hi everyone! you can call me smith! she/her. welcome to my writing blog! big fan of older men, morally grey characters, and self inserting! i typically write f/m, but some of my fics are gn/m. no smut but sometimes implied, low swearing as well.
▸ last updated: 5/14/2026
▸ i'm only including newer fics, you can deep dive my blog if you want to find my old writing! (2021 era)
▸ art blog: @frickyeahart
▸ personal blog: @frickyeahmain
▸ AO3: fawsh
〈 fandoms i write for currently: DC, The Pitt, House M.D. Mission impossible 〉
// THE PITT
DR JACK ABBOT
OFF THE CLOCK // reader / dr jack abbot ▸ a blurb! about dr abbot taking care of you after a patient injures you
FALLING FOR HIM // f!reader / dr jack abbot ▸ a blurb! you run full speed into your work crush on your shift as a nurse in the pitt
CLAUSTROPHOBIA // f!reader / dr jack abbot ▸ a one shot! you get stuck in an elevator with jack abbot. he stops you from panicking.
ALL IN // f!reader / dr jack abbot ▸ a one shot! the PTMC hosts a charity event and jack asks you to be his plus one
DEPARTURE // f!reader / dr jack abbot ▸ a one shot! you find company waiting for a flight only to find out jack is sitting right next to you on the plane as well.
ROUGHHOUSING // f!reader / dr jack abbot ▸ a one blurb! you find out that jack is ridiculously ticklish
more fics under the cut
// DC
LEX LUTHOR
SLANDER // f!reader / lex luthor ▸ long fic! You’re a journalist for the Daily Planet. You’ve recently got your hands on some leaked documents on LuthorCorp, so you’re slowly unraveling the glossy image Lex Luthor has created for himself. You simply have a job to do, and he’s got a reputation to keep.
BEACH DAY // f!reader / lex luthor ▸ one shot! even ceo’s of massive corporations need a day off. but they can’t go anywhere without their secretary, of course.
ALL YOURS // f!reader / lex luthor ▸ a blurb! where lex gives you a necklace.
DRESS // f!reader / lex luthor ▸ a blurb! "Lex is gonna put waaay to much thought into picking the perfect dress hdbdb. Rip the Metropolis tailors, they're gonna have a rough week"
// HOUSE MD
ROBERT CHASE
MIDNIGHT BAGLES // f!reader / dr chase▸ a one shot! When Chase runs into an old university friend at a bar, he's caught off guard—not just by the coincidence, but by how quickly forgotten feelings resurface.
// MISSION IMPOSSIBLE
ETHAN HUNT
THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY // f!reader / ethan hunt▸ a long fic! You’re alone. Prague is the first real lead you’ve had on VANTAGE since everything went haywire, and you’re not about to let some fancy IMF agent ruin your shot. But when Ethan Hunt intercepts you mid-mission, everything spirals.
jack abbot x f!reader, zombie apocalypse au
word count: 1.2k
warnings: violence, mentions of death, angst, paranoia
an: could turn this into a multi-chapter fic??
You’ve been running for who knows how long.
Five days ago, North America was plunged into an apocalyptic event.
The night air is colder than usual, and you try to not think about the fact that you’ve just watched thousands of people die from a rampant parasite that infects the human brain. Once a person is infected, they live for about 24 more hours while the parasite makes its way up the spine, slowly taking over the person’s consciousness, until they are no longer.. well… alive.
Full contact with someone’s inner fluids, whether through saliva, blood, mucus, etc is how someone gets it.
Thanks to your absolute germaphobia and sheer luck, you’ve manage to nearly escape twice.
Oh, once someone is infected, they start to go insane, looking for more hosts to infect. Hence the running. Hence the fear.
You pant while nearing a warehouse. Legs, on fire, lungs feeling like they’re about to collapse and implode. Earlier, when making your way through a neighborhood, you managed to trip and twist your ankle. There wasn't time to deal with it though. But any moment you stopped to catch your breath or to check your surroundings, you were reminded of it as it throbbed painfully.
Every time you shut your eyes, flashes of moments earlier in the day blind you. The sight of family and friends turning over night into merciless creatures. Only to just die once the parasite had spread to another host.
Horrible.
You fight back a sob rising in your throat. Now was not the time to get emotional.
The door of the warehouse hangs slightly ajar. You push it open, as carefully as possible, wincing when the hinges croak.
Dim, fluorescent lights flicker, offering some relief to your eyes. They had been straining to see even just a foot in front of you for the past few hours since your phone light died.
You figured some abandoned building would be safer than someone’s house, the possibility of an entire family infected inside was terrifying.
Plus, because the time it took for the sickness to spread, it would be too late.
Maybe you've already been infected.
You glance down at yourself. With the paranoia you had been cursed with, you managed to double layer your clothes, ensuring that it would be difficult to get to skin contact. Your face remained uncovered, but you wore a hoodie and had a face mask on hand, just in case you got close to any humans.
You take a step inside.
Machinery lines the walls. It doesn't look totally abandoned, but no body actually would be living here. No food storage either. Would be unlikely for another person to be here.
Frantically, you look around for a safe area, preferrably in some storage closet where you could hide. And finally rest. Your feet feel almost numb-
Thud.
You spin around towards the noise. It came from behind, didn't it?
A floorboard squeaks above. You take a step back, and hover your hand over the pistol wedged in your belt strap. It came from a dead police officer. You remember the relief you felt when you came across it, still in an animalistic frenzy from escaping your infected family. You grabbed it without thinking, and now a chill shakes your spine. Would you have to use it?
Your thoughts are cut abruptly as something lands on your shoulder.
You're yanked to the side, a gloved hand covers your mouth to prevent you from screaming.
"Shh, hold still!" A voice hisses in your ear.
It all happens so fast you don't even have time to react. Suddenly you're pinned to a steel wall, cold metal biting the back of your head.
"Are you infected?" The ambusher says, voice low.
You shake your head.
How would they know? How did you know when your friends slowly turned unrecognizable?
The eyes. So faintly, their pupils would enlarge and the whites of their eyes would turn slightly grey. It was dreadful.
Guess this man knew that too.
White, hot light flashes into your eyes, and you immediately shut them, wincing away.
The gloved hand forces your head back to him. "I'm sorry, I need to check."
You open your eyes, desparate to prove that you were not one of them.
Hopefully. Finally, some clarity. Some assurance that you were still going to live another day.
"You're clean," he says, letting go of your face, releasing the gloved constraint over your mouth. "Needed to make sure you wouldn't spit on me, or bite me."
The man steps back and you get a better look at him. The light in his hand shines on the ground, and the flourencent lights above are still on, allowing you to see clearly.
You blink a few times to allow your eyes to adjust back after he blasted your retinas with his flashlight.
He's taller than you, but not overbearing. Dark silver curls stick damply to his head, probably from sweat and exertion, no doubt a survior like you.
Wrinkles and tanned skin give away his approximate age, maybe in his 40s, or 50s? Some blood stains his temples, right where his crow lines meet. Probably his if he's not infected.
Wait-
"Prove to me that you're not one of them," you blurt.
He nods. With his flash light, he lifts it up to his eyes. They're hazel, and his pupils shrink into tiny dots, the right amount.
Relief floods your body and you nearly collapse. The man drops his light, steping forward and hooking his arms under yours, catching you.
"Woah, easy there," he says, lifting you. "How long have you been awake?"
You shake your head, standing slightly with the remaining energy left in your legs, ankle giving you a bite of pain. "Not sure, but I've been running all day."
He moves his hands to your hips, steadying you.
It feels nice.
Real, safe, warm.
Contact with someone like you. Someone alive.
You look up at his face. He gives you a weak grin.
"I'm Dr. Abbot," he says. "I'm an emergency med attending. It's just me here, I've scoured the place, you're safe."
If God was real, I just met an angel. A doctor. During this medical crisis. He could look at your ankle. Maybe he could wrap it for you.
More than that.
He could probably see the parasitic signs before anyone else. Most likely how he's still alive. You could help protect each other. Help you stay alive.
You give him your name. "Thanks for not killing me."
Because he could have easily done so. Better safe than sorry, right? Not only were parasitic people killing others, but scared, distrustful people were also just as likely to end your life.
"Oh, you poor thing," he leans down and looks more intensely into your eyes.
Your lip quivers and you barely fight back the sob.
It's unexpected what he does next.
Dr. Abbot pulls you into a gentle hug.
Comforting, more than anything. It's nice though. You bury your face a little deeper as a few tears quietly wet his shirt. You don't fight it. You can't.
Not when this is the single thread of hope you've caught onto.
⭑ pairing: f!tennis player!reader x coach!jack abbot
⭑ summary: You’re a third year player on the University of Pittsburgh women’s tennis team and one of the top singles competitors heading into the season. Coach Robby’s former doubles partner, Jack Abbot, is stepping in as the new coach this year.
⭑ word count: 10k
⭑ warnings/tags: age gap, reader is kind of cocky, slow burn, power dynamic, coach and player relationship, some light swearing, the pitt is the college team. trinity santos, victoria javadi, joy, emma are teammates, and dennis whitaker is team manager
⭑ author's note: it's summer, so i'm celebrating with this summer-themed fic. inspired by shawn hatosy's tennis obsession and the many pics of him on the court. I plan to write 3-4 parts to this story!
“Good morning team!”
Coach Robinavitch’s voice is loud, you can hear it clear across the parking lot. You’re late to practice, as usual. Pulling your tennis bag out of your trunk, you can hear your coach giving the agenda for today’s practice.
“We’ll start off with some core conditioning followed by sprints.”
The trunk slams. You’re debating on getting back in your car and driving back home.
Sprints? In this temperature? Was Coach Robby trying to kill us?
You jog over to the rest of the team standing outside the courts. The team manager, Dennis Whitaker, gives you a weak smile as you pace towards the back of the group of girls.
“Then we’ll pair off and do some volley drills. Just focusing on small steps today. Let’s do this!” Robby’s voice booms as he claps his hands together above his head.
