“Subverting” Catholic art? Oh, okay. I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You log onto the internet and you post about how “Wound of Christ” from Psalter and Prayer Book of Bonne de Luxembourg, attributed to Jean le Noir, c.1349, for instance, looks like a vulva because you're trying to tell the world that you enjoy Catholic art and imagery in an alternative, queer, risqué way that challenges Christian beliefs. But what you don't know is that that stigma isn’t just a vulva. It's not just a mandorla. It's not just yonic. It's actually intentionally erotic. And you're also blithely unaware of the fact that around 1297, Saint Angela of Foligno experienced a vision of Christ himself, who called her to put her mouth to the wound in his side and lick the freshly flowing blood. And then I think it was Saint Catherine of Siena who drank blood and a clear liquid from the wound before receiving a ring made from Christ’s foreskin? And then graphically erotic encounters with the side wound of Christ quickly showed up in the writings of eight different mystics. And then the yonic interpretation of the stigmata filtered down through the illuminated manuscripts and then trickled on down into some pseudo-intellectual corner of the internet…where you, no doubt, fished it out of some Pinterest board. However, that interpretation represents hundreds of years and countless visions of religious ecstasy. And it's sort of comical how you think that you've come up with an idea that exempts you from Christian theology when, in fact…you're posting an image that was sexualized for you by the very Medieval saints you think you’re so different than…from “subverted” Catholic art.
reminder that if you're writing a reader who's the child/sibling of an existing white character unless you mention that they're adopted/foster/step/etc you're saying they're at least half white
summary: when jack goes viral after delivering a baby in an elevator during a power outage, he never expects to be invited to a radio show—let alone accept. but when he sees that you're the host, he decides to answer the call.
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, unprotected (piv) sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), brief rimming (fem!recieving), one pussy slap, fingering, age gap, description of someone giving birth (not reader), reader has a radio name (luna), radio station inaccuracies, fluff, cheesiness, somewhat insta-lovey, alternating POVs, a few original characters
author's note: this is my submission for the fun in the sun collab hosted by the amazing @robbyology! this really ran away from me, so apologies if it's nowhere near as close to the theme as it should be (and for how fucking long it is, omg). anyway, please enjoy!
Jack didn’t expect to be working after the end of his shift.
It’s Thursday morning, and he’d like nothing more than to crash into bed, but that’s not possible considering he’s trapped in the elevator with his neighbor. His pregnant neighbor, who just so happens to be in the pushing stage of labor.
He’s kneeled down in front of her, taking note of her dilation. He shifts most of his weight to his left leg, but the prosthetic sleeve is starting to chafe the sensitive skin around his right limb, and the air in the elevator is stifling, making the socket overly warm.
Over the past week, Pittsburgh has been experiencing a major summer heat wave, causing blackouts and power outages all over the city. They’re both stuck in here, but there’s also very little light filtering in through the crack of the elevator door, and the temperature and humidity are making it difficult to breathe.
Jack is nothing if not prepared, however, and has an emergency kit in his bag that includes a military flashlight and other supplies he’ll need for this.
He wipes the bead of sweat lining his forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re in good hands, but you’re going to need to start pushing.”
She shakes her head, and her shadow mirrors her movement against the steel walls of the trap. “Dr. Abbot, I’m scared. I can’t do this. Not here.”
“It’s okay. Take a few deep breaths in and out. Emergency services will be here soon. But you need to push, and soon.” He holds his hand out to her. “Hold my hand, if that’ll help.”
She looks at his outstretched hand for a second, then grips it.
“Breathe.”
She nods, then starts breathing into the deepest part of her belly and exhales slowly, repeating the exercise a few times. With each breath her hand only tightens around Jack’s, but he doesn’t mind.
“Okay. I think I’m ready. It’s—it’s time.”
“Good. I’ll guide you, alright? Just push when I say.”
After a grueling two hours of pushing, his neighbor has given birth to a baby boy. She’s all smiles—though drenched with sweat and exhausted. Her son is too, because he fell asleep shortly after Jack made quick work of the umbilical cord and discarded what he could of the placenta in a waste bag.
He’s being cradled and rocked to and fro within her arms as she hums a lullaby, with Jack’s scrub top being used to swaddle him.
The corners of Jack’s lips curl up at the sight, relieved everything went well, but the fire department has yet to arrive, and she needs to get to a hospital.
But luck seems to be on her side today, because the doors are suddenly being pried open, and a flood of light shines into his eyes as he turns around.
He finally stands from where he’s seated and grunts in pain. The uncomfortable kneeling position he was in during her labor did nothing for the ache in his limb that started during his shift hours prior. But it’s nothing a massage and a few painkillers can’t fix.
“Time to get you to the hospital.” Jack helps her stand as she holds onto her son, and then he ushers her in his arms to the firepersons, who are waiting patiently by the door.
“Let me get the baby first, ma’am. Don’t worry, we’re here now,” a firefighter says with outstretched arms.
As his neighbor passes her son to the fire woman, she turns her head to Jack, who’s still holding her up in case she starts to feel weak. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Really.”
“Just call me Jack. And it’s no problem.”
Jack is back in the Pitt after joining his neighbor and her son in the ambulance for a necessary checkup. They’ll most likely be okay, but he can’t know if there were any invisible complications after the birth—not without proper medical equipment.
Robby throws his hands up in the air and chuckles when he sees Jack walking toward the nurse’s station after seeing her to the maternity ward. “Now what are you doing here, brother?”
Jack huffs a laugh. “It's been one hell of a morning so far.”
“You’re not here to work, are you?” Robby digs his hands into his pockets and does his signature lean forward.
“Might as well. I’m already here.”
“Going to tell me why?”
Jack twists his lips to one side and slightly shakes his head. “Another time. Let’s get to work.”
It isn’t until the evening of the next day that Jack is scheduled to work.
He salutes Robby, Collins, and Langdon goodbye as they handoff and turns to Shen and Ellis, who are leaning against the nurse’s station.
“Is everyone gathered for rounds?” he asks.
“There’s a few others that’re missing,” Ellis says, giving Shen a sideways glance with a smirk playing on her lips. He just laughs to himself.
“Where is everyone? What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” Shen says.
Jack raises a brow at him. “It better not be nothing, or I’ll start to worry that folks don’t want to keep their jobs.” His voice is serious, but the quirk of his lip and the shine in his eyes betray that he’s only teasing.
“Okay, fine. You got me.” Shen raises his palms up. “Parker, wanna show him?”
“I’d be glad to.” She smiles brightly and pulls out her phone. “You haven’t been online or on your phone since yesterday?”
Jack scoffs. “Are you really asking me that? No. I haven’t. I’m too busy working. Unlike you two.”
“Figures. There’s such a thing as too much work, you know.” Ellis chuckles as she presses play on a video, and Jack’s brows raise and forehead lines crinkle as he watches it.
“What am I looking at?” All he sees is a radio show host and her co-host in what looks to be their amateur studio.
“It’s you!” Ellis points back and forth between the screen and Jack, almost giddily. “Well, it’s not you. But they’re talking about you. About what you did yesterday.” She slaps his shoulder lightly. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re a hero?”
“What?”
Shen cuts in. “You’re all over the internet, man. TikTok, Instagram, Reddit—how do you not know?”
“How did people find out what happened?”
Shen swirls his iced coffee as if winding himself up to give an explanation. “Some bystander got a video of you as you were leaving the elevator with a woman and her newborn. Went viral. Somewhere down the line your name came up. Now Dr. Jack Abbot is everywhere,” he says with a dramatic flair of his hand. “Local or national news didn’t seem to care much, but hey, I saw you on my feed—shirtless—so that’s something.” He shrugs his shoulders and takes a sip of his coffee.
“I don’t get it. What’s the big deal? I was just doing what any person would do. I’m no ‘hero.’” Jack air-quotes, then recrosses his arms.
“Well, according to everyone online, you are,” Ellis says. “You’re the hot doctor and baby-saver extraordinaire. I’ve already seen thirst traps of you—against my will, mind you.”
“Christ,” Jack forces out. How else can he respond?
It’s difficult to see himself being heralded as a hero—especially when he’s felt life slip through his fingers more times than any person should. He’s just doing what he’s trained to do. Did what he had to do in that elevator.
He doesn’t particularly mind being adored by people for his good looks, however. Maybe this will help in the love department.
“So that’s why no one’s here? They’re watching… this?” He gestures to her phone with an irritated wave.
“This is Renegade Radio. They’re a broadcast on Fringe FM and have a pretty decent following.” Ellis holds out her hand. “This could be a good thing for PTMC, Jack. They’re not NPR, but I still think you should go on.”
“Go… on?”
“They invited you to their show. At the end of the segment last night, they said they’d be reaching out. Hell, you might already have an email or phone call waiting for you,” Shen says.
“I am not going on a radio show.”
“The host said you’re cute.” Ellis wiggles her brows.
“And for an old white guy.”
She points her thumb to Shen. “That part.”
Jack scoffs, but as he looks at the screen again, he thinks about it. “She is pretty… isn’t she?” Ellis only showed him the briefest bit of the video, but the image of you is burned into his mind now, and all he can think about is you calling him cute.
It’s not his usual description of himself, but he’ll take a compliment where he can get one.
“If this is something that could be good for the hospital, I’ll do it.” He says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Gloria has the final say.”
Ellis and Shen give each other a look.
“I’m rooting for you, Dr. Abbot. I’d definitely tune in to that,” Shen says with an adamant nod. “We’ll, uh, go ahead and gather everyone now.”
He and Ellis fist-bump each other as they walk to the break room with their backs turned to Jack.
“Think he’ll actually do it?” he asks.
Ellis laughs. “I seriously doubt it. But it’s worth a try. Maybe he’ll go on just to try his luck with the host.”
Shen sighs dreamily. “All I want is a shout-out. That’s all I care about.”
Your station director walks into your broom closet turned office—or more like barges in—with a few clicks of her worn heels and a tight-lipped smile.
You think twice about taking your feet off the desk, but reconsider it when you remember this is your office. At least, right now. You don’t rotate with the next host for another several hours when they need to come in for the morning show.
You can do as you please for now. And it’s not like it isn’t dirty already. You throw the pages of the script for your upcoming show onto the desk and cross your arms over your chest.
