified sip. “I’m being mature now,” you said.

Jack looked at your hand, still loosely held in his. “You just flipped off a woman in a bar.”

“And now I’m drinking water,” you said. “People grow.”

For a second, Jack just stared at you. Then his mouth betrayed him. Not a full smile. Not in front of everyone. But enough that the tension in your chest loosened a little around the edges.

“There she is,” Robby said. “Growth.”

Jack gave him a look. “You’re one sentence away from walking home.”

Robby lifted both hands. “I support the institution of marriage.”

Jack looked at Robby. “You support chaos.”

Robby nodded. “I contain multitudes.”

You leaned back against the booth, still hot with tequila and humiliation and anger you refused to examine too closely. The woman’s words kept circling the back of your mind, no matter how many times you tried to shove them down. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.

Stupid.

It was stupid.

You knew Jack loved you. You knew he was faithful. You knew the woman at the bar was nobody.

But the way she had looked at you had gone under your skin anyway.

Like you were surprising.

Like you were funny.

Like she had seen Jack, then seen you, and found the math wrong.

You took another sip of water.

Jack’s thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist. Small. Private. Grounding.

“You okay?” Jack asked quietly.

You kept your eyes on the glass of water. “I’m mad.”

Jack’s voice stayed soft. “I know.”

Your throat tightened, which was rude and unnecessary and probably the tequila’s fault. At the other side of the table, Santos had started arguing with Ellis about dartboard rules. Robby and Shen had fallen into a side conversation about whether Jack would actually make Robby walk home. Mel’s gaze flicked briefly to you, then away again, giving you the dignity of pretending she had not noticed anything change.

Jack’s hand stayed around yours. Across the bar, the woman was no longer looking over. Good. Fine. You had won. Probably.

You leaned a little closer to Jack despite yourself, your shoulder brushing his arm. “I could’ve taken her,” you muttered.

Jack looked down at you. This time, he did smile. Small. Soft. Yours. “I know,” he said.

You frowned. “Then why’d you stop me?”

His thumb moved again, slow over your wrist. “Because I like being married to you outside of county lockup,” Jack said.

Santos lifted her glass without missing a beat. “Coward.”

Jack did not look away from you. “A married coward,” Jack said.

You wanted to stay mad at him. You really did. But his hand was warm around yours, and his ring was pressed against your skin, and he was looking at you like there was not another woman in the room. Not really. Not to him. So you took another drink of water. Under protest. Obviously.

The cold air outside the bar did not make you less mad. It did, unfortunately, make you more aware that Jack had his hand warm and steady at the small of your back, guiding you toward the car like you were precious cargo with a known history of trying to commit public disturbances.

“I could’ve taken her,” you said.

Jack unlocked the car. “I know.”

You looked at him suspiciously. “You keep saying that like you’re humoring me.”

Jack opened the passenger door and looked down at you. “I am humoring you.”

You frowned. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” Jack said.

You crossed your arms. “She was mean first.”

Jack’s expression changed. Not much. It never took much with him. His humor softened at the edges, and his hand moved from your back to your waist. “I know,” he said.

The quieter version of it made something in your chest pull tight. You looked away first. Across the parking lot, Santos whooped from somewhere behind you.

“Justice!” Santos called.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Robby’s voice followed. “Hydrate and regroup!”

Shen added, “Solid effort!”

Mel said something too low for you to hear, but it sounded like a warning. Ellis laughed.

You lifted one hand in their direction without turning around. “Thank you for your service.”

Jack caught your wrist gently before you could do anything else with your fingers. “No more gestures.”

Your brow furrowed. “I was waving.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. That should not have warmed you. It did anyway. Jack helped you into the passenger seat without making a production of it. He waited until your legs were inside before he leaned across you for the seat belt.

“I can do that,” you said.

Jack paused with the belt in his hand. “Can you?”

You looked down at the seat belt. It was, admittedly, farther away than it should have been. “I was about to.”

Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. “I’m sure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Patronizing.”

“Married,” Jack said.

“That is not a defense.”

Jack shrugged. “It is in this case.”

He drew the belt across your lap, careful not to jostle you, then clicked it into place. His hand lingered for half a second at your hip before he pulled back. You hated how much you noticed.

Jack straightened, one hand braced on the open door. “Comfortable?”

You looked at him. “I was more comfortable before justice was interrupted.”

Jack stared at you for a second. Then his mouth betrayed him again. Small. Soft. A little tired. “My mistake,” he said.

You leaned back against the seat. “It was.”

He shut the door before you could say anything else. Through the windshield, you watched him walk around the front of the car. He moved with that steady, slightly uneven gait you loved and pretended not to watch too closely in public. Even after all these years, even after marriage, even after seeing him half-asleep in your kitchen and shirtless in your bathroom and grumpy with morning coffee, the sight of him still made something in you go quiet.

The woman at the bar had looked at him and seen the obvious things.

The broad shoulders. The scarred hands. The silver-threaded hair. The wedding ring she had ignored until he made her see it. Then she had looked at you.

Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.

You swallowed and turned your face toward the window.

Jack got into the driver’s seat. He closed the door. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Jack started the car. The engine hummed low beneath the silence.

You watched the bar lights smear across the passenger window. “I’m not drunk.”

Jack glanced at you. “No?”

“I’m less drunk,” you amended.

Jack almost smiled. “That I’ll give you.”

You nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

Jack pulled out of the parking lot. “You’re still not fighting anyone.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to fight her,” you grumbled.

Jack looked over at you.

You kept your eyes on the window. “Recently.”

Jack’s hand settled on the gearshift. “That’s progress.”

You sat a little straighter. “I’m growing.”

Jack kept his eyes on the road. “You did tell me people grow.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile.

The silence that followed was softer. Not awkward. Just full. You watched the city pass in little pieces of light and dark. Streetlamps. Closed storefronts. Wet pavement from rain earlier in the evening. Your own reflection in the window, softened by alcohol and tiredness and the makeup you had put on because you had wanted to feel pretty tonight.

You had felt pretty tonight.

Before.

That annoyed you most. The fact that one stranger with one mean little sentence had managed to get under something you had thought was steadier than that.

Jack turned down the radio until it was barely more than a murmur. He kept his eyes on the road. “You’re quiet.”

You leaned your forehead lightly against the window. “I’m reflecting.”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That sounds dangerous.”