Your teammates all disperse, light chatter filling the air. You join them in setting their rackets down and filing onto the courts to start conditioning drills, led by Mel, one of the seniors.
“Did you hear? We’re getting white and blue outfits this year.”
“Oh finally. I was so sick of last year’s yellow. They looked hideous on me.”
You smirk listening in on the conversation between Victoria and Trinity.
“I thought yellow was a good color on you,” you chime in, looking at Victoria. Then you look to Trinity.
She narrows her eyes, waiting for you to say the same to her.
Your smirk stays. “You… not so much.”
“Hey!” She yells, shoving you a little. “Yellow looks way better on me than you.”
“I’m kidding, relax. I think we’ll all look better in blue. The yellow outfits made us look like traffic signs.”
Dennis, following close behind, laughs. The three of you all turn and glare at him.
He immediately stops in his tracks and his smile vanishes. He raises both hands in the air defensively.
“It wasn’t my idea, guys, I promise! How many times have I told you?” He stammers, taking a step back.
You shake your head. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You could’ve prevented it, and you know it.”
His shoulders sag, deflating at your comeback. “I’m trying to make it up to you guys. We’re getting you guys new jackets and backpacks too,” he adds quieter.
Victoria and Trinity perk up. “Really?”
Dennis nods excitedly. “We got a bigger budget. And Coach Collins is on maternity leave so all of the merch decisions are made by-” he jabs his two thumbs towards his chest, “yours truly.”
“Alright, let’s get moving!” Robby shouts, cutting off the conversation.
“You’re the best, Whitaker,” you whisper loudly to him, then join the rest of the team in lunges.
He gives you a thumbs up and his face reddens. He was so easy to charm.
“Stop distracting the girls, Dennis,” Coach Robby warns.
“Yes sir,” he says, nodding and ducking out of the courts.
Shortly after conditioning, the team lines up on one side of the court, getting ready for the start.
Coach Robby climbs up to the top of the umpire chair, whistle wedged between his teeth, aviator sunglasses covering his eyes.
He gives one chirp of the whistle, and the sprints begin.
Forward and back. Backpedaling both ways. Side stepping.
The whole team could fill up an Olympic-sized swimming pool with how much sweat runs off foreheads and down backs.
You’re halfway up the court when some motion by the exit catches your eye. The fence door swings open and a man steps onto the blue court.
“Ah up-up- hold up team-” Robby shouts, blowing the whistle once to get the girls’ attention.
You stop, panting, bracing yourself against your knees with sweaty palms, but keep your eyes trained on the newcomer.
It’s hard to see his face, baseball cap on with sunglasses. Clearly someone closer to Coach Robby’s age, you spot curly grey hair sticking out from behind his cap.
Your eyes trace down his fitted black shirt past his khaki shorts and stop. A metal contraption sits under his knee and forces him into a stiffer, but usual walking gait. A prosthetic. Something tugs in your chest, a beat of pity mixed with curiosity.
“Ladies, I’d like you to meet our new coach for this season,” Robby says, descending the ladder and jogging over to the man. They clasp hands in a firm shake that turns into a quick pull, each thumping the other on the back in an easy, familiar half-hug.
“This is Coach Jack Abbot, my old doubles partner from my competitive years.”
He takes off his sunglasses and looks around the team, grinning and gives one acknowledging nod.
You can’t help but stare. Coach Abbot is muscular from what you can tell, his biceps stretch the fabric of his sleeves, his shorts don’t hide his quad’s well either. He’s got grey facial hair, the day-two, forgot-to-shave scruff. His crows feet are more pronounced as he squints his eyes in the sun, trying to look at everyone’s faces on the team, already trying to memorize them. His skin is slightly tanned, like he’s been doing yard work or goes on runs outside, indicated by the farmer's tan peaking out of his collar.
His eyes land on you as Robby continues.
It’s not exactly a passing glance. It lingers. His eyes study you, taking in the way you hold yourself, the way you’ve gone still under his attention.
Your shoulders pull together instinctively, standing a little taller and dart your eyes back to Coach Robby talking.
Abbot’s gaze remains. His lips tighten. Something about you interests him. He’s picked out a player he wants to test.
“He is filling in for Coach Collins, who is on maternity leave. He is one of the best tennis players I know, and I hope you all can learn a lot from him.”
You can’t help but feel subconscious after the new coach caught you staring.
Coach Abbot speaks up, turning to the other coach. “Thank you, Robby, it’s good to be back on the courts with you,” he says to him, then faces the group. Thankfully he doesn’t look at you now. “I’ve heard only good things about this team, I’m really looking forward to working with you gals.”
His gaze sweeps across the group again, quicker this time. When it passes over you, it stays, just a fraction. Not because you’re drawing attention to yourself, standing near the front. The opposite. You’ve kept to the back, trying not to be noticed.
Something about that catches on him. Familiar. The instinct to stay out of the spotlight, even when you belong there.
“Alright, back to sprints. He’ll be getting to know you all throughout practice today, probably will do some drills with you guys too. He’s got a killer serve that you’re going to want to learn!”
There’s a bit of a buzz in the air, a few girls make a mention that now there's two male coaches, but most fall back into line for the rest of sprints.
“What do you think?”
You turn to Trinity who’s looking at you with a raised brow.
“He seems chill, Coach seems to like him,” you reply.
“I heard that he’s ex-military too. He’s probably going to give us the worst drills.” She sprints next to you towards the net.
You huff to catch your breath. “Did you- you knew he was the replacement?”
She shrugs. “Dennis told me before practice today. Helps to show up on time, you know.”
She’s already bolting before you can retort.
Hmph. You didn’t like being out of the loop, but she’s right.
You glance to the sidelines where the two coaches are chatting. Coach Abbot laughs, they’re probably catching up on old memories. You nearly trip over your laces when you hear the periodic whistle from Coach Robby, who’s giving the signal lazily as he talks with his friend.
You’re distracted by the curls that flip up behind Abbot’s cap, and the way his jaw flexes every time he chews down on his gum.
It’s mesmerizing.
And without you noticing, he catches you. A lull in their conversation. Long enough to confirm it.
You, watching him.
───〃⭑
You whack your racket against the net absentmindedly. Coach Robby’s pulled Victoria off to the side.
“And you see, step forward with your right foot and bam!” He punches his own racket forward, explaining the motion of a sharp volley to her. “Right? Much more power.”
You can’t do much, playing tennis with one person, so you wait for him to finish explaining.
“Hey kid,” a voice comes from behind.
It startles you and you whip around quickly, to see the new Coach Abbot approaching you.
“Oh hey,” you say, holding out a fist to him. He returns the gesture and bumps your knuckles lightly.
“Tell me more about yourself.” His tone is casual, but he plants his feet a little wider than his shoulders and crosses his arms across his broad chest. Like he cares to listen to you.
He had asked for your name when you were in a big group gathered during a water break, but you didn’t get an actual conversation with him. Too much commotion and not enough time to stop and chat.
But he wanted to know more about you. Wanted to know if you were shy or if there was something else.
Were you funny? Kind? Sarcastic? Bossy? Competitive?
Why did he care? He’s been with plenty of tennis players over the years. They’re all similar but have their own quirks and personalities.
He was just filling in for an absent coach. No need to actually get attached to any of these players.
But it was for his benefit. In order to coach well, you have to get to know the players well.
Especially a player like you.
“Well,” you shift your racket into the crook of your arm and cross the other over your chest, subconsciously mirroring his confidence, “I’m a junior singles player. I won the conference title last season. Ranked top ten in last year’s regions.”
He tips his head back with a quiet, amused huff. “Wow. Glad to finally meet our champion.”
It confirms his suspicions. How you seemed to hang out towards the back of groups. Never vying for attention. Stayed in your lane.
You sigh and shake your head. “I don’t know about this year. We’ve moved up divisions so it’s going to be a lot harder. We’ll see if I even rank this year.”
“You’ve got this.” Abbott reaches out and gives your tricep a quick tap. “We’ll get you ready for the season.”
The touch comes naturally to him, although he never pins himself as someone who’s touchy. Just felt right, with you. You seemed to open up quickly about your worries for this tennis season, so you must not be too reserved, at least with him.
You smile weakly.
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
His eyebrow quirks. “We’ll see? You’re not going to rank with that attitude, come on, let’s drill while Coach Robby takes his sweet sweet time,” he says the last part of his sentence loud enough for Robby to look up from his conversation with Victoria, just to shoot daggers back.
Your new coach chuckles. “He’s good. Robby’s one of the best. Show me what you’ve learned from that old man.” He says taking a step away from you and waving his racket in the air.
You slide your racket into a loose forearm grip, brows lifting. “Old man?”
He smirks. “I’m younger than him,” he says, jerking his chin toward the opposite baseline. “You, on that side.”
You jog across, shoes squeaking as you plant and turn to face him. “By what? A couple days?”
He gives a small shrug. “But still older than you. Which means I’ve played longer, seen more. Experience counts. Don’t worry, I’m not threatened by you.”
He stays light on his feet near the net, ready for your first volley. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot here,” he adds. “You know we won Wimbledon doubles together, right?”
You serve the ball, hard. He returns it effortlessly. It’s almost like he’s holding back.
Damn.
You reach out and miss the ball with how quickly he smacked it back to you.
“Ugh!”
He plants two hands on his hips, still gripping his racket in one. You thought for a moment that maybe his prosthetic leg would give him some mobility issues, and now you’re starting to think it’s given him an unfair advantage.
“You’ve got this. Let’s try again.”
You pop another tennis ball from your skirt pocket and serve it again at the baseline. You bounce lightly on the balls of your feet as he rallies it back to you.
You miss again.
And again.
He doesn’t step in right away to correct you. He’s letting it happen. Watching how you react instead of how you play. Coach Robby had a tendency to swoop in and fix problems. This was a new strategy, you were definitely not used to.
In reality, he’s impressed by even how close you’re getting to his rallies. But he can’t show that, not now. He needs to test your limits. The human body is capable of insane feats, but it’s the mind that gets in the way.