Don’t let her intimidate you.
She rolls away one of the chairs, then rests her palms on the cracked oak wood, leaning over as she does so. She doesn’t deign to sit so that you're eye-level with each other, and that puts you in a sour mood.
You glance at the clock on your desk. It’s almost midnight.
“Working late tonight, Morgan?” you ask, plastering a smile.
She glances at the loose script pages before replying. “Station never sleeps, nor do I. Did he reach back out to you yet, or what?”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘yet.’ He may never. But I already told you, we don’t need him. We have a perfectly good script right here.” You gesture to the pages.
“We do need him. Our sponsorships are drying up, and our viewer count isn’t where it needs to be. If our little station is to survive the next quarter, we’ll need something big.”
You scoff. “Our viewer count has never been higher.”
“But it’s the same as last quarter. Stagnation is death for us. You know that.” Morgan cocks her head to the side. “I thought you were more motivated than this. You’ve brought on more difficult guests before. It’s a really good idea too. Everyone is falling head over heels for the handsome doctor who delivered a baby in a freaking elevator.”
You shake your head. “I just... haven’t had the time to really chase him.”
The power in your apartment has been on and off all week because of the heat wave, and you’ve been having car troubles. That, on top of being behind on rent after a side gig fell through, has made you less than motivated to go above and beyond for work.
These are problems for later, but if the station really does go bust, you’ll most likely be out of a home.
Is Abbot really the saving grace this station’s hoping for?
“I just don’t see a reason to go for something that’ll never happen. We have a good script and guest prepared already, anyway.”
Morgan huffs and crosses her arms. “I don’t think Pittsburgh cares about Grandma and her startup sex toy business.”
“Well… I do,” you say, very seriously, then burst into laughter after a few seconds of staring each other down. Morgan’s face morphs from serious to jovial as she does too.
Your working relationship with her has always been tumultuous. She’s hardheaded, strict, and pushy. Very pushy.
And yet, in moments like these, you remember that she’s just doing her job and she really does put her faith in you to produce a quality show (with the help of your wonderful producer, of course).
She’s no stranger to hard work, and you’re sure that she’s pulling her hair out trying to figure out how to keep Fringe FM afloat.
It’s hard being the most popular broadcast of the station (out of three), though. Renegade Radio is held for two hours every Friday starting at midnight EST, which only goes to show how willing people are to cancel their late-night plans or stay up late to tune in. But because of how much the station depends on your show to bring the money in, only you bear the brunt of her uptightness, and it puts an inordinate amount of pressure on you.
But you’re good at your job. So you decide to give things another go, even if you don’t really have the bandwidth to at the moment.
“I’ll reach out to the doctor and the hospital again—it’s only been a few days. But the show is Friday. If we get him, I still have to prep-call him, see if he’s a good fit—”
“—That’s all I need to hear. You got this, Luna.” Morgan taps her lacquered nails against the edge of the desk in acknowledgement, then turns around to leave.
You call her before she exits the room, and she leans on the doorframe.
“Yes?”
“Do you—do you really think this is a good idea? I mean, I saw the video, thought what he did was amazing, but… I don’t know. Grounded, serious stories like his aren’t what we usually go for. Viewers might think it’s weird.”
She purses her lips before responding. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Make the interview fit the style of Renegade, and viewers will still enjoy it. People will move on to the next hot topic, which is why we need to capitalize on this now—regardless of our reputation. Money’s already tight as it is; you don’t need me to remind you of that.”
No, no, she doesn’t.
“You know this is a shot in the dark, right? Like last time? We were barely able to make payroll with our last ‘superstar’ guest.”
“Well, let’s hope you’re successful and we pick up some more sponsorships with this guy. Otherwise…”
With that, Morgan closes the door behind her, and you let a sigh escape you. You pick up your phone that’s been lying face down on the desk to check if FFM’s potential “savior” got back to you.
You see that you do, in fact, have a missed phone call from one Dr. Jack Abbot.
Jack is waiting inside a little coffee shop with his hands on his knees, rubbing them against the starchy jean fabric. The loud hum of the fans running inside an already busy and cramped shop only makes him feel more out of place, but at least it keeps him unnoticed. He’s already been approached by a few people just from the walk from his truck to here.
He’s not used to this. Not used to taking photos or exchanging numbers with pretty strangers. Not used to being anxious about having coffee with one, either. One who happens to blow everyone else out of the water.
He did a little research and found your portfolio online—though it took him more effort than he’d like to admit. Luna—your host name—who’s the lead host for Renegade Radio and has been for the past few years, is a gorgeous, charming, funny, witty human being, and one who he isn’t sure he should have the pleasure of meeting. But he has to remind himself you’re here for the story. His story, but not for him.
Jack doesn’t know what to do with that. Or with the burden he feels because he’s developed somewhat of a crush on you after binging all the uploaded recordings of your show on YouTube over the past few days.
It was only yesterday that he called you and told you that he was willing to go on the show. As Ellis and Shen suspected, Gloria agreed that being a guest would be a good chance for one of PTMC’s finest to talk about their heroism and garner publicity. She urged him to accept, comms gave him a folder with a list of rules, and now here he is.
But it was Robby who gave him the final push to call you.
When you called back, he picked up right away. It was odd, hearing your voice on the other end. It was just as he’s heard a million times already while watching your show, but it almost didn’t seem real—like your voice was meant for his ears only.
You both decided on meeting here to discuss show logistics, and he couldn’t help but get here a bit early. He doesn't have much longer to wait, however, as he sees you walking through the entrance when he hears the bell ding.
If the shop owners know what’s good for them, they’ll keep the door propped open. It’s way too hot in here.
You’re dressed in a flowery blouse and a thigh-high split skirt that reaches your ankles. The color is light—for what he assumes is to ward off the sun’s rays—and complements your skin tone. It looks as though you may have walked here, because your décolletage is glistening with sweat and you look out of breath.
Jack’s heart rate picks up a bit, and he silently curses himself. He should be more equipped to handle a little crush than this, but he can’t help it. He tries to convince himself that he’s just starstruck and nothing more.
He stands from the upholstered bench against the wall, waving his hand slightly when you look around and don’t see him. Your face flashes with recognition, and you go to sit on the opposite side of him on a rickety chair.
He coughs lightly into his fist before speaking. “Do you want to sit on the bench? It’s more comfortable.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine. I’m just really happy to be finally meeting you.” You give him a warm smile and outstretch your hand as you sit. “I’m Luna,” you say with a wink.
He chuckles lightly as he introduces himself. “Jack Abbot.” He shakes your hand and notices it fits perfectly clasped within his. “But that isn’t your real name, is it? I couldn’t find it online.” He smirks and takes a sip of his now lukewarm iced coffee.
“Oh, looking into me, are you?” you say with a lilt in your voice. “But no, no, it’s not.” You go on to give him your real name, and he thinks it’s much more fitting.
“I’m surprised you called back, to be honest—especially with it being last minute and all. I wasn’t expecting the hospital to accept one of their doctors going on our show of all places,” you say.
Jack cocks his head to the side and shrugs a shoulder. “Me neither. But our CMO says any attention is good attention. And I made a case for it. I liked your show a lot… from what I saw.”
He doesn’t divulge the fact that he’s seen every video, every clip of you out there, that he could find. He could direct an episode of your show at this point.
He insisted that he only go on your show—otherwise none at all. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Gloria huffed and puffed, saying there were other more “reputable” and “legit” stations that reached out to get in contact with him, but ultimately she relented due to his stubbornness.
“Thank you. Really,” you say as you rub the nape of your neck. “You don’t know how much it means to me—to our station—that you’re doing this. We… well—I’ll trust you to keep this to yourself—but we’re struggling a bit right now. Even with as many viewers as we have—”
Jack raises a brow in confusion. It could be true; he’s no expert, but from what he’s seen, you deserve nothing but the biggest success.
Your show is funny. Borderline insane. And yet… heartfelt. He can see why Ellis and Shen always rave about it, but he never bothered giving it a chance. Not until now.
“—Ah, it’s nothing you need to worry about. We’re… fine.” You wave your hand in dismissal. “I just want to let you know that I appreciate this.”
Jack isn’t sure what he was expecting before he met you, but not this. Not someone who’s so… honest. He thought maybe you’d have an air of strict professionalism or practiced theatricality about you, but it seems you’re exactly who you portray yourself to be on the show.
He likes that.
“So what’s the plan?” he asks. “I’m out of my element here.”
“Yeah, great question. Let’s walk through it together.”
You run through an extensive list on your fingers, but only a few key points stick out that he saves for future reference: today is the pre-call interview, there’s a pre-show prep, and his portion of the show starts at 1:00 a.m. on Friday. He’s on for an hour.
“Does—does that make sense?” you ask.
He nods slowly. “It… does.”
“I guess it’s good that you’re used to staying up late, huh?” You give him a small smile.
“Guess so.” The corner of Jack’s lip twitches as he reaches down to the floor to rifle through his bag for a folder.
“The hospital—they have strict rules about what I can or can’t say.” He hands you the folder, and you glance at the document inside.
“Oh... okay. Could’ve just sent this over email but…” you mumble. “Um—that makes sense. We don’t usually have to worry about censorship, but we can adjust the script to work around whatever’s in here.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“I wouldn’t be good at my job otherwise.” You stuff the folder into your purse, but it still sticks out more than halfway after you hang it back on your chair. “So, you said you’re familiar with the show? What do you like about it?”
He considers it for a moment before responding, but he already knows the answer. “Well—”
“—Sorry, I’m not trying to interrogate you or anything. Not yet, anyway. I just like hearing people’s thoughts.” You hold your head up with your fists as you wait for Jack to say something.
“I—”
You lean toward him conspiratorially, and his eyes zero in on how your breasts squish and plump up against the table as you do. “—Between you and me, I’m not completely sure why we have such a loyal fanbase, but I just keep doing what I do, and it seems to work.”
Jack’s humored by the fact you keep interrupting him. It’s cute.
He rests his arms on the table and leans in close to you—just barely feeling your sweet, yet minty breath on his face. “I think I know why.” Your eyes widen in excitement, and he can feel the table vibrate from the shaking of your legs underneath. “It’s because you’re you. Show wouldn’t be the same without you. Not one bit. And you’re the same reason why I’m willing to go on.”