You nodded once. “It is. I’m very deep.”

Jack glanced over. “I know.”

You looked over at him. “You do?”

Jack glanced at you, then back at the road. “You told me once during a migraine that you had the soul of a Victorian ghost and the knees of a haunted rocking chair.”

You stared at him. Jack kept driving.

“I was vulnerable,” you said.

You looked back out the window. The humor helped. It did not fix the thing underneath. For a few minutes, you let the quiet sit between you. Jack did not push. He never pushed when you went quiet. He just stayed there, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the center console, close enough that you could reach him if you wanted to. You did want to. You did not move.

Jack pulled into your driveway and put the car in park. The porch light was on. Home. Safe.

That made the ache worse somehow.

Jack turned off the engine, then looked over at you. “Ready?”

You unbuckled your seat belt. “I can walk.”

Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “Did I say you couldn’t?”

“You were thinking it,” you shot back.

Jack shrugged. “I was thinking the front step is uneven.”

You opened the door. “That is suspiciously practical.”

Jack came around the car. “That is usually what I am.”

You stepped out of the car and immediately had to catch yourself on the doorframe because the world tilted just enough to be disrespectful. Jack was there before you could pretend it had not happened. His hand settled at your waist.

You looked up at him. “Don’t.”

Jack’s face stayed calm. “Don’t what?”

You looked up at him. “Be smug.”

Jack kept a steady hand on your waist. “I’m not smug.”

“You are internally smug,” you replied.

Jack’s mouth tilted in a grin. “I’m internally relieved I didn’t let you start a bar fight.”

You pointed at him. “See? Smug.”

Jack closed the car door behind you and guided you toward the house. “Come on.”

You let him. Not because you needed the help. Not entirely. His hand at your waist was warm and familiar. His body moved close beside yours, steadying you without making it a thing. The whole night had been loud and ridiculous and humiliating, but Jack’s touch had never once made you feel foolish. That was also annoying. At the front step, your shoe caught slightly.

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist before you could stumble. You froze for half a second, then looked down at the porch.

Jack followed your gaze. “Step.”

You sighed. “I saw it.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You glanced up at him. “Don’t.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’m not.”

He did not tease you. He did not make it a thing. He just kept his hand steady at your waist while you found your keys and unlocked the door. Jack shut the door behind you, and the house went quiet around you.

The kind of quiet that came after a night out. Shoes by the door. Keys in the bowl. The soft hum of the refrigerator. Your reflection in the dark front window, a little rumpled, a little flushed, still wearing the lipstick you had thought looked good before some stranger made you feel like a punchline. You stood there for one second too long. Jack noticed. Of course he did.

He moved past you gently and turned on the lamp by the couch. Warm light filled the living room, softening the edges of everything. “Come here,” Jack said.

You looked at him. “That sounded bossy.”

Jack’s voice softened. “That was me asking you to sit down before you decide the lamp looked at you wrong.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Jack saw it. His expression eased a little. “There she is.”

You looked away before your face could do anything worse. “I’m still mad,” you said.

Jack waited beside the couch, one hand held out, palm open. “I know.”

You looked down at his hand. He did not push. He did not reach for you. He just stood there, steady and patient and Jack, giving you the choice even though you both knew he would catch you if you stumbled.

After a second, you took his hand. Jack helped you sit on the couch, careful without making a show of it.

“I can sit by myself,” you said.

Jack’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles before he let go. “I know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re doing that thing.”

Jack moved toward the kitchen. “What thing?”

“The thing where you agree with me and still act like I need supervision,” you said.

Jack disappeared around the corner. “You flipped off a woman in a bar.”

You leaned back against the couch. “That was communication.”

From the kitchen, Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That was evidence.”

You crossed your arms. “I was very clear.”

The cabinet opened. The sink turned on. Jack came back a moment later with a glass of water in one hand.

He set it on the coffee table in front of you. “Drink.”

You looked at the glass, then up at him. “Again?”

Jack lowered himself onto the coffee table across from you. “Again.”

You reached for the water. “You are very committed to hydration.”

Jack watched you take a sip. “You are very committed to being difficult.”

You swallowed and lowered the glass. “Marriage is about balance.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Apparently.”

You leaned forward and started working on the zipper of your boot.

It did not cooperate. You frowned at it. The zipper remained unmoved. “Traitor,” you muttered.

Jack’s gaze dropped to the boot. “Need help?”

You sat back immediately. “No.”

Jack lifted both hands slightly. “Okay.”

You tried the zipper again. It stuck. Jack said nothing.

You glared at the boot. “This is not about you.”

Jack looked up at you. “I didn’t say it was.”

“You were thinking it,” you said.

Jack’s eyes moved briefly to the stuck zipper. “I was thinking you’re arguing with your boot.”

You looked up at him. “You are not emotionally supportive.”

Jack held out his hand. “Give me your foot.”

You hesitated for one second too long. Jack’s voice softened. “Baby.”

The fight went out of you in a way you hated. You lifted your foot. Jack took your ankle carefully, his thumb resting against the inside bone like he had done this a hundred times. He worked the zipper down without fuss, then eased the boot off and set it beside the couch.

He looked back at you. “Other one.”

You gave him the other foot. This zipper cooperated because apparently everyone respected Jack more than they respected you.

Jack set the second boot beside the first. “There.”

You looked down at your socked feet. “I had it.”

Jack’s hands rested lightly around your ankle for one more second before he let go. “I know.”

You looked at him.

Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “I know.”

That did it. Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But something in your chest cracked open just enough for the hurt to breathe. You looked away from him and reached for the water. Jack stayed where he was, sitting on the coffee table in front of you, close but not crowding.

You took a sip. Then another.

Jack waited. That was worse than him asking.

Finally, you lowered the glass. “I know it was stupid,” you said.

Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “What was?”

You rubbed at your cheek, and your thumb came away with a faint smudge of mascara. “Getting mad.”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “I don’t think it was stupid.”

You huffed once. “Jack.”

Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “I think you were drunk.”

You gave him a look. “Helpful.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “And mad.”

“Also helpful,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened, but his eyes stayed serious. “And I think she hit something she meant to hit.”

You looked down at the water glass in your hands. That was the worst part. He knew. Of course he knew.

You swallowed. The room felt too quiet now. The bar had been easier. The noise had given you somewhere to hide. The tequila had given you a costume to wear. Feral wife. Angry wife. Wife with justice. Wife who could take her.