By the third time, you’re frustrated with yourself. You resist the urge to smack your racket against your left shin, an old habit from high school tennis you’ve been trying to break since. Bruises would bloom across your skin, purple and blue, and would be incredibly painful the next day.
You turn to chase the ball.
“Hey,” Abbot calls, stopping you in your tracks.
You glance back.
He’s right at the net, beckoning you forward with his index finger.
“Come here. Quick tip.” His voice drops slightly, quieter since it’s just the two of you.
Without thinking you walk right up to the net, panting slightly from exertion. You stop closer than you meant to. Close enough to notice details you shouldn’t be. The light freckles that dust his cheeks and forehead. Silver hairs peeking through his dark eyebrows. Even the way the light reflects off of the court unto his eyes. Hints of green and grey noticeable even through his squinting.
He gives you a second to steady yourself, watching as you pull in a deeper breath and square your shoulders. Almost subconsciously, he matches your rhythm, then tips his head slightly to the side. The moment your eyes meet his, your heartbeat thrums a bit in your chest.
Probably from the sprint. Or from the thick, humid heat of an eighty five degree summer afternoon.
Definitely not because you can catch the clean mix of sweat and deodorant from where he stands at the net, his forearms faintly glistening in the sun.
“You’re reaching,” he says. “Too late after the ball leaves my racket. Set up earlier. Split step sooner. Trust your gut.”
He reaches out and taps your shoulder lightly, repositioning you half a step to the left. “Here. This is where you should be returning the ball.”
You nod. He nods back.
Without another word, you both pace back into your positions. Like coordinated dancers. Already falling into a familiar rhythm. In sync.
You feed the ball at him, and he gives that same unpredictable whack with his racket.
This time, your return comes off the strings fast, landing deep near his baseline. He still gets it back, but with a lot more exertion on his half, a grunt leaving his lips as he lunges forward.
You see a flicker of approval in his expression now. It’s small, but it feels like you’ve earned something. Respect.
He lowers his racket and lets out a satisfied breath.
“There it is, champ,” he says. You got it.”
“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly. “Thanks.”
He grins at you. “You’re good. Really good. You keep that up and I might have to start trying.”
A laugh slips out of you as you drop your head, shaking it once, still catching your breath.
You miss it, the way his expression changes. The quick swallow. The tightening along his stubbled jaw before he looks away from you and lifts his racket again.
ᯓ★
Santos was right. Coach Abbot was definitely ex military.
You lift up your head from your plank to avoid a bead of sweat from dripping into your eye. It slides down your cheek and onto the grass.
The whole team is outside of the courts, holding planks until failure.
Including Coach Abbot.
You were not going to be the first to drop. In your mind, you were determined to outlast all the players, and the coach.
Trinity is right next to you. You glance over.
She turns her head to you.
“What?” She hisses through clenched teeth.
“Nothing,” you say back in a similar manner, your teeth also grit together. “Just seeing how much longer I have to hold the plank.”
She scoffs and groans, clearly in pain from the effort.
Coach Robby was gone for the day, leaving the team in the hands of Coach Abbot. And he was going full military-style on the warmup. You were not looking forward to the rest of practice.
Slowly, one by one, players drop onto the grass, breathing hard. It sounds nice to relax, what you would give to be laying down instead of bracing your core until your body gives out.
“Who’s still up?” Coach Abbot shouts.
A few girls speak up. You included. “Me!”
“Good. I’m not even tired.”
This makes the team laugh, causing some still braced up on their forearms to fall down.
You bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from laughing.
In your periphery, Trinity is still holding up.
Maybe you could push her over. She’d shove you right back. Bad plan.
You hear clapping and cheering. The rest of the team is rooting for you both.
A quick glance reveals that it’s just you three, Coach, Trinity, and you.
“Come on!” “You got this!” “Beat him!”
Your shoulders are on fire. And your legs are shaking so badly. You swear you’re going to vomit.
Trinity collapses. And so do you.
Coach Abbot pushes himself up to his feet, wiping his hands off on his shorts.
He walks up to the two of you.
“Well done, ladies,” he says.
Trinity’s already rolled over and taking huge gulps of water from a jug Dennis handed her. He’s been going around, making sure nobody’s actually passed out.
You look up. Coach Abbot stands by your head, sun glaring behind his figure, his shadow cooling your body for a moment. His baseball cap shields his face from the sun.
He sticks out a hand to you, and you take it, and he pulls you up to your feet.
“I’m impressed,” he whispers to you in his proximity. “You almost outlasted me.”
His voice comes out rougher. Your breath hitches slightly at the sound.
Without warning, you stumble backward. Stars dance in your vision as the blood rushes to your head from rising up too quickly, and from holding a plank for too long.
“Woah, easy there,” Coach Abbot says, reaching an arm out to steady you, but he doesn’t need to since you barely manage to catch your balance.
Dennis appears at your side. “Here.” He hands you a bottle of gatorade, which you immediately gulp down.
Coach Abbot watches you for a moment, then faces the rest of the team. “Please stay hydrated, we don’t want to lose any of you before the season starts.”
To your surprise, Dennis pipes up. “Yeah, maybe go easy on em. It’s almost 90 degrees outside.”
Abbot gives him a little bit of a side eye, but his lips pull at the edge. He’s not actually offended.
“Alright, let’s do some dynamic stretches and then get into real practice.”
Everyone lines up again and follows the coach through some shoulder stretches, warming those muscles that will be used the most. Then as you move down to stretching your legs, you mimic the moves that Coach Abbot does.
You follow the deep lunges, forcing your body down to get a deep stretch in. Abbot raises his arms up while still holding a lunge, and the team mimics him.
Yoga poses.
Arms reach back down and you all lower yourselves to the ground in chaturanga, pushing up and tilting your chin up to the sky.
He’s surprisingly flexible. Abbot makes these poses look easy, and you’re struggling to stay balanced.
His eyes remain closed. “Don’t forget to breathe. Inhale…. And exhale.”
Maybe he does yoga in his spare time.
Huh.
───〃⭑
“Okay ladies, I’m gonna pair you all up. We’ll do some doubles alley drilling together. Focus on directional control.”
Coach Abbot begins pointing to your teammates, sometimes apologetically asking for reminders of names, can’t blame him, there’s twelve players on the team, and he’s only been around for a little less a week.
But, of course, he remembered your name the second he heard it. When Trinity called your name across the court the first day of practice he attended. It never left his head.
He pairs you up with Joy, a senior you’re not super close with. She mostly plays doubles, but she’s really solid.
Good practice, you reassure yourself.
The court is a mixture of casual conversation between team players across the net, the sound of tennis balls popping off rackets, and the occasional pipe up from Abbot giving some advice or helping someone out.
You and the senior decide to take a break, tired out from the drill. Next to you, Trinity is up against a freshman, but since the point of the drill isn’t to win, it’s to get better at control, she’s not getting any glory. In fact, the freshman keeps hitting the ball outside of the alley, forcing Trinity to chase after the shots more than usual.
“What’s up with you two?”
You finish sipping your water out of the bottle and turn towards the voice. Coach Abbot walks up to you, then leans against the fence where you’re standing, watching the two players on the court adjacent to yours. He braces his freckled forearms against the top of the wire and waits for you to put your water bottle down.
“What do you mean?” You ask, wiping the water off your top lip with the back of your hand.
His eyes flick down for a moment to your lips then back up at you. Just noticing the motion. That’s all.
“You and her,” he nods towards the drill between Trinity and the other player. And you know he’s not talking about the freshman.
“Oh, she’s cool. We were doubles partners our first year. But we weren’t a great fit, skillwise. We both have a good backhand and hang towards the back. Not an ideal pairing for matches,” you ramble.
He listens, waiting for more. Abbot’s determined to learn you. Figure out what makes you tick. Find out which teammates you like and which ones you despise.
You pause, glance over your shoulder, then back to your coach. “It’s better now that we play singles. I prefer it.”
He shifts his weight a little. This feels familiar to him.“Robby and I were the same. We were paired up for the longest time, and it ended up being sort of a tough relationship. Constantly correcting each other. But after we grew out of our college egos, we were able to team up and win in bigger tournaments together.”
Abbot nudges your arm with his elbow. “Maybe that’ll be you two one day.”
You laugh then bite your lip. “I don’t know.”
He pushes off the fence and turns fully to you. “I was watching you earlier.”
Your heart skips a beat. You don’t know why. Coach Robby watches you all the time. All the players. That’s normal. That’s what a coach does.
But still. Hearing him say that.
He lifts his chin. “You’re light on your feet. Not dragging them at all. And you had some great rallies. Your coordination is really on.”
“Oh, thanks. I think I had some extra caffeine today.”
“Whatever it is, it’s working. Keep it up.”
You swallow and force a smile. “Thanks.”
Your face feels hot. It was good to hear the praise. It really was.
Coach Abbot turns and walks away to talk to some other players. His work here is done.
And you sigh, letting your shoulders sag down.
Heavens, were you that tense? You subtly press two fingers into your wrist.
Your pulse is rapid, like you’ve just run a mile.
He’s far away now. But you can’t seem to take your eyes off his black shirt and the way it pulls tighter when he’s demonstrating a racket swing to your teammate.
───〃⭑
“Take a breather, and let’s regroup to end practice!”
The sun is almost to the horizon. The air is finally cooling off and allows everyone to breathe a little easier. Robby says it's good to train in the heat. Gets your blood flowing faster and provides a more intense workout. No matter how much the team tried to get him to change practices to later at this hour, he never let up. When it came around to tournaments however, Pitt's team always outperformed the other teams. Probably because they were used to cushy practice indoors or in the evenings.
There were perks.
You stop mid-conversation with Emma, a newcomer sophomore on the team. You don’t know her super well, so you were making an effort to talk to her and find out more. Right as she was about to tell you about transferring schools, Coach Abbot’s voice echoes across the courts.
“Tell me later, I’ve heard good things about Florida, I’m surprised you came here.” You kick a tennis ball to the baseline as you turn away from her towards the rest of the team.