You’re the only reason he even considered going on. That and the fact that other media outlets don’t suit his tastes quite like yours does.
He doesn’t want fame or glory. He doesn’t want to be broadcast in front of a huge audience with hosts or podcasters who just want their piece of the pie.
He’d like to say his piece in the rundown, backroom studio with the eccentric decor and the host who seems to light up everyone in the room.
Your lips part in shock, surprise, joy, is what he assumes. “W-wow, that’s… such a big compliment. Thank you, Jack. I’m sure my co-host would disagree, but he's not here, so.”
You chuckle, sit back fully in your chair, and give him a mischievous look. “Now that we're meeting in person, I can see why that video blew up. I didn't realize you’d be this handsome and such a Prince Charming.”
Jack huffs and shakes his head slightly. “I’m surprised to be getting as much attention as I am. I’m really a terrible flirt—eye contact and honesty are usually how I get by.”
“Could’ve had me fooled,” you mumble, then look around the now empty shop.
Has that much time passed already, or has he been too distracted by you to notice?
“I’m going to order something, but I’ll be right back. Let’s get into more show details after, okay?”
He nods and smiles to himself once your back is turned to him. He’s more than starstruck, he’s realizing.
Over the next hour or so, you run through the plan for the segment with Jack and answer any questions he has. He’s slightly worried about not knowing the exact questions that will come up on the show, but you’re doing your best to reassure him.
“You’ll be okay. Trust me.” You rest your hand over his that’s currently holding onto his empty cup.
“If you say so. I do have one last question.”
“What is it?” You feel his fingers twitch beneath your hand, and you pull back, unsure if you’ve made him uncomfortable.
You don’t normally meet interviewees in person for pre-calls, but something about Jack made you want to. In a public setting, of course, but you could almost guarantee that nothing terrible would’ve happened to you anyway.
From what you’ve gathered, he’s a very respected E.R. attending and is spoken highly of by everyone who knows him. He’s knowledgeable, reliable, and an excellent teacher.
And yes, he’s handsome. You weren’t just complimenting his looks for the sake of it, nor was it just the camera doing him favors.
His gray curls, stubble beard, the wrinkles on his face and neck—which only give him dimension, in your opinion—his soothing voice, and calm, measured demeanor give you a mushy feeling within the deepest pit of your stomach.
You’re not nervous. You can’t be. Your profession doesn’t allow it. But if you were, it would make sense that it’s because of him.
Despite what he says, his combination of natural confidence and yet total lack of trust in himself to impress a woman appeals to you.
You’re glad that he’s still mulling over his question so you can admire him for a few seconds longer.
“Are you going to ask about my prosthetic leg? Make it a… talking point?” Jack gives you a serious look, and you immediately pick up on his distress.
You sigh. You figured this would come up sooner or later. You’re not sure how Morgan found out about his injury in the service, but she couldn’t have kept FFM alive for this long if she didn’t have her connections.
He was surprised you brought it up, but you felt it was important to be open and honest about what you know.
“I won’t rule it out. My producer and I are working on adding your segment to the script right now, and we’re focused on the elevator story, but it might add to the overall picture if we talked a little bit about that too.”
Jack rubs the nape of his neck; clearly not what he wanted to hear.
“But look, I always prioritize the comfort and safety of my guests.”
The type of guests you usually have range from ghost hunters to mimes (that segment did very poorly) to volcano surfers. But as different as they all are, none have had a strict guideline they had to adhere to, and none have had a past like Jack’s that they’d rather keep off air. But you’ll do anything to make him comfortable.
“If you don’t want to talk about that, it’s completely fine. I understand. I wouldn’t want my whole life out in the world either. I might get lambasted by my boss, but… she’ll have to deal with it."
“It’s not that I’m embarrassed. I don’t give a shit if people know about my prosthetic leg. I just don’t feel like standing on a soapbox about it.”
“No. Of course not. I’m with you, Jack. You don’t have to worry. I'll give you my word.”
Jack loosens his shoulders a bit. “Well, okay then. I’ll put my faith in you.”
A smirk tugs at his lips, and you can’t help but want to trace his smile lines with your fingers.
You both stand outside the coffee shop and say your goodbyes.
Jack is more disappointed than he should be—especially since you both stayed a few hours past what was necessary just chatting—but he’ll be seeing you again soon enough. What happens after Friday is what he’s concerned about.
He tries not to worry about that right now.
“Did you walk here?” he asks, checking to see if his earlier assumption was correct.
You sit down at one of the patio tables—which thankfully has an umbrella—while he stands, and you hold out your phone to show him you’re ordering an Uber.
The late afternoon sun continues to beat down on you both, and Jack can feel himself already starting to sweat—but a westerly wind blows its way to the front of the shop, lifting the hem of your skirt and cooling him down the slightest.
“Yeah, but I’m getting an Uber back. My car hasn’t been cooperating with me lately. I usually walk most places anyway, but with the weather…”
Jack hums in agreement. He’s seen too many patients come in recently with heat stroke or presenting with major signs of dehydration. He doesn’t want to see that happen to you too.
“Why don’t you let me give you a ride?”
“Huh?”
“I can drive you home or to the station or wherever. Don’t want you waiting in the heat.”
You shake your head. “I’ve already ordered the Uber, Jack. Sorry. I would’ve loved to spend a little more time with you. You’re such an interesting person. And I’ve talked to some… really off-the-wall people. But it’ll be here soon, don’t worry.”
Well, fuck.
He’d do anything to prolong the inevitable goodbye, but he can only push so much before it seems desperate. Maybe he is a little desperate at this point. He’s clocking in later tonight, but for once, he doesn’t want to think about work.
He chides himself. He’s the interesting one? He could listen to you talk all day, every day about your work, yourself, your plans to one day quit FFM to do something you don’t feel like you're drowning in.
Anything.
And you listen. To him. Genuinely. Almost as if the show is an afterthought and not your job. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t take that as a sign of your interest, but the seeds of it grow into saplings before him, and who is he to deny that?
In such a short span of time, he’s grown comfortable with you, just as you have with him.
After going over the plan with you today, he isn’t as worried about talking about the elevator incident on the show. But rather, his trauma, his grief, his past, his genesis are something he’d rather not discuss with all your viewers.
But the story of how he came to be, which he’s reluctant to share over the air, didn’t seem as heavy falling from his lips when you asked about it.
You immediately apologized for being nosy, but he found it reassuring that you didn’t hold back your curiosity. His biggest fear is that he’ll drive away the people he cares about with the baggage that—while no longer weighing him down—still exists in the core of who he is.
You draw him from his thoughts with your sweet voice, and it’s like everything else washes away until he realizes that now you’re leaving him in the mud.
“Hey, Jack. My ride should be here any second. Thanks for waiting. Call or text me if there’s a problem.” You get up from the patio bench and give him a warm hug.
He hesitates for a split second before returning it, but you’ve already started to let go when your car parks right by the sidewalk.
“Gotta go.” You step into the car and give him a wave before shutting the door. “See you soon!”
“Get home safe,” Jack says, but the Uber’s already peeled off. He watches it barrel down the road before turning around to head back to his truck but notices the manila folder he gave you earlier sitting on the ground near the table.
It’s now late evening, and you’re in the studio with your producer when you “realize” the folder Jack brought you earlier today is not in your purse.
You sigh, and he gives you a quick look over his shoulder as you pace back and forth behind him—rifling through and looking for what you already know isn’t there.
“You don’t have it?” he asks.
“No. I don’t know why I didn’t just take pictures of the damn thing.”
“Well, the script’s almost done. We already streamlined and cleaned it up. I don’t think we have to worry.”
“I know that, but I just want to make sure he doesn’t get in trouble in case we missed something. I’ll text him to see if he happened to pick it up.”
You really bent over backwards trying to fabricate an excuse to see Jack again. You had hoped he would notice the folder you left by the table and text you about it by now, but it seems like you’ll have to reach out to him first.
You know you’ll be fine without the hospital’s terms and conditions. From what you gleaned from it earlier today, it had the usual patient confidentiality rules and restrictions on speaking about politics and religion—nothing that’s infringed upon in the script you’ve drafted. But you aren’t satisfied with only seeing Jack again for the show. You selfishly want more of his time.
And maybe he feels the same way. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who hands out compliments for free. You replayed the scene over and over in your head, and you can’t help how warm your face feels when you think about it. When he said that you’re the reason he wants to do the show in the first place.
You’re not famous by any means. You get recognized here and there, and you love meeting fans of the show, but most times, praise comes in the form of comments or social media likes. It’s not bad, you think. You can still live a normal life.
It’s just that no one seems to understand how much of your own blood and tears have gone into building your show. But Jack sang your praises all throughout today, and, well, it’s nice to be recognized.
Maybe he did it so you could stop gushing over him, but still.
It’s ridiculous what a little praise does to you, but you can’t help feeling ecstatic. And he’s a complete package. He’s a little weary and stiff, but he’s kind, caring, interested in what you have to say, good-looking, obviously, and practiced.
Experienced, if you will.
Or, that’s what you hope to find out in due time. Even though he’s your guest, and he’s at least twenty years older than you, and he probably doesn’t like girls like you, and… it doesn’t matter.
You’ve always been known to go for what you want. Except for when it comes to leaving this place and finding something better, apparently.
You do feel somewhat bad about lying to your producer, but he doesn’t seem to care all that much. He’s right, after all. The terms don’t really matter much for the script as it stands.
What your producer doesn’t know won’t kill him.
He waves you off. “If there needs to be any changes, we can adjust them quick. I have other things I need to work on.”
You nod, even though he isn’t paying you any mind. “Okay. Thanks for understanding.” You pull out your phone from the pocket of your jean shorts and shoot Jack a quick text. “I'm gonna fill up my water bottle. Be right back.”
You grab your bottle and exit the studio to the hallway with peeling paint, passing by the broom closet and approaching Morgan’s slightly bigger storage closet as you do.
You stop and peek at her through her window, and she happens to look up. She makes a face that says, “Leave me the hell alone,” which you return with an outward poke of your tongue. You move quickly along when you see her start to get up from her chair.
She could be a little more grateful that you got Jack to agree to be on the show, but at least she’s not breathing down your neck anymore. You decide it’s best to leave her be.