Here, you were just yourself. Socked feet. Smudged makeup. Too sober to be funny and not sober enough to pretend. You traced your thumb along the side of the glass. “She looked like someone people expect you to be with.”

Jack went very still.

You hated saying it.

You hated how small it made you feel after all that noise and swagger and fury.

You kept your eyes on the glass. “And then she looked at me like…”

Jack did not interrupt.

You pressed your lips together, then tried again. “Like I was the punchline.”

Jack’s face changed. The humor was gone now. All of it.

“Baby,” Jack said.

You shook your head. “I know you love me.”

Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “I do.”

“I know,” you said quickly.

Jack stayed still in front of you.

You gripped the glass a little tighter. “I know that.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

You looked down at your lap. “I’m not saying I don’t know.”

Jack’s voice stayed gentle. “I know.”

You blinked hard. “But for one second, I just—”

Your voice broke off.

A small, humorless laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Jack’s hand moved to your knee, warm and steady. “For one second, what?”

You stared at your lap. “I saw what she saw.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

Not at you.

Never at you.

But something cold moved through his face, and for one second you saw the version of him that had looked back at the woman in the bar. The version who had not let you turn around because he knew exactly how badly you wanted to.

Then his hand softened on your knee. “Look at me,” Jack said.

You shook your head. “Jack.”

Jack’s voice lowered. “Baby, look at me.”

You did. Reluctantly.

His face was serious now. No teasing. No dry amusement. Just Jack, steady and devastating and yours.

“She doesn’t know what I see,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. “Jack—”

“No,” Jack said, gentle but firm.

His hand found yours, and his thumb moved over your wedding ring. “She doesn’t know my type,” Jack said.

You looked down at his thumb on your ring.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “She doesn’t know my wife.”

Your eyes burned.

Jack held your hand carefully. “She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about what I want.”

You swallowed. “And what do you want?”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “You.”

You breathed in shakily.

Jack did not look away. “Not because you’re my wife.”

Your fingers tightened around his.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your ring. “Not because I’m supposed to say it.”

You blinked hard.

“You,” Jack said. “In every room. At every bar. In front of every woman stupid enough to think she has a chance because she caught me before I said the word wife.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Jack caught it with his thumb, his expression softening in a way that made it worse.

“There is not a single version of my life where I look past you,” Jack said.

You tried to breathe around that.

It came out uneven.

Jack shifted closer, moving from the coffee table to the couch beside you. He did not pull you into him right away. He waited until you leaned first.

So you leaned.

Jack wrapped his arm around you and tucked you against his chest.

You let yourself go there.

Because it was Jack.

Because it was home.

Because the anger had done its job and left you with the soft thing underneath.

His hand moved slowly over your back.

You pressed your face into his shirt. “I still could’ve taken her.”

Jack’s chest moved under your cheek. A laugh. Small and helpless.

Jack said, “I know.”

You sniffed. “You stopped me because you hate feminism.”

Jack pressed his mouth to your hair. “I stopped you because I like not bailing my wife out of jail.”

You closed your eyes. “Coward.”

Jack said, “Your coward.”

You smiled against his shirt despite yourself. Then you pulled back enough to look at him.

Jack’s hand moved to your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye where the mascara had smudged.

“You good?” Jack asked.

You nodded. Then you shook your head. Then you made a vague noise that meant absolutely nothing.

Jack’s mouth softened. “That clear, huh?”

You leaned your cheek into his palm. “I’m getting there.”

Jack reached for the water glass on the coffee table. “Drink more water.”

You looked at him. “Was that attending voice again?”

Jack handed you the glass. “That was husband voice.”

You considered that. Then you took the water. “Fine.”

Jack watched you lift the glass.

You took a sip, then lowered it. “But only because husband voice is hot.”

Jack stared at you. Then he laughed, low and warm, and pulled you closer again.

You drank the water. Under protest. Less than before.

Later, upstairs, the fight had gone out of you completely. The tequila. The anger. The justice.

All of it had softened into exhaustion by the time you stood at the bathroom sink in your pajamas, brushing your teeth with your hair pulled back from your face and the last traces of makeup washed clean from your skin. You leaned over the sink and rinsed your mouth.

When you straightened, Jack appeared in the doorway with his clothes from the night held loosely in one hand. He stopped.

You saw it happen in the mirror. The pause. The way his eyes moved over you, not quickly, not carelessly, but like he was taking in something he had no intention of looking away from.

You wiped the corner of your mouth with the towel. “What?”

Jack stepped into the bathroom and dropped his clothes into the hamper. “Nothing,” he said.

You turned from the sink and gave him a look.

He came closer and stopped in front of you. For a second, he almost smiled. Then his hands lifted to your face. Jack cupped your cheeks in both palms, warm and steady, his thumbs resting lightly beneath your eyes. He looked at you like the whole night had narrowed to this bathroom, this light, this version of you with no lipstick, no armor, no righteous fury left to hide behind.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His gaze held yours. “You are so fucking beautiful,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened at once.

He did not say it like a line.

He did not say it like reassurance he thought he owed you.

He said it like fact.

Plain. Certain. Almost rough with how much he meant it.

You tried to look away, but his hands held your face gently in place.

“Like this,” Jack said. “Right now.”

Your eyes burned.

Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Every room. Every bar. Every morning in this bathroom when you think I’m not looking.”

A shaky breath left you.

His voice dropped lower. “Especially then.”

You closed your eyes for half a second. When you opened them again, Jack was still looking at you. Not past you. Not around you. At you.

The ache in your chest loosened so suddenly it almost hurt.

You stepped forward, let your forehead drop against his chest, and slid your arms around his waist. “I love you,” you said.

Jack’s arms came around you immediately. “I love you too,” he said into your hair.

You pressed closer to him, eyes closed, your cheek against the soft, worn cotton of his shirt.

For a while, neither of you moved.

There was no music now.

No bar noise.

No woman across the room.

No tequila making you brave.

Just Jack’s hands slow over your back, his mouth pressed to the top of your head, his ring cool against your spine.

After a minute, you mumbled into his chest, “I still could’ve taken her.”

Jack’s laugh moved through him before you heard it.

Small. Warm. Helpless.

Jack said, “I know.”

You smiled against him.

Jack kissed your hair. “Water?”

You groaned. “Jack.”