“Hah. Great weather but my team sucked, they were competitive but they wouldn’t let me play doubles,” she says, following you.
You raise your eyebrows in surprise, but quickly lose focus on Emma to listen to what Abbot has to say. Coach Robby always gave a little pow-wow speech when practices were over, and I guess the new coach was good at picking up on the rituals.
The rest of the team was gathered outside the courts on the grass adjacent to the parking lot.
Coach Abbot holds a clipboard in his calloused hands, drawing a line down the paper with his finger, occasionally stopping to read something.
He looks up when the team is all gathered. “Great practice today! Lots of improvement, but lots of area to grow.” He lifts the clipboard into the air. “We have our first practice matches of the season.”
You squint at the board, but all you can see is lines from a printed out excel sheet.
“Coach Robby gave this to me today. You’ll be paired up with another player on our team. We are gonna treat this like a real tournament day, so come prepared. Monday, next week. We’ll put it in the group chat so you don’t miss it. I’m putting it on the fence so you can come up and see.”
He lowers his arm and then looks around the girls.
Instinctively, you all mirror him, trying to follow his gaze where he was looking.
“Whitaker!” He yells.
The team manager pops up behind his beat up truck in the parking lot. “Yeah?”
Dennis hurriedly pops the back of his truck down, then slides out a large box from the back. He hoists it over his shoulder and walks nearly effortlessly to the group and sets it down on the grass.
“We’ve got a surprise for you all too,” Coach Abbot says as Dennis sits down on the ground, sending the team into an excited chatter.
The girls eagerly lean closer, and most have already correctly guessed what’s inside. Without a word, Dennis pulls the top flaps open, revealing crisp baby blue tennis uniforms with white detailing.
Some girls squeal in unison. A few bounce on the balls of their feet, craning their necks to get a better look. Dennis holds out a hand at the noise. “Hold up, I have a list with names and the sizes you wrote down. We’ll make sure everyone gets their right size. Line up!”
There’s a shuffle of sneakers against pavement as a line falls into place, a hum of chatter settling among the group. Everyone is far more excited about uniforms than the practice matches. Victoria in front of you whispers about how cute the pleats in the skirts are. Some depart from the line for a moment to glance at the clipboard Abbot hangs up on the wire fence before returning.
You’re not really in a rush to get anywhere, so you hang towards the back, noticing the style of the outfits as one teammate holds it up to her figure.
“Hey, champ.” The deep masculine voice knocks you right out of your thoughts. Low and direct. And you recognize that nickname.
Coach Abbot stands to your left, following the pace of the line with you. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, leaning towards you ever so slightly. His eyes skim the line before settling on you. Checking to see if anyone else is listening.
“Hey,” you say, smiling nervously. He looks like he’s about to tell you something serious. His demeanor is more earnest now. Less military but still being deliberate.
Abbot observes the way you straighten your neck when he approaches. Your quick, polite smile. He’s seen it in players who care too much about getting it right. It’s good for performance, but he knows it can get in the way.
He then lowers his tone. “Wait around after you get your uniform, ‘kay? Don’t leave practice yet.”
Your stomach lurches. Did I do something wrong? Flipping through moments of practice, you draw a blank. It makes it worse, you don’t even know what could possibly be needing attention. Your throat goes dry and you swallow to clear the feeling.
Coach notices that you’ve gone stiff. “Don’t worry, I have a proposition,” he says calmly.
He follows your reaction closely. There it is again, uncertainty. He exhales quietly through his nose. He forgets that you’re not used to being pushed the way he pushes. He knows that Coach Robby has probably gone soft on a player like you, a winner, who he doesn’t need to focus on to get ready for competition.
You need someone like Abbot. Someone who can challenge you the way you deserve to be.
He gives you a firm pat on the shoulder and then leaves you to stand in the line alone. There’s only a few more players in front of you till you reach the end. He’s eager to tell you more, but he knows that you like to keep a low profile, so he doesn’t want to draw more attention to the two of you.
As you let the last girl walk away with her new uniform, Dennis looks up at you. “Hi!” He reaches into the box and pulls out a top and skirt for you. There’s a few uniforms left, for your teammates that didn’t show up to today’s practice.
“Here you go! If it doesn’t fit, just let me know and we’ll exchange sizes.”
“Thanks.”
Reflexively, you hold it up to yourself like the other girls did and nod to the manager. “I think it’ll work.” You smooth the soft fabric between your fingers, but your mind is still elsewhere, sort of in a half daze.
Dennis folds up the box and makes his way back to his truck. The tailgate slams shut with a dull thud, the sound carrying across the now quieting court.
You linger back, watching as slowly the team disperses into the parking lot. Groups peel off in twos and threes, voices fade, cars open and close, engines revving. Energy drains from the space, filling it with background noise from the city of Pittsburg around you.
When you turn around, Coach Abbot stands there, waiting for you.
He hasn’t moved much. His weight is shifted slightly on his prosthetic's side. He watches the last car leave the parking lot, then lands on you.
He beckons you over with his hand. You trot over, intentionally breathing slowly, anticipating the worst. You try to slow your heartbeat, but it feels heavy and loud in your chest, masking everything else around you.
“What’s up?” You manage, keeping your voice level. You’re not sure why you’re feeling so nervous. You’ve stayed after practice many times. Coach Robby liked to give you tips. Sometimes you stuck around to practice some more. There’s a reason why you were one of the best players on the team. While most left to enjoy their summer nights before school started up, you knew this was the only spare time you had before your classes were fully ramped up and extra time for fine tuning skills was scarce.
This feels different. Coach Robby was predictable. Easy on you. There’s an intensity to Coach Abbot that you haven’t figured out yet. It makes every interaction feel like there’s something on the line.
“How are you feeling?”
The tone of his voice is soft. It catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting a therapy session, or talking about feelings.
He’s just asking a question. Figuring out where you’re at.
“I’m fine,” you respond, looking down at your feet. Your shoe nudges at a crack in the pavement. You trace the line absentmindedly.
“Hey.”
You look up at him, and he takes a step closer to you, holding eye contact.
Not invading, but he definitely steps close enough that you can’t avoid him now. His brows scrunch in focus, trying to read you. He’s not trying to intimidate you but it damn well feels like it.
“You seem nervous. How are you feeling about the upcoming season?”
This is what’s important to him. You can play as well as you want. But if someone’s head is elsewhere, they’ll never handle the pressure. He knows this season is different for you. You might lose the champ title. It’s not guaranteed.
And it scares you. You fear failure, and even worse, you fear disappointment.
Disappointment from Coach Robby.
And now, from Coach Abbot too.
He’s trying to figure it out. Figure you out.
But you can’t reveal all that’s on your mind. Because there’s something else invading your mental space.
And it’s right in front of you.
You hesitate for a moment, mouth opening, closing, then, “I mean… I’m excited.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the folded uniform in your hands. “Yeah, nervous too. I just want to do well.”
He nods once, slowly, and smirks. He was expecting that answer. It doesn’t satisfy him.
“I figured.” He shifts his weight and crosses his arms across his chest. “I’ve been watching you.”
Your hands feel clammy.
“You’ve got good instincts,” he continues. “Footwork’s solid. You recover fast. And you’re definitely not a quitter,” he says the last part with a chuckle.
It almost feels like praise and you lift your chin an inch higher.
“Thanks,” you say, but you’re not sure if that was his intention.
He studies your body language. You accept it but don’t fully take it in and internalize it.
“But,” he adds, looking off to the side as if coming up with the right way to say his next line. “You’re playing it safe.”
There it is.
There’s always a catch. Your shoulders tense before you can stop it.
“You hesitate when you’ve got an opening. Second guess shot selection. You’re good at winning points but you don’t control the game. Yet.”
Abbot takes a step closer, forcing you to crane your neck and look up at him.
“It's gonna cost you,” he warns.
You swallow. “Okay.”
Your mind already replays rallies. Finding moments that confirm what he just said to you. He’s not wrong. It bothers you.
There. He sees it. That flame igniting behind your eyes.
“So,” he says, voice leveling out again, his gritty tone leaving. “We’re fixing it.”
You blink. “We?”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“We,” he repeats.
He gestures to the courts behind himself, empty, nets still strung, sunset glowing across the sky, casting soft shadows across the surface.
“You’ve got a practice match coming up. You know that,” he says.
Your grip tightens on the uniform again. “Yeah, I’m already thinking about it.”
He lifts a pointed finger to your face and shakes it. “You go in like you played today,” he tilts his head down to look at you more intensely, “you’ll hold your own. You’ll even win.”
He pauses, letting you tune in more.
“But you won’t dominate. And you should. You are completely capable.”
Expectations. Abbot’s holding you to a higher standard.
“So what do you want me to do?” You huff defensively.
He doesn’t hesitate, you said exactly what he was laying up for you to say.
“One-on-one training, you’re staying.”
It’s not an offer.
Your eyebrows lift slightly. “You mean, right now?” you stammer when he doesn’t move.
“Yeah, champ,” he breathes. “Let’s not delay the inevitable.”
Champ. His champ.
He nods once towards the court. “Just thirty minutes. Maybe forty.”
Without another word, he walks towards the fence gate and pushes it open. In a swift movement, he picks up his racket, then turns around to you.
But you’re already setting your bag down, uniform folded beside it, pulling out your racket you thought you’d finally get to rest this weekend.
Abbot straightens slightly. There’s a quiet satisfaction in it. You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question him. Just stayed like he wanted.
He watches you for a moment longer than necessary. He wasn’t sure you would. Thought you might push back.
But this, this he can work with. The easier you are to guide now, the sharper you’ll be on the court.
And the closer you’ll stay to him.
Once you’re on the court with him, he taps his temple with two fingers. “You don’t get to think your way through this drill. We’re going to run pressure drills. Fast feeds.”
You let out a small breath. Part nerves, part adrenaline kicking in. “Okay.”
Coach Abbot sees some hesitation in you, but also he sees what he was looking for in you. Drive.
“I’m not going easy on you.” He warns.
“I hope you wouldn’t,” you say with a smirk back.