The makeshift radio station sits on the top floor of an old, run-down, dilapidated building—not much unlike the one you live in—on the edge of town, but at least there’s an elevator.
It’s times like these when you wish you would’ve bitten the bullet and paid to have your car fixed when you had the spare cash. The nearest bus stop from this building is only a ten-minute walk, but with the heat, it feels like a forever walk through hell. And you don’t have the money to spare to get rideshares back and forth. The ride earlier today already set you back more than you’d have liked.
Your side gigs keep you from going under, but managing that and your crazy hosting hours—not including the even crazier prep hours—is getting to be too much. Doesn’t help matters when they fall through, either.
The heatwave is also affecting your experience in the studio. You’re wearing less and less clothing each day that passes, and you think your co-host is using that as an excuse to flirt with you even more.
Luckily or unluckily for you, he’s not responsible for most of the prep that goes into creating the show every week, and you’ve managed to avoid him thus far tonight.
You play up the flirting during the show, sure, but you don’t actually like him. Not like that. If only he would get the hint. Even Morgan doesn’t like him. But he brings in the views as a former, semi-famous lead singer of an indie rock band, so he stays.
You take the elevator, and once you get to the ground floor, two things happen. One is better than the other.
You get a text back from Jack, and you see Kai—your co-host—walking through the creaking revolving doors. It gets stuck for a split second, and you almost laugh.
It isn’t worth it to hide from him, only because there isn’t anywhere to hide in the empty lobby. Instead, you head to the water fountain and open Jack’s text as you fill up.
Yeah, I got the folder. Do you need it right away? I’m working.
Your phone nearly slips out of your hand as you text him back while leaning against the push bar of the fountain.
No, that’s okay. Would you be willing to drop by my apartment tomorrow?
The bottle overflows as you wait with bated breath for his response. All you see are three dancing dots indicating he’s typing before Kai is tapping on your shoulder. Ugh.
“Hey you. How’s my favorite host doing?” His eyes not-so-subtly rake over your form, and you have half a mind to swing your heavy aluminum bottle at him.
You put your phone inside your pocket and screw the lid of the bottle shut. “Hey Kai. I’m alright. Busy. What’re you doing here?”
“I need to talk to Morgan, and I left my favorite guitar pick upstairs. Did I tell you that we’re getting the band back together?”
Your brows shoot up. “No… really? Fearless Rash? Huh. Didn’t know people still had an appetite for you guys.”
Kai laughs mockingly. “Nice. You’re so funny. Of course they do.”
You cross your arms over your chest. “So, you’ll be around even less?”
“Why, going to miss me?” He smirks, and your already thin patience grows even thinner.
“No. It’ll just be more work for me and our producer.” You pinch your fingers together in front of your face. “Just that much.”
He pushes your shoulder lightly with a scoff. “Whatever you say. I know how you really feel.”
It’s not a joke. He doesn’t do much. But even the little bit he does makes all the difference. Not that you’re willing to admit that to him.
“Get one of the morning or afternoon guys to help out if you’re really that swamped.” He bends down and puts his hands on his knees so he’s eye level to you. “But Morgan told me what’s going on with the finances. This is a sinking ship. If I were you, I’d start looking for something else.”
You furrow your brows. “Friday’s show will change that.”
“You sure?”
No.
Even if Jack’s segment does bring in the numbers, sponsorships, whatever—how long will that hold things over for?
Morgan’s flying by the seat of her pants here, and this time, she’s hovering a little too close to the sun. This isn’t the first time FFM has been in dire straits, and with each near miss, it’s getting harder and harder to climb back.
“Yes.”
Kai pats your shoulder condescendingly and pouts his lips. “Don’t worry, princess. There’s space on the bus for you to be my very own personal groupie if you decide to quit. Which you might want to do soon. I’m planning on letting Morgan know I’m done after this week’s show. Doing the band thing full-time, baby.”
“W-what?” you sputter. “You can’t just leave without a replacement!”
He shrugs. “What’s she gonna do? I have to focus on myself. This was fun while we were still making money, but we don’t have the clout to survive. Cult following or not.”
You can’t argue with that, but it still stings. You like your job. You talk to people, listen to their stories, share them with others, play the hottest music (and ads) in between, and it’s all under your creative control.
It just sucks that this station happens to be falling apart, and you along with it.
“I…” The lower half of your face blows up as you hold your breath because you cannot believe you’re about to say this to him. “You’re right,” you force out, with a heavy sigh. “You gotta do what you gotta do, I guess. But I’ll be here until the very bitter end.”
Kai sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “Ah, well, there’s no changing your mind, is there? Then maybe after Friday’s show we’ll do something to celebrate my goodbye. Make a memory for me to take on the road.” He taps the tip of your nose and blows you an air kiss goodbye as he walks over to the elevator, ending the conversation there.
He winks as the doors close and you cringe.
You tap your foot against the grime-covered floor for a few seconds, wondering what the hell you’re going to do after he leaves, when you finally feel a text vibrate in your pocket.
Jack.
You pull out your phone.
Sorry. Got pulled away. Patient. Give me your address, and I’ll stop by after my shift. Is 8 a.m. a good time?
Your heart rate picks up, and you have to stop yourself from jumping up and down like a little kid. You send him your address and let him know you’ll be home (although barely awake) at that time tomorrow morning.
How do you convince him to stay for a while?
Jack texts you that he’s parked at a free spot only a few paces away from the entrance of your apartment complex, and it’s only a few minutes passed when he sees you walking toward his car.
The sun is rising, and the temperature is not yet at its hottest, but still, he’s blasting the AC and taking advantage of the few seconds he has left of it before he has to roll his window down.
He should’ve probably gone home to change and eat before coming here, but he wanted to see you right away. And now he does, very clearly, as you wave at him through the window.
He rolls it down, and you rest your head sideways on your arms after crossing them over the sill.
“Hey—”
“—You look nice today,” he blurts out. He holds back a groan. Really?
“Thanks… I guess?” You smile bashfully. “I’m just in my PJs.”
“Still.” He looks at you for another second, then turns to grab the folder sitting on the passenger seat and hands it to you. “Here’s the folder. Sorry I didn’t let you know sooner. Had to check in for my shift and didn’t have time.”
You nod in understanding while taking it in your hands. “No big deal. Rough night?”
Jack blows out a puff of air.
It was a rough night. There weren’t any deaths, but there also wasn’t even a moment for him to catch his breath. He barely had enough time in between codes to send you those texts. His ears are still ringing from the momentum of the forces that pulled him from one trauma room to the next—Ellis and Shen buzzing like bees in his ear notwithstanding.
How was the date? It wasn’t one.
Are you still doing the show? Yes.
What’s Luna like? That’s not her real name.
What is it? That’s only for me to know.
It went on like that for a few hours before he stopped giving them responses altogether.
He hunches over the steering wheel and crosses his arms over it. “It was… fine.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t do that. Be honest. Think of it as preparation for the show.”
You hesitantly reach a hand over and gently rub up and down his back. He can feel the heat of your palm through the thin layer of his scrub top, and it feels alien to him. It’s been… too long. But he’s comforted by it.
“Just a long and busy night, sweetheart. That’s all. Swear.”
You roll your eyes and tug on the curls at the nape of his neck admonishingly. “Then why didn’t you just say that? You can tell me if you’re tired. I am too. I just got back from the studio a few hours ago.”
Jack frowns. Maybe he should have let you rest more before coming here.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“—Have you had breakfast yet? I—I can make breakfast.”
He can barely hold back the frown turned smile. “You offering?”
You immediately nod your head and say “yes”—too quickly for it to be just polite, he thinks.
Jack doesn’t know what he’s doing—he’s not that hungry. But he knows why.
He doesn’t want to go back home yet. He wants to help you make breakfast and eat together and get to know you better because he knows it’s something worthwhile. Even as he trails behind you through the hallway entrance leading to your kitchen, he’s liking you more and more.
The view of your ass jiggling in your loose PJ shorts certainly helps.
It appears you live alone, and you so much as implied it when he coyly asked if you’re single during the elevator ride up here. He was extremely pleased to hear you say yes.
Despite that, your walls are decorated with photos of friends, present and former co-workers, people you have in your life that you love. Lush rugs sink under his weight and line most of the apartment floor in a fun array of colors and designs. Overgrown plants surround the large window sitting in the middle of the living room, well nurtured and preening their flowers in gratitude.
You obviously care about your home. You care about having a comfortable space for yourself when you need it after a hard day at work or whatever else. And it’s refreshing.
As he continues to look at your space from top to bottom, wall to wall, he’s quickly realizing how much his own home is completely lacking in personality. Of any real substance. It hasn’t occurred to him that making his house (condo) a home is something he’s neglected to do, as he doesn’t have the time for it or a real good reason for it, either.
He could furnish it with luxury decor, or he could paint murals on his walls. He could change the lighting fixtures, or he could fill his empty shelves with trinkets. And he most certainly has the money to. But it seems pointless. Not unless he has someone to share it with.
He follows you to the kitchen, and you pour him out a glass of water, handing it to him with a smile. The glass is decorated with strawberries, and he can’t help but think how adorable it is.
“I’m sure you need it after your shift and with the heat.”
“Thank you,” Jack says. He takes the glass, and your fingers brush, but you don’t flinch or jerk back. You don’t widen your eyes or look down in embarrassment. And what started as a seedling is now growing into something far beyond his wildest dreams.
Or, that’s what he thinks after hyperanalyzing every second you’ve spent together and gathering the evidence.
He’s noticed you’re not touch averse. Not in the slightest. Hell, you’ve initiated every touch between you two so far. You revealed your name to him, which you didn’t have to do. You gave him your address and invited him into your home with the promise of breakfast.
If that isn’t interest, he’s not sure what is. And if you’re affected by him, at least a percentage of how affected he is by you, something might happen here.
He doesn’t want to believe that the sparks he sees flying are only one-sided. He knows that you’re supposedly only here for the show, your worlds don’t typically cross, he’s older, the list goes on.
But he also knows how unfairly he sees himself through your eyes, through most people’s eyes, and it’s just not reality. So he’s compelled to try his luck.
He downs the water in one gulp, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“This is a nice place.”
“Oh! Thanks. I like when my space looks cute and cozy. The building is pretty shitty, though. I’m actually surprised the power is still on, thank god,” you chuckle, “it’s been pretty unpredictable with the heat wave and all.”