Jack smiled faintly. “Husband voice.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him.

Jack looked down at you, eyes warm.

You sighed. “Fine.”

He reached for the water glass on the counter and handed it to you.

You took it from him with great dignity. “Under protest.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “Less than before?”

You took a sip. Then you leaned back into him. “Less than before,” you admitted.

Jack’s arms closed around you again. And this time, when he held you, there was nothing left in you trying to fight.

@nosebeers @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24, @itzpixieba, @scott-890, @disappearintofanfiction, @laughsandlivia, @missmillivanilli, @normanscupcake

[drjabbotswife]

i've literally got three tabs open to work on three different things rn but idk what to focus on

popes version of hucklebaby: their neighbour, craigs friend. sweet as a peach and pope just wants to protect her

jack abbot's kid: jack abbot's oldest son turns up at the ed on his night shift with a 'late night football practice injury'. jack smells bullshit

pope falls in love with a stripper: baz shoves some money in your thong for you to fuck his 'brother' on his birthday. you take pope to the back room and give the money to him instead. one act of kindness and he's a dog at your command.

what do i post first?

popes version of hucklebaby

jack abbot's kid

pope falls in love with a stripper

Remaining time: 1 hour 24 minutes

[nurse-abbot]

Jack Abbot x Witchy!girlie

- she gets him to pick out a crystal that “speaks to him.” He doesn’t know what that means but picks a cool blue shiny one. “Ooh, that once good for emotional balance,” she’d say. “I’m going to charge it then you need to keep it in your pocket.” “Why?” He’d ask. She’d laugh as if he were silly for even asking the question, “to keep you safe baby.”

- their apartment always smells of incense. It isn’t overpowering. She chooses homey scents - lavender, sandal wood, rosemary.

- soy candles are all over their apartment too. Jack likes it. It’s homey and comforting - especially after the bright artificial lights of the hospital.

- he often finds her cross legged on the floor doing her daily tarot pulls and always asks if he wants one. He’s surprised at how accurate they are and he finds himself relying on them to know if a shift will be chaos or not.

- he takes her to her favourite witchy shops and watches as she eyes the beautiful new tarot decks and crystal spheres but leaves them knowing it’s not in her budget right now. He sneaks back when they’re having a coffee break to buy them for her.

- he often finds himself texting her when a shift is going bad, asking what planet is in retrograde and what the cards are saying. She often replies “people are just assholes Jack without any planets to blame” and “the cards can’t replace medicine baby.”

[drjabbotswife]

prev

the way belle stares at her father should be unnerving. if she did it to Craig, deran or baz, it would be.

but belle has her father's stare.

she steps closer to him. "why does everybody call you pope?" she asks him. it hurts to hear, his own daughter calling him the name baz uses to torment him.

he call feel his mothers eyes on him as he takes belles hand. "well, sweetheart, I had to go to church when I was younger so your uncle baz started calling me pope."

she looks behind her at baz and back at her father. "but mommy calls you Andrew," she says and shakes her head. "what am I supposed to call you?"

pope lets out a breath. his daughter stands before him, three years older than the last time he saw her, talking in three word sentences that were only just beginning to make sense. and now she speaks to him in full sentences, asking him questions and understanding the answers.

"well, i'm your dad so you can call me dad," he begins. she steps closer to him and places her hand on his knee. "but i know i haven't been around much so you can call me andrew."

belle furrows her brows. she tries out his name, a little andrew that just doesn't sound right coming from his baby girl. smurf hides her laugh with her drink when belle shakes her head. she's like andrew in mini form.

"that's not right," she says, her brows furrowed. "what would adam call you?"

andrew takes a moment to think about it. he mirrors belles furrowed brows. "i hope adam will call me dad," he confesses. his body visibly relaxes once he says it. he's got a chance to do it right, to be a dad again. something he didn't think he'd get when he went into folsom.

"okay," belle says. "i'll call you dad too. can i sit on your lap and watch tv with you? mommy says we used to do that a lot."

"yeah, we did," pope answers. he picks belle up and sits her on his knee.

and, for a moment, it's just like when belle was a baby. watching nature documentaries with belle on his lap, in his arms when she was really tiny. this time around she's speaking, asking him all sorts of questions he tries to answer.

her final question is the one that breaks him.

"are you gonna leave again?"

pope shakes his head. "i'm not going anywhere, belle," he tells her, his voice small and sure all at once. but really, he can't be sure. having you and his kids in smurfs house, he can't be sure. being under smurfs thumb like this, he can't be sure.

but he's damn well gonna do everything he can not to go back to folsom.

[drjabbotswife]

Hi, I just had to tell you that I'm still thinking about the Pope's Secret Wife you wrote, it keeps spinning around in my head and I love it

eeee!! i've been thinking about it so much that i started a second part

prev

(pope had tried going home. his key didn't work, his wife didn't answer the knock on the door. you must be out somewhere doing something else. so he leaves, goes to his mothers house to say hello and kill time)

"I'll just go back to my place."

smurf looks at her son. the way she looks at baz passes the responsibility onto him. "you can't, man," he says and looks back at pope. "we sold it."

the rest of the cody's try not to be scared of pope. yeah, they wonder what folsom did to him, but he wouldn't hurt them, right? smurf wouldn't let him.

but, right now, they can't tell. their brother is fucking crazy and he looks like he wants to hurt every person in this room.

"where's my wife?" he asks, his voice a deadly calm. "where's my fucking wife?!"

"it's okay, baby," smurf says, reaching for him again. "we've kept her safe, but we've got some stuff to take care of before that."

smurf has you. pope had spent so long trying to keep you and your daughter safe from his family and she has you.

"i'm upset with you, pope," smurf says as she fixes herself another drink. "keeping my beautiful grandbabies from me."

***

a knock at your door. it's had you jumpy for the last three years, since your husband was taken from you. the people that knew never told you what happened, leaving you entirely in the dark as you raise two kids in a dingy apartment.

and you're afraid, terrified. which of her sons would she send to demand rent cheques that you couldn't pay? it went the same way every time. you insisting that you can't pay, craig or deran (baz rarely came by) getting smurf on the phone. she agrees to let the rent go if you bring her grandbabies by.

her grandbabies. not your children. not andrews children. but her grandbabies. you feel sick each and every time you take them into that house, the house your husband was abused in.

you look through the peephole. smurf stands on the other side of the door, her sons flanking her. you turn to your daughter, colouring in front of the tv. "belle, honey," you call and your six year old turns to you. "go sit with your brother."

she nodded and heads towards the bedroom she shares with her brother, who is currently napping.

you pull the door open just enough for smurf to see your face. "what do you want, smurf?" you ask, your voice short.