Maybe, just maybe if you can even feign confidence, you can keep up with him.
“Good,” he nods and grabs a ball from a small basket near the net, bouncing it once against the ground. The sharp, hollow pop echoes in the dusk air.
He takes a moment to pop off his baseball cap now that the sun’s gone down. You see the sweat soaked hair underneath, silver tone now darker. He flips it around and places it back on his head backwards, turning back the clock on his appearance. He has more of a frat boy look than your-friend’s-dad-who-coaches-the-team look now.
You smirk at his new style.
It gives you a glimmer of what tennis is all about for you again. Fun. Hard work, but fun.
“I’m going to push your pace past what you’re comfortable doing.” With his racket, he points to the other side of the court.
You follow where he gestures to, but remain closer to the net to hear if he gives any more instructions, or warnings.
And he does. “You’re gonna hate me for about twenty minutes."
You suck in your bottom lip, biting it hard, then shrug. “I can take it.”
“Atta-girl. If you really can, you’ll walk into that match with an edge that no one else has.”
You lower your chest to the ground, bending your knees slightly, body automatically locking into practice mode. You backpedal towards the baseline. The way you square up, the way your posture settles, Abbot notices and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod to himself.
He dribbles the ball then grips it in his broad hand. He holds it to the strings of his weapon.
“Let’s see what you do when you don’t have time to think.”
ᯓ★
For the past two summers, you’ve worked at a coffee shop just down the street from your apartment. It initially started as just a means to pay rent, and now with your new tennis scholarship, you don’t need to work as much. But free coffee and staying busy during the summer months outside of practice kept you around. You worked enough to get the perks and for an extra buck or two for fun expenses.
It was a slower morning. You were just beginning your shift, wiping condensation rings and crumbs off a table. The way the condensation glitters on the surface reminds you something that’s now becoming familiar.
Beads of sweat on Coach Abbot’s freckled arms. Dripping down his temple. Glistening on his upper lip, seeping through his stubble. Your mind often wanders back to that first one-on-one practice. To only the sound of your heartbeat, Abbot’s heavy grunts as he returns your forehand shots, and the cicadas waking up in the summer evening.
The bell on the door chimes.
The sound of feet shuffling in alerts you to incoming customers, snapping you out of your daze.
As you turn to greet them, you inhale sharply.
The last two people you’d expect to show up were your coaches.
Coach Robby walks in first, Coach Abbot close behind. They look around the shop for a minute, taking in the clean and light atmosphere, then in unison their gaze lands on you.
“Hi, welcome in!” You chirp almost automatically. Your brain is still in barista mode, and struggling to switch out.
“Oh hey kid, I forgot you worked here, thought you would’ve quit by now,” your head coach muses, pausing by the entrance, standing still while you sling your damp cleaning towel over your shoulder casually.
“Yeah, I could’ve quit but I like free coffee too much,” you smile, eyes fixated only on Robby.
Coach Abbot stares at you, unaccustomed to seeing you in anything but tennis clothes. Something in his chest thrums, the sight of your hair down instead of in a tight braid or slicked back with a hairstyle disarms him. You’re both equally put together and relaxed in this environment.
You purposely avoid meeting those hazel eyes. And there’s no baseball cap shielding his face either. Just tousled silver curls, scruff, and his penetrating gaze. He’s wearing camouflage pants that hide his prosthetic and a plain black shirt.
Just as strange as it is for him to see you like this, it throws him off more than he’d ever admit.
Coach Robby clears his throat. “I’ll get my usual,” he says with a smirk. “If you can remember it.”
You turn back towards the bar. “Black coffee, no sugar, splash of half-and-half, right?”
Abbot eyes the small of your back where your apron is tied off in a cute bow. So domestic.
What the - this is a tennis player. Not a piece of work to admire.
He misses when Robby taps him on the shoulder, a silent indication for him to tell you his order to.
Abbot gives him a look, and when he sees you raising an eyebrow, he stutters back to reality. “Oh, um- I’ll also get black coffee. Just two sugars, no cream. Thanks.”
“You got it, coach.”
Preparing their coffee in the back allows the unexpected adrenaline to power down. You listen as they find a table by the window, lost in chatter about the latest sports updates, hearing the occasional chuckle from both of them.
Before too long, you wrap around the counter and present them with their drinks, one in each hand. You set them down on the edge of their table. “Careful, they’re hot.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Robby gives you a short nod without reaching for his cup, practicing advised patience.
“Yes, thank you,” Abbot says. You look him in the eye, and give him a polite smile.
“Anytime.”
Coach Robby glances around the vacant shop. “Wanna sit for a second, kid? We’ll let you go if anyone comes in.”
You shrug. “Sure, though I will say I can’t tell you the slightest about what’s happening in the golf world.” Pulling a chair over nearby, you sit at the head of their table.
“You’re up against Mel today, right?” Abbot asks, jumping into the only comfortable conversation topic he can muster between you two.
He doesn’t know you much outside of practice, admittedly.
Robby shakes his head. “Give the girl a break, she’s off the clock.”
This gets a rusty sigh from Abbot. “Tennis season is never off the clock.”
You stifle a laugh from their bickering. “Yes, I’m up against Mel,” you answer Abbot’s question.
Robby’s not having it. “How’s your upcoming semester coming? Are we going to lose you to any serious exams?” He changes the subject from tennis to something worse. School.
Come to think of it, Abbot has no idea what you’re majoring in college. He’s forgotten that you even are in school. You’re still a student, not just a tennis player.
It makes him feel, well, old. It’s been years since he was studying for exams. And you’re in the thick of it.
“Hopefully not. I’m taking the next level of bio-chem, though. I’ve heard it’s hard,” you mutter.
“Bio-chem, what are you studying?” Abbot says, squinting his eyes, trying to figure it out for himself.
“I’m pre-med. With a focus in microbiology.”
There’s a beat where he just looks at you. A second too long.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “You wanna be a doctor?”
“Oh, definitely not. I’ve actually liked doing research on the side,” you shift to cross your legs, feeling like you don’t know exactly what to do with your body. “So maybe a clinical research assistant?”
“Huh.” He leans back slightly, still watching you.
Robby picks up his cup, which he decides has cooled sufficiently. “She’s smart. Though she might not have to do a career like that if tennis takes off for her.”
You shake and drop your head. “I love tennis, not sure if I want it to be my primary source of income.”
“Hmm, you definitely have the potential for it,” Abbot says quietly.
Robby gives Abbot a questionable glance. Abbot catches it and shrugs it off.
“What?” he mutters under his breath, almost defensive.
The bell on the door rings and you jump up to your feet, a little too fast, the chair scraping the floor beneath its legs.
You greet the incoming customers, then look back at your coaches.
Robby waves a shooing hand in your direction, giving you permission to attend the newcomers. “Don’t forget to tell us how much.” He holds up his coffee.
“Don’t worry, it's on the house,” you hum back.
You quickly finish up an order at the kiosk, and just as the new customer sits down, your coaches clear their table and make their way to the exit. You’re not sure why you were eager to get back to your awkward conversation with them. It was never like this with Collins and Robby. But something about Abbot’s new presence threw you off… yet drew you in.
They stand by the door and wave at you, “See you at practice,” Robby says.
“See you, champ,” Abbot calls out.
You give them a quick wave as the door swings behind them.
…───
“Champ?”
They’re only a few feet away from the entrance, making their way down the sidewalk. Robby slows his pace now.
“What?” Abbot asks, only now realizing he let your nickname slip in front of the other coach. Something that was pretty much only between you and him.
Coach Robby now fully stops in his tracks. He holds up a finger.
“You better have not picked a favorite,” Robby’s tone has turned cold.
Abbot’s shoulders lift. “What? You have yours.”
“Oh no, brother, we don’t do that around here.” The head coach takes a step closer. “We treat all the players the same.”
“Well, she’s not the same as the other players, is she?”
The words come out too quickly. Too sure. Like he’s already justified it to himself.
Robby scoffs. “The last thing she needs is pressure. Especially from you.”
Abbot takes a sharp breath in. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not stupid, Jack. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You might have to stop giving her one-on-one training.”
Abbot’s throat feels suddenly, very dry, and he nurses his drink to drown the feeling. “She wants to perform better this year. She needs pressure. She needs extra training.”
“Sure, fine,” Coach Robby huffs. They both continue walking down the street, down through a crosswalk.
There’s a pause in the conversation while he lets it sink in.
“Just don’t blur the lines,” Robby adds finally. “You know how fast that gets messy.”
Abbot doesn’t answer right away. He could fight back. “What lines?” But he’s already in too deep. Too invested in you. The truth he refuses to face yet is there, rising to the surface. And he doesn’t need Robby involved in this.
His gaze drifts back toward the building for a split second, toward where you’re still inside, just out of sight.
Then he looks away first.
He decides to leave it here, at least for Robby to back down.
“…I’ve got it handled,” he says.
But it doesn’t sound as certain as he wants it to.
───〃⭑
Javadi gives you a passing fist bump. “You got this, girl.”
Even though this should be the hottest part of the day, an overcast day casts welcoming shadows over the Pitt’s courts. You hate having to play with a visor or cap, so this is all to your advantage now.
You adjust your headband and step into the court where Mel is already dribbling a ball.
Trinity has opted to sit in the umpire’s chair. Always watching your every move. And you let her. She’s not your competition anymore, not that she should've been anyways. You play for the same team.
Coach Robby stands on Mel’s side of the court, holding a clipboard against his hip, smacking gum between his molars.
Coach Abbot lingers by the fence on your end, legs in a wide stance, eyes shielded by his aviators. But you know he’s honed in on you.
This was typical for practice tournaments. Coaches helping out the teammates on opposing sides, monitoring the matches. Helped avoid drama and messes when one coach was focused on two or four players at the same time.
Other players gather at the fence line to watch. They could always learn a thing or two by watching.
“Alright, whenever you’re ready,” Robby hollers, and you stand back behind the baseline, sucking in a deep breath, anticipating Mel’s serve.