“Heard it’ll be breaking after this week, so that’s…” Jack shakes his head, not knowing where he’s going with this. He’s never been that good at small talk, but you just make things ten times worse. “… good.”
You gloss over his awkwardness, and he silently thanks you for it. How the hell is he going to do this interview? With a bag over your head so he can’t look at you?
If he can just get an answer from you, maybe he won’t feel as awkward.
“Yeah, it’s great news. I don’t think I can handle it much longer.” You take the empty glass from Jack’s hand and place it in the sink. “Let me make the both of us something to eat. Take a seat anywhere you’d like.”
“You don’t want my help?”
“No, of course not. You’re my guest after all.” You grin and turn to open your fridge in search of something to make, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“That’s not really true, is it?” You look up into his eyes, and he holds your gaze—for longer than he probably should.
His so-called penchant for straightforwardness is failing him at the moment, but you look so sweet staring up at him. He could look at you all day like this.
All the videos in the world don’t do as much justice as when you're right in front of him, looking up at him, and batting your lashes with a twinkle of confusion in your eyes.
He waits for you to ask him what he means, but you don’t.
“Why did you invite me here, really?”
A look of bewilderment etches across your features. “For… breakfast? As thanks for bringing—” you point to the folder haphazardly thrown on top of the kitchen counter, “—that?”
“Is that a question? Now who’s not being honest?” Jack tuts and gives you a sly grin, and if he’s reading you right, you look almost… shy. You? Shy?
Maybe his evidence-based analysis wasn’t so far off, after all.
“Um… yeah. I guess you got me. I mean, I was going to make breakfast anyway, but, well…”
“Just tell me, sweetheart.” He knows he’s being unfair. He’s already liked you days before even meeting you. But you need to tell him how you feel first. That’s just how it’s got to be.
Your shoulders slump as you sigh and look to the ground, wishing it would swallow you whole. He guesses you do have some flair for the dramatic after years of being on the show. “I do have a small, tiny, little crush on you. Even though I know it’s very wrong of me to, might I add.” When he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, you lift your head up to look at him.
Shit. He wasn’t expecting you to actually admit it—though he’s over the moon you did—and it’s probably as clear as day on his face.
How exactly he’s managed to attract your attention, he’ll never really know, but he’s definitely not complaining.
“But!” You wave your hands in front of you when you see his stunned reaction. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m riding your coattails or anything. I know it’s crazy. You’re an internet celebrity, and… we did only meet yesterday, but you’re so… I don’t know what I’m trying to say…”
Jack can barely hold his laughter back. It seems there’s an over-thinker beneath the cool, put-together radio host personality.
He does see your point about having only known each other for a little while, though. But isn’t that why he’s here? To explore this? He just wants to feel close to someone again. Why not take the opportunity the elevator gave you both and pursue this?
He pulls you in by the shoulders, and you wrap your arms around him, hiding your face in his chest. “I’m nearly fifty years old, honey. I think I can make my own decisions—which also includes having a crush on someone I’ve just met. And you’re the superstar here, not me.”
Jack isn’t one to revel in his own successes, but praise sounds nice coming from you. Maybe it’s because you see him in a way that feels… honest. In a way that goes beyond his “internet fame.”
“I’m really not. That’s my co-host, if anything,” you mumble, scoffing, but then you’re looking up at him. “You like me?”
“Yes,” he says, firmly. Seeing your confidence crumble a little gives him some he desperately needs back. He gives you a look that he knows you won’t be able to deny, and it looks like the gears are finally turning in your head.
“My boss is going to be so mad if she finds out about this.”
He smirks down at you. He doesn’t mind pulling you under with him. Not for this. “She won’t. Not if you don’t tell her.”
You chew on your lower lip and consider it for only half a second. “Want to make breakfast—together?”
Jack kisses the top of your head. “Sounds like a plan.”
You clear your throat and step back from his arms to open the fridge, avoiding his gaze. “You know I, uh, ditched that folder behind on purpose. To get you here.”
His lips curl to the side, and he shakes his head, laughing through his nose.
You’re too cute.
You spent some time making a simple breakfast together, chatted about this and that, and spent even less time wolfing it down. You wanted to get to the fun part. And—based on the way you can feel Jack’s cock twitch as you sit in his lap on the couch—so did he.
He’s kissing you, and all you can do to not freak out about it is tug on the ends of his hair and hold on for dear life. One of his hands is playing with the hem of your shorts and sneaking underneath it, while the other is gently grabbing the side of your neck, encompassing the warm skin there.
Fuck, if this doesn’t feel heavenly.
You start grinding in his lap, suddenly feeling very bold, but then he breaks the kiss, and you whine with a pout of your lips.
His hand moves from beneath your shorts to your waist, holding you still. “Wait.”
“Why?”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, rattling it to show you it’s ringing. You were so caught up in the feel of his tongue sliding against yours, you didn’t realize.
He holds a finger up to his mouth as he takes the call, and you nod. But there are still things you can do while silent.
“Robby, what—” Jack cuts himself off with a held-back groan as you start pressing yourself as close to him as you can, rubbing your dampening shorts over his clothed erection. You nip at his neck and Adam's apple, and his eyes shut in frustration, pleasure, anger—some mix of all three.
He mutters curses under his breath, but it seems like Robby’s filling the gap in conversation for now, so he’s safe for the time being. Though, you wouldn’t mind if he overheard what was happening. It’s not like you personally know this Robby fellow.
Jack can barely hold himself together as you kiss along his lower jaw, which earns a small squeeze on your waist.
Robby may as well be spewing incoherent nothings against your ear as you continue your attack on Jack, solely focusing on him. His neck is flushed, and you’re sure you’ll leave bruises. You pull back to admire your work, and he shakes his head, a devious smile playing on his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Instead of pushing you off him, he uses his free hand to help guide you along the outline of his cock—but the sensation isn’t enough with clothes on. You want to feel more of him. You get back off the couch to pull your shorts down.
You giggle into your hand when he throws his head back into the couch after seeing you have no underwear on. It’s doubtful he can understand you when you silently mouth out a “Do you like what you see?” But based on his reaction, you already know the answer.
Deciding to be mean, you sit back in his lap and split the seam of your pussy with a finger—feeding the slick into his parted mouth and maintaining eye contact as he sucks on your finger. You whimper at the erotic image, and Jack cocks a brow, as if daring you to make more noise. He quickly pulls your finger from his mouth when he has to respond to Robby.
“I—I’ll be there. As soon as I can. Bye. Okay. Goddammit, I said bye, Robby.” He hangs up with a huff and sets his phone down next to him.
You tug on his bottoms to pull his cock free, but he stops you by the wrist before you can. “You’re a little minx, you know that?”
“I’m sorry.” You’re not. “I just want to enjoy this. Don’t tell me that was work.” It’s obvious it was, but you can dream.
He nods. “I have to go back. A tire blowup caused an emergency pileup, and they need more hands.”
You could nearly cry. You’re pent up, half-naked and growing self-conscious about it, and you don’t want him to go. But you understand.
There have been many times when you’ve had to fill in for the other programs’ hosts when things came up, and this is no different. Still, disappointment eats away at you.
Your lips downturn, and you sigh, resigned. “Okay…” You shift to get off him, but he keeps you seated in his lap with two firm hands on your hips.
Jack clears his throat to get rid of the rasp. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d have more time. I promise, I’d like nothing more than to stay and fuck you properly.” He drops a hand and circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, but it’s more of an exploratory gesture than anything.
He pulls his thumb back, inspects your arousal, and grunts. “Christ, you’re wet, huh? You get this wet for anyone? Give anyone a taste like you gave me?”
You shake your head. “N-no. Just you, Jack.”
“That’s right. And you’ll be patient? Wait for me to treat you later?”
“F-fuck. Yes. I’ll wait.” You eagerly nod. “And here I thought that—that you were bad at flirting.” You gasp as he inserts a finger, prodding at your walls. “You—you have me falling apart, and we h-haven’t even done anything.”
“It isn’t flirting. I’m telling you how it is. I’ve wanted you since the moment you stepped foot in that shop. Nothing holding me back now that I know we’re on the same page. Nothing except for work.” He winks, and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes scrunch together, driving you a little insane.
Fuck him and his stupid fucking middle-aged man features for making your heart feel like snow on a warm day.
Jack stops the torture of your poor pussy with one final pet of your clit, then runs his palms over your upper arms, rubbing them gently. You let out a sigh of both relief and irritation.
It feels so good when he touches you and even worse when he doesn’t.
“You better bring your A game for the show. Especially since you’re leaving me high and dry here,” you say with an eye roll.
He suddenly catches your lips in a brutal kiss, making you squeak in surprise. A few more pecks and a whispered, “I will. I’ll make it up to you tenfold. Don’t be mad at me” is his form of an apology.
You smooth down the curls lining his forehead. How could you stay mad at such a sweet man with a cock that big? Or, one that felt that big, at least. You suppose you’ll have to wait a bit longer to see, sit, and sink down on it.
“I—I’ll call you later. Tell me how your day went. I want to know. I’m sure a pileup that big will be a little more than tiring,” you say, giving him a small smile.
“I will.”
You caress his cheek, and he holds his hand over yours. It’s obvious you both need your rest—based on the dark circles under his eyes and the way yours struggle to keep open—so you hold your tongue and don’t offer him to crash at your place tomorrow morning. It would be unwise to show up to the station together before the show, right? You have to be there pretty much all day to prepare for next week’s script, anyway. If the station still exists next week, that is.
“Hey, I know I said you don’t have to come in until eleven, but would you want to come in a little early? Like, at ten or something? I could give you a very short tour of the place, and you can watch us prep for the first half of the episode. It’ll be fun.”
He doesn’t even consider it before giving you a response. “Okay. I’d like that.”
You beam at him. “Great!”
You’re okay with waiting to continue this until after the show, because you believe him when he says he’s wanted you since he laid eyes on you. If all he meant was that he wanted a quick fuck, then, well, that would be… disheartening.
It’s not often you meet someone as genuine as Jack. Especially not in your line of work. But he did say he likes you, so you think that should be more than enough reassurance to calm your restless worry. He's not that kind of guy.