"drop the hostility, baby," she says, trying to look behind you. you block her view. "i've got a surprise for you."

your jaw is set, your stare hardened. whatever smurf had, it couldn't good. you look to the side.

his hair is shorter, his shoulder hunched like he's carrying the weight of the world. "andrew?" you breathe like you can't quite believe it.

he looks at you and you finally see your husband. you run at him, unable to hold yourself back. he doesn't catch you when you wrap your arms around him, doesn't kiss you back when you press your lips to his. no, he's staring at his mother like he wants to put a bullet in her head.

"where's belle?" he whispers, like his mother won't find out if he says it quietly enough.

"she's inside," you answer and reach for his hand. "i have to tell you something."

but you don't want to say it with his family surrounding you. you want to drag him into the apartment, into the place where you had to try and build a life without him. fuck, you want to cry.

"grandma!"

your spine stiffens as belle runs out of the apartment. she runs at smurf, who immediately drops down for a hug. "there''s my best girl!" smurf cries. you know she truly loves your kids, her grandkids, but that woman is nothing but bad. she looks up at you as she hugs belle. "where's adam?" she asks you.

you pull your husband behind you. you pull hi into the apartment while smurf asks your daughter if she'd like to come live in her house. "i have to tell you something," you say quietly as andrew follows you. "I was pregnant when you left."

six words so easily shatter his world. andrew looks at you, looks around the apartment. it's an entire mess, like you partially stopped functioning without him. only holding on for your kids.

"you have a son, andrew," you say and reach up to feel his hair. he lets you.

you lead him through the apartment to the kids bedroom. adam sleeps in his crib, holding onto a teddy almost the same size as him. a little boy, a little version of andrew, sleeping like an angel.

andrew doesn't cry. he stares at his son with the same fondness he uses to look at his daughter. a sweet man that's been through so much, that just wants to love his family. he reaches down, brushes adams cheek with his finger.

pope decides it then. he's gonna make this right. he's gonna do whatever jobs smurf wants him to so that he can find you a better place to live. a place where your neighbours aren't all low level criminals.

(smurf brings you to live with her while andrew is at the motel. she doesn't give you much of a choice; your kids are living in a 'safe environment' and your husband spends every day at her house, every day with you.

at first, belle doesn't recognise her dad. she was almost three when he went in, six when he came out. it breaks pope's heart, until she comes to him one day.

"mommy showed me pictures of you," she tells him, staring up at him with his eyes. "she says you're my daddy."

he nods at her. "i am your daddy," he says and crouches down in front of her. belle takes his hand. and that's good enough for him)

[drjabbotswife]

this is getting a third part

[minidodds]

I don't now about y'all, but one of my favorite scenes in AK is when Pope is blasting, at a deafening volume, West Water Outlaws with Lena in the car. Gotta expose them kids to the right music from a young age.

And note that Lena is a happy camper because he got her ice cream.

Nobody can convince me that that man is not husband and father material.

[popepout]

when andrew’s upset with you he doesn’t really speak to you but he’s also too clingy to stop touching you … so you’ll be sitting on the couch ‘n pouting after an argument, and he’ll just come up and stuff his face under your skirt and between your thighs, nuzzling against your panty covered pussy with his nose and mouth like it’s normal … when you angrily whine his name and try to shove at his forehead, he only locks his arms around your thighs ‘n overpowers you, making you shiver.

“calm down, don’t wanna talk to you anyway—” he grumbles, making your frown deepen and your eyes sting with tears that you refuse to let spill. his gaze flickers down to your soft cunt that’s still hidden away and undoubtedly getting messy, talking like it’s a separate person and not a part of his bratty girlfriend, “just checking on my favorite girl.”

[drjabbotswife]

work was a struggle bc I spent most of thinking about the quinn audio

[drjabbotswife]

blog masterlist

jack abbot x younger! reader

in which jack abbot accidentally fucks huckleberry's twin sister

smut, age gap (reader is mid 20's - jack is late 40's plus), slight daddy kink (though daddy is never used) lets assume she's on birth control, jack has a dominant personality, dick sucking, cum swallowing, exploration of daddy kink

Chapters:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six (coming soon)

Bonus:

who's the younger twin

hucklebaby's memes

[drjabbotswife]

Hucklebaby

Chapter Five

jack abbot x younger! reader

in which jack abbot accidentally fucks huckleberry's twin sister

smut, age gap (reader is mid 20's - jack is late 40's plus), slight daddy kink (though daddy is never used) lets assume she's on birth control, jack has a dominant personality, protective jack, lowkey protective brother-in-law robby

hucklebaby masterlist

"good to have you home, kid."

you weren't expecting either of them to be home when you used your brother's key to let yourself into the house he shared with his husband to be. it's the day, he and robby (you've taken to calling him that and he doesn't entirely know how he feels).

you're paused in the hallway, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. not in your own clothes, robby can tell that much. you've got a shopping bag hanging from your forearm, probably full of your clothes, he guesses.

he just sips his coffee as he stares at you. "yeah," you say, standing straighter and pulling your shirt further down like you've forgotten you're wearing shorts. jack's shorts. "yeah, i..."

but you're searching for the words, floundering. and robby just smiles into his coffee. he finishes the mug and nods his head towards the kitchen. "come on," he says and begins walking. "I'll make you breakfast."

breakfast with robby. michael robinavitch. mike, you've heard dennis call him once or twice before. there's something about it that's making you nervous, that's making you feel like you did back when your daddy would catch you sneaking out when you were a teenager.

a disapproving father, ready to give his daughter a lecture. you swallow thickly and follow after him.

"thought you'd be at work," you say honestly as you slip into the seat. at the kitchen table

standing at the stove, robby shakes his head. "dennis is, but i'm not."

you nod and straighten out the place mat in front of you. "even attendings get a day off," you mutter and he nods. you look at him, brows furrowed as you think. "when does jack get a night off?"

and robby pauses. egg ready to crack against the side of the pan but he's still. he turns to you, looking every bit the disappointed father. you get it, you get why your brother is so attracted to this man that is so much older than the both of you. this man that looks like he could rock your world and give you a lecture all at once.

and it's almost like jack, just different. he'll rock your world, but he won't give you a lecture. he'll take care of you instead.

your tastes differ, but not by much.