Mel pushes up her glasses once on her face. We gotta get her contacts. “Love all,” she shouts.
The match starts slowly. You hit a few rallies back and forth. Today, you try to stay close at the net.
Mel smacks a shot to your left corner, it whizzes by before you can catch it with your racket.
“Nice shot!” Trinity shouts. You shoot her a glare. She shrugs.
And that gets your blood rushing.
Coach Abbot pulls his shoulders back slightly. He witnessed all of that, but he’s not eager to cut in yet. He wants to see if this sets you off or if your behavior stays level.
Mel resets at the baseline. “Fifteen love!”
Come on, come on!
She hits a solid serve down. And you slam it back, barely getting over the net. She can’t get over in time, and you get the point.
“Yes!” You hiss to yourself, hand gripping your racket tighter.
Abbot grins. Attagirl. Trinity might have set you off, but in a good way.
“Fifteen all!” Mel calls, already stepping back into position at the baseline, a new ball in hand.
“Get up to the net,” Abbot’s low voice comes across the court.
What?
And you miss the serve. You blink in surprise.
Before you can process what’s happened- “Thirty fifteen!”
You shake your head for a moment then bounce lightly on your feet. Trying to get back your focus.
Now all you can think of is Coach Abbot watching you. You were doing fine till he said something. Your pulse pounds in your ears, blood buzzing through your body.
You manage to return the serve. There’s a few rallies, and listening to Abbot’s unwelcome advice, you hover by the net.
Mel’s racket reaches up for a lob, and it comes down fast. You let it bounce on the court, running after it, but the neon ball just falls outside of your reach. And you miss it.
“Ugh!” You scream, as air meets the strings, not the satisfying pop of the tennis ball.
With one swoop, you swing your racket, the edge hitting your shin with a dull smack.
A few girls gasp. Must be the freshmen on the team. Your other teammates were used to your court etiquette and behavior.
“Hold up, let’s take a two minute breather.”
It’s Robby’s voice this time. You turn around and see Mel already jogging over to Robby, ready to listen to whatever tips he had in store for her.
Coach Abbot’s already at your side. He places one hand firmly on your shoulder, hand dips his head down to your level. “What was that?”
You focus on the spot on the ground between your feet. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
He doesn’t let go, and instead gives you a shake.
This startles you and you look up at him. He removes his hand now, and takes off his sunglasses cleanly.
“I don’t know, I’m just- having trouble-” you say between inhales and exhales.
Abbot holds up both hands defensively, straightening his posture. “Okay, let’s take some breaths. You are doing good. Just hang in there. Breathe in-” and Abbot takes in his own breath, filling his lungs.
You inhale.
In-
“And out,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
Okay.
It worked, surprisingly. The breathing, plus your mind latching onto the sound of his husky voice saying “you are doing good”, helps you compose yourself.
His hand reaches for you again and presses lightly into your shoulder as he leans in, voice dropping softer and more deliberate. “Her forehand’s weak,” he says, breath close against your skin. “Work that side… she won’t last long.”
You turn your head just a hair, eyes locking for a beat. Understood.
“Yeah. Got it.” You close your eyes and Abbot stands back, giving you breathing room. The heat from the proximity of his body leaves you, and you sidestep away.
You shift back into position, tapping your toes against the baseline, racket lifting as Mel settles in to serve again.
The noise around you dulls. Trinity, the girls, even Robby’s voice fading into the background.
It’s almost like Abbot’s still there, right beside you. She won’t last long.
Mel tosses the ball high into the air.
You move before you can think. The return comes off your strings straight into her forehand side. It’s sharp, like the taste of blood in the back of your throat from exertion of the match.
She misjudges it. The ball clips past her racket and bounces out of reach.
A few girls cheer from the sidelines.
You don’t celebrate right away. Just let out a breath, steadying yourself. But a smile tugs at the corner of your lips anyway.
Abbot simply watches. He doesn’t react. It’s all internal.
But in between the pride and satisfaction he feels and doesn’t show, there’s something else.
Tangled in there is something he shouldn’t be feeling.
ᯓ★
Hey champ – good work today.
You up for a one-on-one tomorrow evening?
-J.A.
Who signs their messages?
You stare at the text, screen glowing in the dark as you lay bunched up in your sheets.
It’s late at night. The time reads 11:48pm. The text had only come through minutes ago, interrupting your lazy pre-bedtime scroll.
Your imagination wanders to what your coach was doing up so late.
Was he in bed like you? Under his sheets, probably a navy or a dark grey color. Was he the type to wear old flannel pants to bed and a comfortable t-shirt? Or maybe he just slept in his boxers, shirtless…
You sit up in bed.
Your heart is racing.
Thinking about your who-knows-how-old coach, in bed, shirtless.
You groan and rub your palm into your face.
This was bad.
This was very bad.
You glance at your phone, hoping that by some miracle the text has disappeared and you can forget everything that just flashed in your mind.
It hasn’t.
And worse, you’ve accidentally sent a text.
All it says is:
lkhg m
You press and hold the text, hoping you can unsend it, but it’s too late.
“Shit!” You hiss, and watch in horror as the thought bubble pops up on the screen.
What does that mean? Is it a new abbreviation your generation came up with?
You freeze. “Your generation?” You scoff out loud to yourself.
Sorry!! I didn’t mean to send that
You hit send.
Somehow, you can still feel your heart pounding in your chest, but the feeling is different. Fear… has a funny way of turning into excitement.
You wait for him to respond. Then-
Don’t tell me you butt-texted me back.
The laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your fingers fly across the keyboard.
Haven’t heard of butt-texting. Is that one of your generation’s abbreviations?
His text comes through at record speed.
Yeah. It’s new. Get with the program.
Your eyebrow lifts. Sassy.
Across the city of Pittsburg, in a larger apartment than yours, stands Coach Abbot, in front of his mirror, trimming his scruff. This is a ritual for him. Come home after spending some time out at a local bar, getting drinks with other ex-military buds or even Robby, eat some leftover takeout, get out the trimmer, hop in the shower.
He happened to be thinking of you.
Maybe he’s had one too many drinks tonight. His head feels a little buzzy, but he’s still conscious, still pretty much there, at least he tells himself.
But, with a weakened state of mind, his thoughts wandered to you.
What would you be doing at this hour? Out with friends? Going to a party? Wearing a short dress, couldn’t be shorter than your tennis skirts. Hopefully it would be something sparkly, fun, energetic, like how you were after hitting a winning shot. Arms raised in the air, jumping to obnoxiously loud music, dancing with your whole body-
No, that didn’t seem like you. On a random occasion, maybe.
Or, you’re more of an introvert and you’re at home, watching TV. A movie you’ve seen a hundred times. The idea feels… cozy to him, he has to admit. Or maybe you’re already asleep. No, there’s not a single college student that should be going to bed before midnight on the weekend in the summer. At least you’d be awake, maybe winding down for the day like him, perhaps you’re wearing one of those silly masks that women always wear that makes them look like a ghost, and maybe you’re wearing comfortable, silky pajamas…
Abbot, flicks his trimmer off, and sets it down under his hand against the sink counter, and it hits the marble with a hard clank.
He sucks a sharp breath in.
His reflection in the mirror looks at him with disgust.
What are you thinkin’? That’s one of your players. Not some woman you’ve taken on a date that you can’t stop fantasizing about.
He barely knows you. All he knows is that you’re a pre-med student, exceptionally good at tennis, maybe even better than him some days. You’ve got a killer backhand, you knock heads with some of the other players on the team, you work at a coffee shop when you’re not on the courts, and you’re…
Pretty.
Before another second passes, he grabs his phone off the ledge under his mirror, and types a text.
He hits send, and resumes trimming his grey stubble. He’s almost done, just getting that stubborn area under the jaw.
The vibration from his phone stops him, and he reaches for his phone faster than he’d like to admit.
He furrows his brow when he sees your text.
“Ellll, kah, huhh, guh,” he tries sounding outloud, unsure of what your text meant.
He asks for clarification, unsure if you’ll even respond. Maybe you fell asleep while texting.
When you respond, he grins to himself. He’s far too pleased that you’re awake, reading his text, responding to him. Even if you were at the club with friends, you’re still on his mind.
One text turns into a couple.
And a few more.
There’s a pause in the conversation over messages when you don’t respond to him.
He takes this moment to hop in the shower, deciding that now was probably a good time to stop the conversation.
Abbot, right before getting in, glances once more at his mirror. His cheeks are flushed.
jack abbot x reader
thinking only about his freckled biceps...
warnings: chokehold, fluff, flirting, playfighting
It all starts with you figuring out that he’s ticklish.
You had both been laying on the couch, watching who knows what at this hour of the night. You shifted to find the remote to turn up the volume when you accidentally jab his side.
Jack’s not just a little bit ticklish. His entire body convulses and every muscle tenses when your elbow lodges into his side.
His eyes widen when he sees yours squint devilishly with this new discovery.
“You’re… ticklish?” You smile, leaning back for a brief moment, almost in disbelief.
“Oh no,” he groans, before you practically tackle him, hands flying towards his sides. He instantly recoils.
But then his laugh escapes, loud and deep, completely uncontrollable. You giggle in response, watching him squirm under your touch, an unfamiliar dynamic, opposite to what you both are used to.
Suddenly he twists away from your reach, and in one swift movement, he’s got both of your wrists trapped in his calloused hands. He pulls them away from himself while trying to catch his breath, and nothing but the sound of both your huffing fills the room.
“I had no idea…” you wheeze, your face beginning to hurt from smiling.
“Don’t you ever tickle me again,” he warns.
“Or what?”
Jack lifts your arms above his head, and shifts them into one grip.
Oh no…
“Or I’ll have to do this,” he says, tracing his free hand down to your side before digging his fingers into the spot between your hips and ribs.
Your scream turns into cackling as he tickles you back. Between the laughter ringing out from both of you, you manage to slip free of his grip, and now it’s a full-on fight, discovering new places on each other that get a reaction.