He looks into your eyes for another few seconds before finally pulling you off his lap. You grab your shorts and quickly throw them back on.
A quick hug and kiss goodbye is how you see him out the door, and afterward you’re immediately getting yourself off with a vibrator and thinking of him—and not the fate of your job that hangs in the balance. Or your rent.
Jack’s waiting for you inside the lobby of the radio station with his hands inside his jean pockets. He thinks about pinching himself to make sure this is real and this is happening—but reconsiders it when he sees you walking out of the elevator. He doesn’t want to wake up if this really is a dream. Or a nightmare. As long as you’re here, he can face whatever’s in store for him.
He’s more or less comfortable with the idea of tonight’s show (Robby gave him a pep talk like Jack’s done before so many times for him), and it isn’t the fear of an audience that’s sinking its claws into his heart. Rather, it’s the fear of somehow disappointing you that keeps him immobile against the precariously bowed column in the center of the lobby.
He was generously granted today and tomorrow off from work for the occasion, and all he could think about while lying in bed and preparing for his responses was you. Your soft lips against his, your cute little strawberry cup, the way your voice pitched up when he called you and told you about his day yesterday. Your wet heat.
No. He can’t think about that right now. He shouldn’t.
Not when he sees an unfamiliar man catching up to you from the elevator and wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He’s laughing; clearly this is someone you know, but you’re uncomfortable—or so Jack wants to believe. The man doesn’t let go, and you’re both walking up to him like a penguin and her child.
“Kai. Let go. Please. Not in front of the guest.” You tip your head back to him and give him a pained smile, grabbing him by the elbows to unfurl his arms from around your shoulders.
“Sorry. I’m just going to miss you, is all,” Kai mumbles. He looks up from the inside of your tank top, sparing Jack a glance as his hands return to his sides.
“Hey, man. It’s cool you could be here. Not sure what the big fuss is, but if it's to make my boss and leading lady here happy, then I’m all for having you. Especially since FFM is going out of business unless—”
“—Kai,” you interrupt with a stern tone.
Jack furrows his brows. Out of business? You mentioned the station is struggling but not going out of business. Just how much is relying on him? How much are you relying on him? He can’t wrap his head around this right now, but the pieces are coming together regardless.
You’ve been avoiding fixing your car problems. You joke about the low pay the station provides, but now that he’s thinking about it, it isn’t a joke. He saw what were most likely overdue notices on your coffee table yesterday but was too distracted making out with you on the couch to really process them.
It’s something he’ll need to find time to bring up. But all he knows for sure is he isn’t some magical solution for a business that’s on its deathbed.
“Who’re you?” he asks Kai.
Kai scoffs and spins you around to face him. “What the hell, you never mentioned me? What am I, chopped liver?”
You sigh and step away from him and closer to Jack. “Kai, meet Jack,” you gesture between them with a hand, “Jack meet Kai. He’s the co-host I’ve mentioned before.”
Kai holds out his hand to him, and Jack shakes it with a firm grip, a little more harshly than he should.
He has no right to be possessive over you. Your relationship—if he can even call it that—is delicate at best and flimsy at worst. But this… Kai. He’s not someone you actually care for, is he? You might give his behavior a pass, but he’s already on a short list of people he wouldn’t mind never seeing again.
Now is when Jack should say “nice to meet you,” but the moment passes, and he’s left awkwardly shaking Kai’s hand for longer than he’d like.
You put your hand over theirs and stop the perpetual motion before the handshake of death takes them both. “Let’s, uh, head on up. C’mon,” you say with a tilt of your head.
You walk back to the elevator, and they trail behind you. Once everyone is inside, you swipe your key card and hit the button for the top floor.
It takes all of an hour for you to show Jack around the floor and prep him. You show him the “office” for the hosts, your boss’s office, the studio room itself, and with it, the viewing room. There’s also a bathroom at the end of the hall right by the elevators that looks like a health concern, but apparently the owner of the building already came by and said it was fine.
It’s not like he’s completely out of touch. As he stands inside the studio, he recognizes the computer, the audio mixer, the on-air light, the microphones, the headphones, the overall setup. All things he’s already seen a glimpse of in the recordings of your show.
What he hasn’t seen is the mini fridge in the corner of the room and the couch tucked against the wall right next to him. He goes to sit on it and realizes it’s a mistake a little too late.
“Oh shit, don’t—” you start to say as he sits in the middle of the couch.
It collapses in on itself and brings Jack right down with it. It’s more of a beanbag than anything now.
“—Sit there.” You chuckle and offer your hand to help him stand, pulling him up and directing him to sit in the chair he’ll be sitting in during the show. He rests his forearms against the table and fiddles with a headset connection.
“Sorry. It’s a couch we found. It’s vintage and looks great, but broken. We’re planning on moving it at some point so the camera picks it up. Not really meant for its function.”
Jack huffs a laugh. “I figured.”
You sit by him in your designated host chair. It’s just you two at the moment.
Morgan left early to tune in from home, your producer is yet to arrive, and Kai decided to kick back in the broom closet until the start of the show.
“So, what do you think?” you ask, while spinning around in your chair. “Does it feel weird to actually be here and not behind a screen?”
“It does, I guess.” Jack goes quiet, and you stop your spin to tilt your head at him.
“Are you nervous? Don’t be. People were nothing but supportive when we put you in our lineup for this week. Our socials have never been more active.”
“It’s not that.” You wait for him to continue, and he’s a sucker for your curious, gleaming eyes. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
You scoot closer to him. “You won’t. How can you? It’s really not a big deal. Well, to us it is. But you’ve probably given press conferences with a bigger audience than ours.”
“That’s different. And not the point.”
Your brows pinch together. “You’re really losing me here, Jack. What is the point?”
His eyes pierce yours. “Is this place going under?”
Oh. So that’s what he’s getting at.
You groan and flop against the back of the chair before sitting upright again. “Ugh, fucking Kai.” You can’t stand looking at Jack’s worried face anymore, so your eyes flick to the ground instead. “Look. I don’t know. Probably. I told Morgan from the start that this might not even work. Getting you on here is just a chance to save us. Not a guarantee.”
“What’s going to happen to you?”
“I… I’m just going to keep working here until we’re decommissioned. That's all I can do. It’s fine. I’m fine.” You look up at him and reach for his hand, interlocking your fingers. “Don’t worry.”
Jack rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, but you quickly let go when Kai opens the door to the studio.
“Hey, princess. Producer’s here. Show’s starting in less than an hour. Let’s run through the script again?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” You look between Jack and Kai. “Jack—”
“—You need to step out. Can’t have you knowing the script ahead of time. Wouldn’t be copacetic or whatever.”
You and Jack both ignore Kai, and instead he gives you a “tell me what to do” kind of look. You nod an affirmative, and he goes to stand from his chair with an irritated expression, clearly directed toward Kai for bursting the peaceful bubble.
“Sorry, Jack. You can watch us prep from the viewing room until your part comes up. It’ll be just like we rehearsed,” you say with a reassuring tone.
He nods in understanding and softly gives you a “Good luck, sweetheart,” just out of Kai’s earshot. He pats your shoulder and gives it a light squeeze before leaving the room—jostling Kai in the process.
Jack is almost up.
Over the past hour, he’s watched you—live and in action—from the viewing room.
You’re even more mesmerizing in person.
He swears he’s caught glimpses of you looking at him from the corner of your eye, just staring back at you in awe.
Your conversations with Kai are fluid, you tell stories with ease, and with the expert work of your producer on the soundboard, there’s an atmospheric tension that builds with every conspiracy theory or wonky news story you cover. Your eyes light up, and jealousy almost eats away at him because it’s not him you’re looking at, but he gets it. He’s the same way when he brings new residents under his wing and shows them the ropes or when he successfully tries out a new and difficult procedure in the E.R.
Kai’s alright. He’s there.
But you, you’re a natural. And your talents are set to go to waste if he doesn’t figure out a way to convince you to quit this place and pursue something else.
Maybe it’s presumptuous of him. He has no say in your career. But he’s seen too many stars burn out in front of him thanks to the black hole that is the Pitt, and your situation is no different.
He’s toying with an idea, but he doesn’t have much time to work out the details because suddenly you’re announcing that he's set to arrive after the next commercial break and a few songs from a debut underground rap album.
Time for him to sit in the hot seat.
The interview is going even better than you hoped it would. Jack was a bit stiff in the beginning, you’ll admit, but once he got used to the type of questions you asked, he really started coming into his own.
They’re silly, really. But that’s what your viewers like. That’s what you like. There are plenty of places people can get their serious, very important, but also depressing, news from. But there should be a space for all things. Even non-serious things.
“If you could go back in time, would you put on an extra shirt? Or do you enjoy being half-naked?”
“What’s the craziest DM you’ve gotten from a fan so far? Don’t lie; we’ve all seen the fan edits of you. No way people are actually normal about you.”
“Some people say this incident was all a desperate ruse to get close to your neighbor, while others vehemently ship you two. What do you say?”
Your ears were particularly perked for his response to that one.
“If you were to get stuck in an elevator with anyone, who would it be?”
You couldn’t help but laugh when Jack said he wouldn't mind being squished in between each member of the Rolling Stones.
It almost seems as if Jack’s only goal tonight is to get you to laugh. Even Kai is too, albeit somewhat begrudgingly. Jack Abbot can really work his charm if he puts his mind to it. You just know that listeners back home are eating him up.
You’re preparing yourself for the final question, which you know your boss is at home tuning in to. And you know she’ll blow up at you later for not sticking with the approved script. You tried to slip the fact that you removed the reveal about Jack’s injury past her, but it failed. She’s too sharp for that. She wouldn’t stamp her approval until the script was changed to include it.
But Jack made it clear he didn’t want to talk about his injury or prosthesis in the show, and you wholeheartedly want to abide by that. Instead of dropping a truth bomb on him, you decide to take things in a different direction.
“Okay, Jack. We’re coming up on the last question here. And, let me just say, it has been a real pleasure getting to know you and your experience in that elevator! I mean, c’mon. I don’t think we’ve applauded you enough for it.” Your producer plays an applause track, and it echoes over your headset around the room.
You know Jack probably hates this, but it’s important to remind folks back home of his achievement. Keeps them engaged, and all that. Plus, you enjoy seeing him squirm in his seat a little.