"that's what i wanted to talk to you about," he says and finally cracks the egg. it hits the hot pan with a sizzle.

he doesn't turn to you, doesn't look you in he eye and tell you what he wants to tell you. maybe that was the point of the breakfast, to distract himself from having to look at you when he says what he needs to say. you wouldn't call him a coward, not for the work he does every day, but you wish he'd just look at you and say it.

"you can just come out with it," you tell him, picking at the skin around your nails. your nails themselves were now perfect, painted carefully while jack was on his night shift. "whatever you want to say, just say it."

and, honestly, it takes robby by surprise. you don't hold back, don't pull any punches. there's a reason jack likes you.

"okay," he says and turns the stove off. he walks around the breakfast bar and and pulls out a seat at the table. he sits opposite you and clasps his hands together like this is some kind of work meeting. how many residents have seen him like this, all serious and such?

"you and doctor abbot," he begins and you roll your eyes.

"jack," you answer.

robby gives you a look. because you're being ridiculous and, by the way you've fixed him with a smirk, you know it. "you and jack," he continues and you nod, satisfied with the change. "do you know what you're doing there?"

he sees the change in you, the way you fold your arms over your chest and fix him with a glare that is downright nasty. "do you know what you're doing with my brother?" you spit, venom in your voice.

robby shakes his head. "i'm going to marry your brother," he says. you roll your eyes and robby releases a breath. the petulant child being scolded by the parent. and he's not that much older than your - than whatever jack is.

"your brother and I have been together for a while now," he says, ignoring whatever shitty response you're waiting to let loose. "we're marrying each other because we feel ready for it. but what you've got going on with jack is-"

"Is what?" you're like a poked bear, standing up, ready to swipe your claws across his chest.

robby sucks in another breath and runs his hand over his face. "he's not seen anybody seriously since his wife died." he says it slowly, like you need some time to think.

just like he thought you would, you sit back. "is he seeing me seriously?" you ask, your voice finally small. and robby regrets it instantly. "or, what is this? should i just pack up and go back to nebraska and forget all about this?"

you're back to picking at your nails. "I didn't mean it like that," robby says and shakes his head. "i've not seen jack like this in a long time," he continues, playing with the ring on his finger, the one he'd one day soon exchange for a wedding ring.

you're looking up at him with wet lashes. and, fuck, robby feels horrible. "is that a good thing or a bad thing?" you ask, putting your nail between your teeth. not to bite down and rip off, but just to chew on the perfect paintwork.

robby reaches across the table and pulls your hand away from your mouth. he sees it then and only then, but probably because you didn't let him see it before. you're scared, terrified of whatever this is you've got with jack. you blink you watery lashes and the tears fall. "I don't know if i'm making a mistake here, robby. i mean, what if this isn't forever? what if i leave home, move out here and it isn't forever?"

you wipe away the tears but you don't sit there and sob. robby stands and walks around the table. he drags the chair on the end behind him and sits next to you, his hand on your back. "it might not be forever," he says honestly. more tears, but you're still not sobbing. "and, if you think it's gonna be forever and it doesn't end up being forever, you've always got a room here?"

your hand wipes at your nose as you sniffle. "thanks," you say and wipe under your eyes. "you'd let me stay even though jack's your friend?" you ask him.

robby lets out a gentle laugh and nods. "you're family, kid," he says and stands. "i'm gonna make you something to eat and then you can disappear upstairs." he puts the chair back at the end of the table, steps around the breakfast nook and returns to the stove.

"robby?" you call as he flips the egg. he hums, turning his body only slightly towards you. "you'll be a good dad," you tell him.

there's nobody that can steal the smile from his face after that.

***

the text message sits on your phone, ready to be sent. but you don't press send, leave it there, waiting.

a younger man would call you needy. a man sure about you would soothe your worries. but you're not sure where you stand with jack, whether this message will send him running for the hills.

it would just be awkward after that, at the wedding, pretending you weren't so briefly in love with him at one point that you were willing to leave your life in nebraska behind to be with him.

you: are we something serious?

no, no, no. it's all wrong. you backspace it and retype it, something less desperate and needy.

you: just wondering what we are :)

you: it's fine if we're nothing

you: just wondering

there. perfect. it's too late anyway, you've already sent them. you've already sent them and now jack is gonna think you're needy and now he's not gonna reply to you and now you're never gonna see him again except for awkward interactions where him working with your brother and his future husband forces you to interact.

you throw your phone to the end of your bed and scream into the pillow.

and then there's every other possibility. that he'll think you don't want something serious with him. that you're sending that message because you want to pull back and you want him to pull back, too.

you scramble for the phone. maybe you can just delete the messages and he never has to see them and you can go back to normal.

your fingers fly over the number the number pad and you unlock your phone. you're frantic, trying to get to your messages.

read

fuck! you throw you phone back to the other end of the bed. read but not replied to. you scream into the pillow again.

from the end of the bed, your phone vibrates. you stare at it, terrified. this is it. this is the i don't think we should see each other again call. this is the it's been fun, but i need someone older call.

you hold the pillow against your chest and watch it. his picture fills your phone screen, his 'readers' on his face as he squints at the camera like he can't really see. the thought of not seeing that anymore breaks your heart, snaps it in two and leaves you bleeding on the floor.

your phone rings until it can ring no more. the screen goes black, jack's face disappearing from view. you cry, full sobs that you held back earlier. tears rolling down your cheeks, makeup a mess.

your phone lights up again. a quick ping!, a text message coming through. you double tap the screen until you can see it in full.

jack: pick up the phone

jack: sweetheart

jack: i'm being serious

you wipe your nose on the pillow and unlock your phone. you're already on his contact, already reading his messages. you press the call button by his contact picture, put it on speaker and wait.

jack picks up almost instantly. and for an instant, you say nothing. just the sounds of your sniffling. "sweetheart," he says and you sob.

such a lovely nickname for something so fleeting.

"hi," you manage. it's wet and gross and you know he can tell you've been crying.