It gets hard for Jack to breathe from laughing, but he refuses to surrender. In one swift motion, he pushes you sideways off the couch and you yelp, startled enough to stop your hands from reaching for him again.
Before you can tumble to the ground, Jack rises off the couch and catches you, pulling you against him.
You’re about to turn around and retaliate when he says, “Oh no, you don’t.”
In one swift motion, his arm slides around your neck from behind and locks you in a chokehold. It’s probably one that he’s practiced from when he served in the military. He squeezes his bicep, tight while his other arm snakes around your waist, pinning you against his body
“Hey!” you wheeze.
He leans down, his breath brushing against your ear. “I warned you once. Don’t make me warn you again,” he murmurs.
But from this position, he fails to see the smug expression spreading across your face.
dr.wilson x f!reader imagine
blurb bc i had to jot this down quickly
dr.wilson in season 8... greying at his temples... grieving on the sofa in his office about how he is childless and isn't married when enters a new young nurse (you), ready to assist with some of his oncology patients.
dr house's idea obviously. he times the entrance perfectly. directing you there to walk into the office at his friend's moment of weakness.
you're clearly somewhere in your twenties, wearing a skirt that probably shrunk in the wash, and a light blue blouse that dips right below your clavicle.
you clear your throat, and wilson drops his hand that's been pinching the bridge of his nose for the past half-hour, and says something stupid like "house, leave me alone-" only to be cut off by your presence.
"oh hello," he says, quickly sitting up. and once he really gets a good look at you, he blinks for a moment.
is he dreaming?
you smile and his heart skips a beat. he's struggling to keep his eyes trained on your face only. did he mention to house that his favorite color is light blue? was this a prank?
"i'm new, i was told to find you." you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and tilt your head. "is everything okay?" you say in smooth, caring tone.
Hello could you please write for Lex Luthor again? 👉👈 your slander story was amazing!
thank you!
I definitely will at some point! I've been busy with work these days and slightly distracted by jack abbot and other characters, but I will always love that evil man.
haii. js wanted to ask, is the enemy of my enemy discontinued??
I may get around to finishing it but I fear I wrote myself into kind of a hard part of the story. I might have to defy the laws of biology because I shot the reader and now she has to heal... which takes a long time. oh well!
I'll get around to rewatching mission impossible again this summer and hopefully that will fuel the motivation. gah, i hate leaving fics unfinished (my graveyard of unfinished fics stares at me from afar)
glad you enjoyed the story enough to ask! when enough people hype it up, i am definitely more excited to write more chapters.
Is there a possibility that you’ll write for Lex Luthor again please? Your writing is awesome!
thank you!!
high possibility.
anyone seen the promo stuff for How To Rob A Bank? Nicholas Hoult looks so evil and hot. I do miss his bald head tho...
Slander filler chapter may drop at some point. when i get around to finishing it. I feel like I want to wait till i get more context of what Lex has been up to with Man of Tomorrow coming out next year. I want my fics to follow canon as much as possible, and all we really know is that he's in jail rn.
Anyways glad that theres more lex luthor fans out there! thanks again!
still in shock over the ending of slander, i can’t cope with the fact that they were doomed from the start omg 😭
it probably stems from my history of failed relationships that i just feel like they never work out.... oops
and the fact that lex is toxic af and in practically every scenario fail as a significant other.
but we can still have our situationship stories 😀 right??
time to go reread my own story, i kinda miss it. it was so fun to write. so glad it made an impact on my readers! (even if yall need therapy after, oops)
I fear you have gone where I cannot follow (the jack abbot fandom) 😔 but I wish you luck on your journey
ps i love that you call it the jack abbot fandom and not even the pitt it makes this so much better
thank you!! tbh seeing all the superman man of tomorrow BTS is making me get the itch to write for lex again if thats the journey youve been following me on
so there may be a few lex fics still in me. we'll see
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
summary: a tech consultant and er doctor share the same flight. and both of you are tired! (i felt like shawn wearing airpod maxes was giving MAJOR airport crush dilf vibes. so this happened)
warnings/tags: age gap, fluff, flirting, forced proximity
words: 3k
Jack Abbot loved the airport. It meant change. A new experience. Returning home. It was a shame that being an ER physician didn’t allow for much travel. Besides picking up SWAT shifts in his down time, he didn’t get out much.
Occasionally, he got out of Pittsburg and spent some time outside the city to do some activities he missed. Surfing at the beaches in coastal Oregon. Hiking trails in southern Utah. The adventurous side of him often wasn’t satisfied enough with the ER. Could anyone believe it?
The smell of coffee is heavy in the mornings too. Though he wasn’t really planning on partaking of any for himself. He just finished his last night shift before heading out, taking a few days off to go to…
He checks his phone. San Diego.
Jack figured he could use some sunshine. But not just any sun, the one that wasn’t too hot, warming exposed skin to a tolerable amount. Right by the ocean for perhaps some surfing and good seafood.
He’s absurdly early to the airport, and is able to pick any seat in the waiting area at the gate. He opts for one facing the window, watching planes land and take off.
With one motion, he slides his noise-cancelling headphones over his ear. He could listen to something soothing, calming, but he works at a hospital for crying out loud. Jack Abbot never felt a moment of peace, nor does he really want to.
The first song that plays is Too Late For Love.
He sits back and lets his head nod lightly to the beat of the music.
____________
You hated the airport. Hate’s a strong word, but it’s always busy, security always takes too long, and you have the worst luck; your flights always get changed, sometimes leaving you stranded for hours waiting.
It was part of the job. Tech consulting. A few times a year, you had to travel out, meet with clients for a weekend, schmooze them over with drinks, a fancy hotel, activities. These always ended up being your biggest deals, (commission was nice!) but you were constantly debating on quitting your job when you had to change terminals… again.
You’re making your way to the new gate, and even in the distance, you can see that there’s not a lot of seats open in the waiting area. A heavy sigh leaves your mouth, when to your dismay, there’s only one seat left, to the right of a man with curly silver hair.
Hopefully he’s nice, you can see that he’s right next to the charging station. Maybe he’ll feed your cord through and plug in your phone. You’ve been up all night trying to nail down the last details of your trip, and it drained your device.
You quietly step around a few people, making your way to the open seat. You stop when you spot a backpack on the chair. Maybe saving it for his wife or something.
“Damn it.”
You’re about to turn around when you hear a soft, “Hey.”
The man pulls his backpack off the chair, and sets it down by his feet, a silent invitation for you to sit.
“Oh, thank goodness,” you say, and plop down on the seat, slinging your duffle on the ground in front of the seat.
You turn to the man, who’s kept his focus trained on you. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”
Your eyes flick down to his left hand. No ring. No wife.
He nods, probably not really able to hear you through his headphones. He gives you a half-smile, his crows feet tightening around his hazel eyes.
His gaze feels… warm. Familiar. His entire body is relaxed and somehow it transfers to your tense shoulders, and you sink into the chair slightly.
The man slides his headphones off his head and lets them rest around his neck.
“Where are you headed? Off to a fun vacation?” He says. His voice is a low quiet rumble, clearly marking him as someone older, as if you couldn’t already tell from his cinnamon sugar colored locks, the way the grays sprouted out more around his ears, wrinkles setting in deeper lines on his forehead.
“Definitely not. I wish,” you reply hastily, eager to make your identity clear that you were strictly business. “Work stuff.”
“Ah,” he says. “Work stuff, in San Diego?”
He’s a stranger. But something about his disposition makes him easy to trust. Maybe he works a lot with people. Like in healthcare.
“Yeah. I have some business meetings. Some sales stuff. I work in tech.”
He lifts his head slightly as he listens to you, peering at you with an interested look. “No beach getaway planned at all?”
You scoff. But it’s the first time Jack sees you smile.
He likes it.
“Maybe, we’ll see. If things go well, I’ll have the weekend free and I may get some time on the sand.” You shrug your shoulders. “What about you?”
“I have a few days off work. I don’t get out much for my job, so I like to travel as much as it permits, which isn’t a lot.” He pauses. “Purely self-indulgent vacation days.”
You hum. “Sounds nice. What do you do for work?”
“ER attending. Night shift.”
Ha. You were right.
“Dang, see people’s legs getting cut off?”
“Nah.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a sly smirk. “I don’t see that happen. But we do stitch them back together.”
You nod. “Right. That’s what I meant.”
He shakes his head. “It never gets old. The stuff you see. But y’know,” he gestures to the big window panes. “It’s nice to get away from it for a bit.”
“Yeah. Makes sense.”
There’s a pause in the conversation as you both watch a plane take off.
He takes a deep inhale, and realizes he hasn’t even introduced himself. “I’m Jack, by the way.”
You introduce yourself and he nods, letting the buzz of the airport fill the space between you.
His gaze lingers a moment too long, taking in the way you’ve clipped your hair back, a few pieces framing your features, but keeping most of it away so he can really see your face.
A chime rings out, and a flight agent announces that boarding will begin.
“Finally,” Jack says under his breath. He’s not particularly impatient, but he feels like it’s been forever since he got here.
“I’m glad I got to sit for a second. I’m always running late,” you admit out loud, and this gets a good chuckle out of Jack.
Passengers begin filing in a line, and you and Jack join the group. He lets you stand in front of him, ”Ladies first,” he insisted.
There’s the typical waiting and inching forward as people load their overhead luggage and shuffle awkwardly into their seats. You feel Jack’s looming presence behind you, raising hairs on the back of your neck.
As you finally get to your seat, before you can pick up your carry-on, Jack is already lifting it off the ground and sliding it with a thud into the overhead compartment.
“Oh, thanks.” You smile, heat rushing to your cheeks. You were perfectly capable of doing it on your own, but you didn’t mind watching his forearms flex, now noticing his weathered freckles scattered across his muscular arms.
“Anytime, sweetheart.”
Okay, as if you weren’t already blushing enough.
You slide into the middle seat, and watch as Jack checks his boarding pass, then looks up at the seat number, and then back at you. His brows furrow a bit, but then he loads up his own duffle bag, and lowers himself into the seat right next to you.
No way.