“That being said, before we get to the callers, I’d like to turn things around and have you speak about something. Anything you’d like.” In the corner of your eye you see Kai giving you a confused look, but you ignore him. “Is there a message you want out in the world? Someone you’d like to thank?”
Jack looks stunned for a moment. “That’s a good question. I, well—I’d like to thank my neighbor, for one. I wouldn’t be here without her. And I wish nothing but the best for her and her son.”
“What a guy,” Kai says, but in a bored tone. Your producer plays a dramatic “awww” track for a few seconds before Jack continues.
“I’d also like to give thanks to my colleagues, specifically John, Parker, Robby, and Gloria. They, uh, encouraged me to join the show. And lastly…” Jack looks directly into your eyes and hovers close to the microphone, making sure it picks up what he says next. “I’d like to thank Luna here. For being the best host and letting me on the show. You’re… you’ve quickly become my new favorite person. You have yourself your newest, biggest fan.”
The hitch of your breath and the widening of your eyes betray your reaction, but you try to keep things cool. You weren’t expecting a personal shoutout. And especially not one so… intimate.
Fuck, your boss is going to freak out on you for fraternizing, isn’t she? Did the cameras pick up how he looked at you? Or were you just imagining things? What’re people going to think? What’re Jack’s people going to think?
Kai notices you’re not speaking and decides to save you from further embarrassment. “Let’s hear it for Luna and Dr. Jack Abbot, folks! Stay tuned, because after the break we’ll hear from you guys,” he points to the camera and winks, “with questions.”
You’re stupefied, frozen in your seat, which happens to be perfect because you don’t have enough time to jump out and slap Jack or kiss him. So instead, you take a quick breath, try to collect yourself, and prepare for the onslaught of caller questions that’ll be coming his way.
Over the next fifteen minutes, viewers from everywhere call in to tell Jack he’s hot, that he should’ve fully stripped down in the elevator, that he’s an inspiration, that they’d like to ride the cowboy (Jack could never prove it, but he’s always been sure this was Shen and Ellis).
Whatever that means.
One med student asks him what specialty he should pursue, to which Jack responds: E.R. medicine.
Which, fair.
Calling the show successful is just within reach. But as luck would have it, just as the final caller asks Jack for advice on how to please a woman in bed, the lights flicker and the AC powers off.
If it weren’t for the cameras, you would throw something.
It’s going to get hot real fast, but you remind yourself that you’re almost done with the show. And you’re so damn grateful the power didn’t completely go out.
Goddamn stupid heatwave. Dumbass building.
Jack answers the caller’s question with as clinical terms as he can muster regarding female anatomy and pleasure points before you call it. Seeing him forget that he’s on camera while making lewd gestures for a split second makes you want to keep it going, though.
“Thanks, Jamie from Utah. Didn’t expect to be getting a sex ed lesson, that’s for sure. Anyway… here we are at time. With that, I want to give a final shoutout to our guest, Dr. Abbot here, and a shoutout to our sponsors.”
Sponsor. And you’re pretty sure it’s just Morgan bankrolling things herself at this point.
You start signing off. “Have a happy Friday, everyone. I’m your host, Luna—”
“—And I’m your co-host Kai—”
Together, you say, “And this… has been Renegade Radio.”
Kai pulls out three beers from the mini-fridge. With the AC out and the show finished, you might as well indulge.
You scoot your chair closer to Jack’s as Kai walks back over and hands you both a beer. He remains standing in front of you as he twists the cap with his other hand balled in his pocket. Your producer left in a rush to pursue other mysterious side quests and is sadly not here to distract him.
“Great job, guys. I’m sure we made Morgan happy,” he says. “But not happy enough to give us raises, I'm sure."
“Yeah. That’d be the day,” you scoff as you clink your bottle with Kai’s and Jack’s before twisting off the lid and taking a sip. “I really wasn’t expecting the AC to go out. Glad it wasn’t at the beginning of the show. Not sure I would’ve been able to go through the rest of it without stripping.”
“I would’ve loved to see that. I’m sure the audience would too.” Kai winks, then turns to Jack. “Anyway, uh, Jack. I guess you can go now. Show’s finished. You did good, but it’s probably past your bedtime, am I right?” He slaps his shoulder and gives him a small shake.
Jack puffs his chest up in defense of Kai’s brash dismissal and shoves his arm away. “‘M very used to being up at this time of night, thank you.”
Your brows pull together in a frown as you look at Kai, and you turn to Jack. “Well, uh, I actually was going to ask if you wanted to stay a little while? Just to…” You chew on your lower lip. “… You know, celebrate? You did such an amazing job, and we really appreciate it.”
Jack’s eyes shimmer with interest at your proposal, but Kai ruins the moment and forces your attention back to him.
He scoffs. “Celebrate? How about all the times I asked to celebrate with you after a job well done, huh? What, your panties get all in a twist for this guy? Is that why—” He looks between you and Jack and narrows his eyes in suspicion.
You sigh and hold the dewy beer bottle to your forehead in an effort to cool down. “—Let’s not, Kai. We just became good friends, is all. Isn’t today your last day, anyway? You’re free to go now. It was nice working with you.”
His eyes unsquint, and he shakes his head. “My offer still stands. Let’s make the most of tonight while I’m still here, yeah? Why don’t we go back to my place?”
You see Jack giving you a curious look out of the corner of your eye, waiting patiently for your response.
“I’d rather not,” you say, growing rather irritated. Maybe it’s time to tell him straight. No better opportunity than the present. “I don’t like you, Kai. Never have. You running off to tour around the country or whatever doesn't change that. Please, just leave me alone. This has been a long time coming.”
Kai gapes as if this is news to him. He looks between you and Jack, who just gives him a devilish smirk and says, “You heard her.”
He rolls his eyes but ignores him.
It appears he’s too prideful to acknowledge your rejection, and instead he waves you off. “Fine. Whatever. Was just offering you a good time to be nice.” He downs his beer and flicks you both off. “Good luck finding a better co-host. See you never.” He throws his empty bottle into the trash can and leaves with gusto.
Your shoulders sag in quiet relief. “Sorry, Jack. He’s—”
“—So… we’re good friends? Is that all?” Jack’s voice is teasing, and he looks more amused than upset.
“What? No! I just said that so he wouldn’t mouth off to my boss as a last hurrah. But I guess, since the show’s over, there isn’t a conflict of interest anymore.” You swirl your beer and look down to the floor. “Sorry. Obviously, I like you. As more than a friend.”
He hunches over in his chair to meet your unwilling gaze and stares into your eyes, discerning whether you're telling the truth. He seems satisfied with your answer after a good examination of your face. “Okay. I believe you,” he says, with a twitch of his lips. “You were saying you wanted to celebrate?”
You fan yourself with the hand not holding your beer. “Yeah. But not here. Let’s go somewhere with AC. We could go back to my—”
Jack cuts you off. “—Do you have access to the rooftop?”
You give him a quizzical look. “… Yes?”
Jack pulls you through the door to the rooftop by the wrist and leads you to the railing.
“Why’d you want to come up here, anyway?” you ask. “It’s just as hot out here as it is in there.”
He looks back at you and winks. “I have a thing for rooftops.”
“Okaaay… that doesn’t sound strange at all.”
You both reach the railing, and Jack presses your back lightly against it. He warms his hands with the heat radiating off your body as he moves them from your shoulders, down your arms, then finally lands them on your waist.
He leans in close, leaving no room between you. “Great fucking job in there. You were amazing. And I was holding my breath, waiting for a question about my leg, but it never came. Thank you.”
You would take his compliment to heart and return it with a “you did just as fucking amazing,” but it’s kind of hard to focus when he’s pressing more than welcome bruises into your hips and ghosting his slightly chapped lips over your neck.
Your words rush out of you with a squeeze of your eyelids as Jack captures the delicate skin of your throat in between his teeth. “Y-you did good too. And no need to—to thank me.”
“I’m really glad to have met you,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “Never in a million years would I have guessed doing my job would lead me here. To you.”
You manage to get some semblance of control back as your arms wrap around his neck. With a whisper, “Was it worth it?”
He breathes in your scent. A cloyingly rich scent filters through his nose and makes him sigh in satisfaction. “God yes.”
Your body presses against his even tighter, as if you want to meld into his skin. “Well, good. I hope Morgan thinks so, too,” you laugh dryly. “I’m sure we had good numbers tonight, but…”
“But it won’t be enough?”
You nod. “Yeah, it might not—
Jack lowers a hand and lifts up the hem of your flowy skirt, grabbing the fat of your thigh between his coarse fingers.
“—Jack,” you breathe out. “What are you doing? Surely we’re not doing this… here?”
His voice is gruff, rasped from the show, and low against your ear. “Why not? No one will see us.”
Jack knows he’s got you when you don’t push back. The ends of your skirt are bunched up and tucked into its waistband, and he leans his body back to get a better look at you. Your hands reach for the railing behind you with a slight shake.
Your eyes are hazy, and sweat collects on your skin due to the simmering heat and the alcohol. That, in combination with seeing you in your underwear beneath the moonlight, makes him whistle.
“You look…” He can’t help but swallow the lump in his throat. “Good. Perfect.”
Your fingers clench and unclench around the metal bar of the railing. “Would you say... fuckable? Because I’ve been thinking about yesterday way too often. Amongst other things. And how you left me wet and—”
“—Even during the show? You were thinking about it? How I didn’t sit you down and make you ride my cock?”
Hesitantly, you say, “Yes. I’m a professional and can have multiple trains of thought.”
“Okay, well, how about the train wreck that is this station?”
Confusion and irritation etch across your features. “Bringing that up again? Now?”
He nods and rubs your clit through your underwear with his thumb. His heart soars and blood immediately rushes south when he feels how damp you are. Fuck. Just what dirty things were you imagining the whole time?
He’s fighting his instinct to just fuck you first and talk later, but it’s proving difficult. Still, he knows he needs to address things, and that keeps his impatience at bay.
“I’ll take care of her.” He pushes a finger as deep as he can inside you through the thin barrier. “But after we talk about this.”
You keen as he keeps touching you, but he knows that you know it won't go anywhere unless you give in. And Jack’s firm in his stance.