"what's going on, sweet girl?" jack asks immediately. you almost crumble. "what were those texts about?"

you wipe away your tees and draw in a shaking breath. you can do this. you can do this. "just thinking," you answer, breath shaking and lip wobbling. a nothing answer and you know it.

"you don't want to be something serious?" he asks.

and you're crying all over again. not because of his question, but the thought of not being something serious might tear you apart. tear you apart and then you'll have to go to PTMC and have to see him all over again when he comes in for his night shift.

"talk to me, sweetheart. i can't fix it unless you talk to me."

the phone rests on the pillow in your lap. you pick it up, as if that'll somehow make you feel better. it doesn't. "do you want to be something serious?" you're not sure if he can ever understand you with how unsure you sound.

he pauses. fuck, this is exactly what you're afraid of, exactly why you didn't want to ask him.

"is that what this is about, sweetheart? you were literally riding me this morning."

a fact, but it doesn't answer your question. "jack," you push.

"this is something serious," he answers, his voice sure. you're entirely jealous of the feeling. "sweetheart, this has always been something serious. we don't have to keep it serious, if you don't want to-"

"no!" you say quickly, your heart beating so damn fast.

another pause. another reason for you to cry. "that's it," he says in that low voice that sends a thrill down your spine. "good girl. you gonna be okay while i drive over?"

there's a small part of you that hates yourself for crying some more. but he's so fucking good. he's so good and he wants something serious with you. of course you're gonna start sobbing.

"but robby's here," you manange, your cheeks entirely damp.

"breathe for me, sweetheart. i'll be there soon."

"but robby," you say again.

"don't worry about it, okay? i'll be there soon."

"okay," you answer. no goodbyes, not yet. you don't think you can emotionally handle that.

jack hangs up and you jump from the bed. leaving your phone discarded. you grab your makeup wipes from the dresser and clean up your face. no makeup, no more tears. you free your hair from the tie and head downstairs.

robby sits on the sofa, another cup of coffee. you wonder just how many he consumes in a day, how many cups he needs to get through the day shift. of course that translates to home; he'd probably crash without it.

his head turns slightly as you walk into the room. you feel like a child asking for parent's permission to have a friend over. "robby," you call, your hand on the door frame.

he hums and turns his head fully, looking at you over the back of the sofa. you don't want to shrink, you want to talk to him adult to adult. but this entire thing has left you fragile and needing comfort. comfort that was on his way (you should have told him to grab snacks).

"jack's coming over," you tell him. robby's eyebrows go up. "i asked him something stupid and got a little upset so he's on his way." you tighten your grip on the door frame. "is that okay?"

robby laughs. just a small laugh, not one that has his full body shaking. "yeah, that's fine," he says.

you release a breath and look around, look at what he's watching on the tv. something mindless, something you're sure you've turned off when you've gotten the remote away from your brother before. you step around the sofa and sink into the armchair, joining him.

you sit there in silence, no need for any words. every few moments, you glance at the window, hope to see his car pulling up. it's a good few minutes, minutes full of doubt (minutes where you're hoping he's read your mind and is stopping for snacks).

but the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. he was in bed, without his leg. he had to get up, get dressed, put his leg on and get in the car. you relax into the armchair, waiting for him. you'll wait as patiently as you have to.

his car pulls up. you're out of the armchair before he's parked, running towards the front door. you yank it open and run out before you can stop yourself, before you can pull your shoes on and collect yourself.

jack climbs out of his car. you're running, calling his name. he turns, pushes the door shut just in time to catch you in his arms. "fuck, sweet girl," he whispers as you wrap your arms around him, standing on your tiptoes.

you just kiss him. arms around his neck, you press your lips to his. slowly, gently, the sweetest kiss the two of you have ever shared, you think. "jack," you say, your lips still against his. you don't want to pull away, not while he's here in your arms. "we're something serious," you whisper.

he nods, pressing his forehead against you're own. "we're something serious," he repeats, solidifying it for you. you're serious with doctor jack abbot. . you're something serious with doctor jack abbot.

he pulls away slightly, takes you in. "you're not wearing shoes," he says and you hum, kissing him again.

"i really wanted to see you," you answer.

his laugh is so damn loving. this is a man that loves you, even if you haven't said it to each other yet. and you know he loves you because you're something serious. "come on," he says and taps your ass. "jump."

you do, wrapping your legs around him. part of you wants to moan, to make some disgusting comment. right here? up against the car, doctor abbot? but you bite your lip and let him carry you away. "this might be really awkward," you tell him as he carries you towards robby and your brother's house. "robby's taking this whole big brother-in-law thing very seriously."

jack hums, but he's still smiling as he carries you. "should have thought about that before you came running outside with no shoes on," he says. you kiss him again. and again.

he carries you into the house, nudging the door shut with his hip. "can i put you down yet?" he asks, every couple of words muffled as you keep kissing him.

"no," you say without much thought.

jack puts you down anyway. "c'mon," he says, spinning you around. "let me go say hello to robby."

you let him go. reluctantly, keeping your hand in his. jack leads you into the sitting room. he stands behind the sofa, looking down at his friend. his close friend, though you wouldn't be able to tell from the way jack is looking at him.

"robby," he says, squeezing your hand.

robby turns his head, looks at his friend. "abbot," he says, but there's no venom in his voice, no venom in either of their voices.

jack walks towards the armchair. for a moment, you think he's gonna sit down and pull you into his lap. but he doesn't. "why don't you go and make us some coffees, sweetheart," he says and taps your ass, sending you on your way.

you turn to robby. "you want another?" you offer and he nods. you turn your attention to jack. "are you having a coffee or do you wanna nap after this?" you ask, hyper aware that you've potentially pulled him out of sleep.

jack kisses your hair. "yeah, sweetheart," he says and lets go of your hand. "i'll take a coffee."

you get the message, loud and clear. give me a minute while i talk to robby. you take robby's empty mug from him and disappear into the kitchen.

jack sinks into the armchair. "my girl sent me some weird texts today," he begins, rolling his trouser leg up to take off his prosthetic. "you know anything about that?"

robby glances towards the kitchen. "we had a little talk, brother. that was all."

jack furrows his brows. "she was crying, robby. you made my girl cry."

a breath leaves robby's lips and he leads forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "i was making sure you're good enough for her," robby confesses. "she's family now, jack. gotta make sure you're treating her right."

jack lets himself smile. you've got people looking out for you, people you can run to when he's not there. "this is something real, robby," he says. "i'm gonna treat her right."

robby settles deeper into the sofa. "you better, brother," he says and tips his head back against the sofa cushion.

you come into the room then, managing to hold three cups in two hands. holding the handles, keeping the mugs together. jack takes two of them from you and you pass the last one to robby.