“Y’can’t get rid of me,” he says, adjusting himself in his seat and clicking the metal buckle across his lap.
“Who says I’m trying?” You respond without thinking twice, and when you see his expression shift into amusement, you blink and shake your head. “It’s just- I’m not used to talking to strangers at the airport. It’s kind of nice to interact, you know.”
He nods at your rambling, acutely aware that you’ve flustered yourself… about him.
But he doesn’t mind. The fact that he hasn’t scared you away yet by his age, or by simply starting a conversation, it feels good to him.
New.
Different.
“So tell me more about your job,” he says, ignoring the safety message that plays across the speakers.
“Well,” you roll your eyes. “I think you should go first. My job is like watching grass grow in comparison to what you probably do.”
His eyebrow quirks. “Is that so?”
“Tech sales… yeah. It’s not super exciting.” With your toes, you push your backpack further under the seat in front of you.
“Why do you do it?”
You pause. And let your shoulders sag a little. “Pay isn’t bad. It’s actually pretty good at this company. I get lots of time off. I joined the company because I started dating some guy that worked there. But then we broke up… and he left. I stuck around.”
“Was that recent?”
You laugh. “No, it was about a year ago. I pretty much got promoted to his position too. Benefits all around.”
“Poor guy, had to go break his heart like that.”
Your face contorts into discomfort. “Well… he broke up with me. Kinda out of nowhere.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?” Jack blurts too quickly.
The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.
Way too forward.
But to his relief, you shake your head lightly. “No. I think that whole thing messed me up more than I expected.” You give a dry laugh. “Dating kinda sucks lately.”
You let your head hang for a moment and shrug your hands in the air in defeat. “People leave so easily now. There’s no commitment.”
You glance out the window, and quieter, “Maybe I’m just hard to stay for.”
Jack’s jaw tightens as he sees the weight of failed relationships on your shoulders.
“I seriously doubt that.”
You look over at him.
His eyes stay fixed on you when he adds, “Sounds more like they didn’t know what they had.
You straighten a bit under his gaze, trying to not read into what he could be implying. No. There’s no way. This guy is probably closer to your dad’s age.
Still, he wasn’t half bad to look at. Hell, he was actually really attractive. That made it worse. It’s one thing to have an older guy hitting on you, it’s an entirely different thing when he’s handsome and competent.
“So,” you clear your throat, voice going neutral. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen in the ER?”
Jack notices. The shift in the conversation. He winces internally.
Yep. Too far.
But he answers, settling back into his seat more comfortably. Like you’re not prepared for the answer. “You really wanna know?”
“Absolutely not,” you admit, “but I asked, so you have to tell me anyways.”
Jack grins.
The conversation goes a lot smoother after that. Jack tells you stories that are horrifying and hilarious, your expression shifting from near-vomiting to laughing a little too loudly for an airplane. Elderly men with objects lodged where they definitely shouldn’t be. College students making drunk decisions (ones that you made not too long ago!), and long nights that he barely made it out alive from.
No more hints of flirting or romance, at least from what you can tell.
You don’t notice the fact that you’ve been smiling almost this entire time.
But he does.
The plane hums steadily around you as the time passes slowly. Somewhere midway through one of his stories, your responses start getting sluggish and your eyes burn more and more. The lack of sleep, stress of packing, and running through the airport has finally caught up.
Jack stops talking for a moment when it’s the third time you’ve suppressed a yawn.
“Sorry,” you mumble, now acutely aware that you might be communicating the message that you’re getting bored.
“Tired?”
You nod. “A little…”
Jack studies you for a moment before speaking again, then in a lower voice, “you should really get some sleep.”
You want to keep listening to him. To that smokey, raspy voice of his.
...
Yep.. you probably need sleep. Your brain was going places it shouldn’t be. The more Jack told you about life in the ER, the more you watched as he explained things with those big hands, watching his veiny arms move around.
“Yeah, okay,” you surrender, shifting in your seat for a moment before letting your head hit the back of the headrest.
The next thing you know, you’re out. It didn’t take long before your chest rises and falls with each breath.
Jack sneaks a glance at you now that you’re unconscious. He prefers you awake, active in conversation, listening to his tales, but he doesn’t mind seeing you like this. Peaceful.
He feels your shoulder slide closer to him as some turbulence jostles the plane a little. Then your head tips towards him, slowly,
Then fully.
Your cheek lands on the space between his shoulder and the curve of his tricep. You don’t wake, much to his surprise, and instead your mouth parts slightly against the fabric of his shirt.
Jack looks down carefully as to not move, afraid even just a little movement will wake you. He takes in the relaxed expression and your proximity with a deeper breath.
It’s adorable.
It’s even quieter now on the plane with you fast asleep against his shoulder.
He tells himself he should stay awake. Just in case you wake up embarrassed. Or if your neck starts hurting, Maybe if a flight attendant needs to get through the aisle.
The exhaustion from the night shift catches up to him too. His head tilts against the seat. And as he slips into unconsciousness, it slides towards you.
A flight attendant pauses by your row. She smiles faintly at the sight of you completely passed out against each other, and gently unfolds a spare blanket across your laps.
The lights in the cabin glow on as the plane begins its descent into San Diego. Sunlight blares through your eyelid and everything shifts slightly to the left, the movement startling you.
For a moment, you’re disoriented. Vision blurred, your legs feel like pins and needles asleep.
Then, you realize, your cheek is pressed against Jack’s chest now instead of his shoulder, his head resting lightly against the top of yours. And there’s a blanket. Over both of you.
What the-
Your eyes widen at the sight. Jack wakes a second later, blinking slowly, and sitting up.
His voice comes out even rougher with drowsiness. “Are we there?”
You stifle an embarrassed laugh. “I think so.”
He glances downward, noticing the blanket. Then realizes you’re still halfway tucked against him.
A sleepy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Well. Looks like you got comfortable.”
Your face instantly goes red, heat rushing up your neck. You sit up, much too fast, nearly tangling yourself in the blanket.
“I am so sorry.”
“Relax,” he mutters softly, reaching over your lap with one arm and taking the blanket. “Could’ve been worse.”
You bury your face into your palms while he chuckles under his breath beside you, folding the blanket up and sliding it under the seat in front of him.
The plane lands promptly after that. Thank goodness. You were far too mortified to endure any more time on this flight. Though you didn’t mind being curled up against him. You never slept longer than 30 minutes on any flight. The fact that you were passed out most of the time was impressive.
There’s a bit of strange awkwardness that follows the unexpected intimacy. Jack doesn’t bother saying much. He’s not sure what to say. Thanks for falling asleep on me?
Though he is, oddly enough, thankful for your presence. He’s actually feeling sad thinking about the fact that this could be the last time he would ever see you.
Maybe.
You both stand once the aisle starts moving towards the exit. Jack grabs your carryon from the overhead before you can reach for it.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
“Of course,” he says, dipping his head slightly. “Starting to think you’re expecting it.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s paired with a soft smile.
The walk through the bridge, following Jack, feels short.
Reality is starting to hit you. This is the last time you’d be seeing him.
Maybe.
People start heading towards baggage claim and the exit. Jack’s pace slows, allowing you to catch up to him.
Then he stops, watching you, as if waiting for you to say something.
“Well,” you press your thumb into the button on your carryon handle absentmindedly. “This is probably where the fun ends.”
Jack looks at you with his dark hazel eyes. Oh how you’d miss them.
Then he reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his phone. “You said if your meetings go well, you might escape early.”
Your stomach flips.
“I did say that…”
He taps the screen twice and holds it out to you. An empty contact.
“Then maybe you should have my number… just in case you get bored.”
You stare at him for a moment, mouth turning upwards into a smile.
“Just in case?” You repeat.
Jack tilts his head towards the phone.
And you take it.
He grins. “The beach is a lot more fun with company.”
jack abbot x reader
thinking only about his freckled biceps...
warnings: chokehold, fluff, flirting, playfighting
It all starts with you figuring out that he’s ticklish.
You had both been laying on the couch, watching who knows what at this hour of the night. You shifted to find the remote to turn up the volume when you accidentally jab his side.
Jack’s not just a little bit ticklish. His entire body convulses and every muscle tenses when your elbow lodges into his side.
His eyes widen when he sees yours squint devilishly with this new discovery.
“You’re… ticklish?” You smile, leaning back for a brief moment, almost in disbelief.
“Oh no,” he groans, before you practically tackle him, hands flying towards his sides. He instantly recoils.
But then his laugh escapes, loud and deep, completely uncontrollable. You giggle in response, watching him squirm under your touch, an unfamiliar dynamic, opposite to what you both are used to.
Suddenly he twists away from your reach, and in one swift movement, he’s got both of your wrists trapped in his calloused hands. He pulls them away from himself while trying to catch his breath, and nothing but the sound of both your huffing fills the room.
“I had no idea…” you wheeze, your face beginning to hurt from smiling.
“Don’t you ever tickle me again,” he warns.
“Or what?”
Jack lifts your arms above his head, and shifts them into one grip.
Oh no…
“Or I’ll have to do this,” he says, tracing his free hand down to your side before digging his fingers into the spot between your hips and ribs.
Your scream turns into cackling as he tickles you back. Between the laughter ringing out from both of you, you manage to slip free of his grip, and now it’s a full-on fight, discovering new places on each other that get a reaction.
It gets hard for Jack to breathe from laughing, but he refuses to surrender. In one swift motion, he pushes you sideways off the couch and you yelp, startled enough to stop your hands from reaching for him again.
Before you can tumble to the ground, Jack rises off the couch and catches you, pulling you against him.
You’re about to turn around and retaliate when he says, “Oh no, you don’t.”
In one swift motion, his arm slides around your neck from behind and locks you in a chokehold. It’s probably one that he’s practiced from when he served in the military. He squeezes his bicep, tight while his other arm snakes around your waist, pinning you against his body
“Hey!” you wheeze.
He leans down, his breath brushing against your ear. “I warned you once. Don’t make me warn you again,” he murmurs.
But from this position, he fails to see the smug expression spreading across your face.