"thank you, sweetheart," jack says as you walk back over to him. you take your too sweet coffee from his hand and sit on the arm of the sofa. not quite on his lap, but close enough that jack can wrap his arm around you.

"were you two being nice?" you ask them and sip your drink.

they look at each other. "we're always nice," jack answers and robby nods in agreement. "told robby how serious i am about you."

your cheeks are hot as you turn to him. "because we're something serious," you say and jack squeezes your hip.

you're something serious with jack abbot. you're something serious with jack abbot! you sit there happy with your future brother in law, your boyfriend (boyfriend!), waiting for your brother to come home.

this is happiness.

this looks like the end but it isn't! i have so much more planned for hucklebaby and her man

taglist: @nurse-abbot

@absdoesnothaveabs

@arkhamnist

@darknessofhell666-blog-blog

@thehockeynerd30

@slut4jackabbottt

@staygoldsquatchling02

@b3rriesyrup

@vicky066

@sirens-and-moonflowers

@multiversejumper

@theory-saturn

@prettyflowerlily

@archxve

@lavender2ari

@proudlyvastlake

@powellssaturn

@straykids1011

@decaffeinatedkryptoniteblizzard

[justagirlwhosbored]

I just love his every details I can't

[bbuuunnyyy]

babydaddy!pope after you tell him to take the baby out on a walk so you can get a lil nap in … n he’s all protective but scared of this tiny creature …

[drjabbotswife]

Hi, I just had to tell you that I'm still thinking about the Pope's Secret Wife you wrote, it keeps spinning around in my head and I love it

eeee!! i've been thinking about it so much that i started a second part

prev next

(pope had tried going home. his key didn't work, his wife didn't answer the knock on the door. you must be out somewhere doing something else. so he leaves, goes to his mothers house to say hello and kill time)

"I'll just go back to my place."

smurf looks at her son. the way she looks at baz passes the responsibility onto him. "you can't, man," he says and looks back at pope. "we sold it."

the rest of the cody's try not to be scared of pope. yeah, they wonder what folsom did to him, but he wouldn't hurt them, right? smurf wouldn't let him.

but, right now, they can't tell. their brother is fucking crazy and he looks like he wants to hurt every person in this room.

"where's my wife?" he asks, his voice a deadly calm. "where's my fucking wife?!"

"it's okay, baby," smurf says, reaching for him again. "we've kept her safe, but we've got some stuff to take care of before that."

smurf has you. pope had spent so long trying to keep you and your daughter safe from his family and she has you.

"i'm upset with you, pope," smurf says as she fixes herself another drink. "keeping my beautiful grandbabies from me."

***

a knock at your door. it's had you jumpy for the last three years, since your husband was taken from you. the people that knew never told you what happened, leaving you entirely in the dark as you raise two kids in a dingy apartment.

and you're afraid, terrified. which of her sons would she send to demand rent cheques that you couldn't pay? it went the same way every time. you insisting that you can't pay, craig or deran (baz rarely came by) getting smurf on the phone. she agrees to let the rent go if you bring her grandbabies by.

her grandbabies. not your children. not andrews children. but her grandbabies. you feel sick each and every time you take them into that house, the house your husband was abused in.

you look through the peephole. smurf stands on the other side of the door, her sons flanking her. you turn to your daughter, colouring in front of the tv. "belle, honey," you call and your six year old turns to you. "go sit with your brother."

she nodded and heads towards the bedroom she shares with her brother, who is currently napping.

you pull the door open just enough for smurf to see your face. "what do you want, smurf?" you ask, your voice short.

"drop the hostility, baby," she says, trying to look behind you. you block her view. "i've got a surprise for you."

your jaw is set, your stare hardened. whatever smurf had, it couldn't good. you look to the side.

his hair is shorter, his shoulder hunched like he's carrying the weight of the world. "andrew?" you breathe like you can't quite believe it.

he looks at you and you finally see your husband. you run at him, unable to hold yourself back. he doesn't catch you when you wrap your arms around him, doesn't kiss you back when you press your lips to his. no, he's staring at his mother like he wants to put a bullet in her head.

"where's belle?" he whispers, like his mother won't find out if he says it quietly enough.

"she's inside," you answer and reach for his hand. "i have to tell you something."

but you don't want to say it with his family surrounding you. you want to drag him into the apartment, into the place where you had to try and build a life without him. fuck, you want to cry.

"grandma!"

your spine stiffens as belle runs out of the apartment. she runs at smurf, who immediately drops down for a hug. "there''s my best girl!" smurf cries. you know she truly loves your kids, her grandkids, but that woman is nothing but bad. she looks up at you as she hugs belle. "where's adam?" she asks you.

you pull your husband behind you. you pull hi into the apartment while smurf asks your daughter if she'd like to come live in her house. "i have to tell you something," you say quietly as andrew follows you. "I was pregnant when you left."

six words so easily shatter his world. andrew looks at you, looks around the apartment. it's an entire mess, like you partially stopped functioning without him. only holding on for your kids.

"you have a son, andrew," you say and reach up to feel his hair. he lets you.

you lead him through the apartment to the kids bedroom. adam sleeps in his crib, holding onto a teddy almost the same size as him. a little boy, a little version of andrew, sleeping like an angel.

andrew doesn't cry. he stares at his son with the same fondness he uses to look at his daughter. a sweet man that's been through so much, that just wants to love his family. he reaches down, brushes adams cheek with his finger.

pope decides it then. he's gonna make this right. he's gonna do whatever jobs smurf wants him to so that he can find you a better place to live. a place where your neighbours aren't all low level criminals.

(smurf brings you to live with her while andrew is at the motel. she doesn't give you much of a choice; your kids are living in a 'safe environment' and your husband spends every day at her house, every day with you.

at first, belle doesn't recognise her dad. she was almost three when he went in, six when he came out. it breaks pope's heart, until she comes to him one day.

"mommy showed me pictures of you," she tells him, staring up at him with his eyes. "she says you're my daddy."

he nods at her. "i am your daddy," he says and crouches down in front of her. belle takes his hand. and that's good enough for him)