“Okay, okay. Fine. Jeez.” You pull his wrist away from you, and your nimble fingers go to fix your skirt. “Guess we’ll pick this up after.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Just hear me out first.” You lean your elbows against the railing and cross one leg over the other, shifting under Jack’s heavy gaze.
“Go on, then.”
Jack starts, “I think you should leave this place. Find something else.”
You laugh, and he’s delighted by the sound, but he’s being sincere. When you see that he isn’t joking, your laughs die in your throat.
“Wait, you’re not serious, are you? I can’t quit. Kai just quit.”
“I know you don’t care to hear this from me. But I'll say it anyway. I think you’re extraordinary. But you’re wasting your time staying here.”
You look at Jack with wide eyes and scoff. “I need to get paid somehow. And… I dunno. I’ve always been loyal to this place and Morgan.”
“I know you’re struggling with bills. I saw late notices when we were at your apartment. I’m not trying to pass judgment. I’m just saying—”
You interrupt him before he can continue. It doesn’t look like you're upset, so Jack takes that as a good sign.
“—I know. But it’s all the more reason I have to stay, Jack. Look… you really don’t have to worry. Alright? I’ll figure something out,” you say with a shrug. “Station’s not dead yet.”
“What if you didn’t need to worry about rent? Or… anything? Move in with me. I have more than enough room. I’ll help you get on your feet until you figure something out.”
The breath is knocked from your lungs, and you look at him like he’s completely lost it. He has. But who wouldn’t lose their composure over you?
“What? We barely know each other.”
“I know enough about you to know what we have is something we should explore. You feel the same way. You told me.”
“I know, but…” You look down to the ground, but Jack tilts your chin up with a finger.
“We could be roommates for all I care. Take things as slow as you want. Although, we’ve already—”
“—Living together is something else. And… why? Why is that something you want?”
“So you can pursue what you want. So I can be around you.”
Jack gives you a few seconds to think, and they’re the longest few seconds of his life.
You pull his hand away from your chin and interlock both of yours with both of his. “I guess… I have thought about starting a podcast.” Your eyes flicker with hope, but they’re soon dulled. With a shake of your head and a resigned puff of air, you follow up with, “But I can’t do that to my boss.”
He tugs on your hands and squeezes gently. “You have to do the hard thing sometimes. Be selfish for once.”
“It—it isn’t easy, you know,” you stammer. “Even if I were to leave the station, it takes a lot of work and time to get things off the ground. I… can’t.” You purse your lips. “Can’t take advantage of you like that.”
“You’re not taking advantage of me. I want this for you. I want to support you. I want to figure us out, together.” Jack drops your hands and wraps his arms around you. He mumbles, “Don’t you trust me?”
A resigned sigh escapes your lips. “I… do.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
You nestle your head further into Jack’s chest. “Nothing, I guess,” you murmur into his button-up. “Fuck it. Let’s figure it out. Together. I hope you don’t mind plants.”
You look up at him while resting your chin on his chest with something akin to gratitude.
The corners of Jack’s lip twitch in approval. “Okay. Good. Glad to know we’re on the same page. Now turn around. ‘M done waiting.” He gently spins you so you’re facing the starry skyline and are bent over the railing. You clutch it while Jack gets down on his knees.
You turn your head over your shoulder and look down at him. “Jack, what’re you doing? That can’t be comfortable.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not that delicate. Just wanna taste you,” he mumbles. He flips up and tucks the back of your skirt, pulling your underwear to the side. “Hold that there, sweetheart.”
You reach a hand back to keep your underwear from getting in his way.
“Good girl,” Jack slurs, warm breath hitting your folds as he splays you open with two thumbs. He groans from deep within the hollows of his chest as he watches your arousal collect and leak from your hole. “Fuck. You’re soaked. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I ever saw.”
He almost can’t believe it’s for him that you get like this. Only for him.
“Please…” You look back down at him with a desperate expression, and it makes a fierce pride swell in his chest. At your pleading, Jack puts his mouth where you need it most.
“F-fuck… Jack, oh my g—”
His tongue laps along your slit at a languid pace. He’s not in any rush. He wants to savor this. Savor you. Feel the tight clench of your cunt suffocate his tongue and pulse as she gives it your orgasms.
He wanted to eat you out so very badly yesterday. He palmed himself through his shorts during his drive to work and nearly pulled over to jerk himself off.
Is this infatuation? Pure lust? He sure doesn’t think so. He feels too much and too strongly about you for it to be anything other than genuine connection.
His palms squeeze your ass as he devours you. The mixture of your arousal and his saliva makes a wet slurping sound as his tongue flicks in and out of your hole. The noises are lewd, slick coats his face, and it’s a fucking mess. You’re crying out to the city beyond you, crying out his name, and it nearly makes him come in his slacks. He humps the air to no avail, his cockhead begging to be freed and allowed to notch itself inside you.
Your legs start to shake, and you reach a hand back to push him away. It’s instinctual, he knows. Of course you don’t want him to stop, not with how wet you are and the noises that spill out of you. But Jack takes offense to it either way.
He wills himself away from the tight grip of your entrance and gives your pussy a light slap. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to get your attention and to make you return your hand to the railing.
“Don’t move. Don’t try to stop me. You hear me? Gonna make you come.”
Your breath audibly hitches, he can feel your entire body quiver in excitement, and he most certainly can see your cunt spasm around nothing as she awaits his tongue again. He wonders if anyone’s ever given you the proper attention and dedication you deserve.
“I’m the one making you feel good now. Let me do this.”
Jack, done with talking, returns his lips to you and gets back to work.
You moans pitch higher as you start to get close, and you nearly scream when he sucks your clit into his mouth. He groans into your pussy as you buck wildly, flailing so much he’s likely pressing bruises into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you still. He flicks his tongue over your clit like heavy rain against a sidewalk, enjoying how much your little nub reacts to him.
He’s drunk off your taste. And, being the sensitive thing you are, you finally snap. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you come, and Jack draws out your orgasm with soft kisses against your swollen clit. He gently nuzzles the cute, twitchy thing with his nose when you start to hiss in overstimulation.
He then turns his attention strictly to your hole and folds—giving you a little break—keeping his lips locked on you for what maybe feels like forever. For you. But to him, time couldn’t move any faster. It’s all too fast. He wants this. Needs this all the time, or it won’t feel real—you’re really his now.
You twitch against the railing and almost collapse against it, arms limp from the strength of the orgasm that made you so pliable and jelly-like in his hands.
Jack laps your remnant juices and drags his tongue up to trace a cheeky circle around your puckered hole, pulling a ragged gasp from your pretty throat.
“Jaaack, fuck, that’s—!”
He works you open with the tip of his tongue and gives your hole a few strokes. “Jus’ a little taste. We’ll save it for later.”
With a grunt, Jack stands and finally pulls down your underwear. “Keep both hands on the railing, sweetheart. You’ll need the support.”
He pulls his cock out from within his slacks and lines himself up against your entrance, spreading your slick through your folds before slowly sinking into you. Your walls tighten around his length, squeezing him with a grip unlike any he’s ever known. As if your cunt weeps at the thought of not having his cock buried inside you. She does weep, considering how fucking drenched you are.
You force out your words in between labored breaths. “Hnn, Jack—god, you feel so—mmm—fucking good.”
Your praises do wonders for him and makes him really put his back into his thrusts. He grasps you by your hips, pulling you into him and making you take what he gives you.
“Yeah?” He bares his teeth and grunts when he looks down and sees the collection of your arousal rings around the base of his cock. “You like… ah, what ‘m doing to you?”
Jack sure damn hopes so, because your wet heat clings to him and pulses with every stroke, and he’s not sure how long he can last.
He would have preferred to fuck you senseless somewhere nicer. Maybe in the comfort of his home, make things a little more romantic, but the off chance that someone might see or hear you both excites him. And he couldn’t wait. He likes rooftops, anyway.
“Touch yourself, baby. Need you to come. Come on my cock. Your doin’ so damn good. Jus’ one more.”
You do as he says as you bring a hand down to swipe at your clit, making your walls tighten up. God, you feel so good around him. He’d like nothing more than to be inside you like this all the time if he could.
You’ve managed to worm yourself inside his heart, and, for reasons that are obvious, he’s let you. You’re so right for him. The heatwave, the elevator incident, the show, were all just precursors so he could get to you. He’s so damn glad he returned your call.
His pace falters as your second orgasm washes over you, and he has to pinch the head of his cock as he pulls out so he doesn’t come inside you. Of course he wants to. But right now the thought of tagging your ass and lower lips with his cum is more appealing.
“Fuck, Jack, please. Give it to me.” You give him a pretty, flustered, fucked-out look over your shoulder and he can’t do anything but obey.
“Fuck, sweetheart. Yeah, I’ll give it to you. Don’t you worry.”
He strokes his cock with a tight grip paling in comparison to that of your cunt, spurting his release all over you with a low groan and a rumble from deep within his chest.
You catch your breath, and mumbles of “what a mess” fall on deaf ears because Jack is battling a bone-deep exhaustion that’s slowly settling in and making its way through his entire body. He thinks about pulling you in his arms and crashing to the floor, but considering it’s concrete, changes his mind. He’ll just have to push through the drowsiness and somehow take you both home.
He shouldn’t be tired—he’s used to these hours. But you and your tight pussy really wore him out. He guesses he can at least build up his stamina now that you’ll be around to practice with him.
You quickly attempt to pull up your underwear and fix your skirt, but Jack tuts. “Hold on there, honey.” His fingers glide easily inside you as he scoops up as much of his leaking cum as possible, and feeds it into your hole. Still, there’s too much of it all over your ass and cunt, and it just seeps. “There you go. Now you’re ready.” You suck your teeth when you feel Jack’s cum stick to your garments as he helps redress you and it drips down your inner thighs. You turn around and give him a light slap on his shoulder.
“I’m sticky now. So, thanks for that. Thought you’d come inside me,” you say with a pout.
“Would you rather I do that next time?” Jack asks, a grin playing on his lips.
“I mean... yeah.” You chew on your lower lip, and he vows to make that happen. As many times as you want. To the brim and until he’s tapped out, if that’s what your heart desires. “But it’s fine. I’ll wash up in the bathroom. Um, I guess it’s time to go? I gotta call another Uber…”
He shakes his head and grabs you by the shoulders. “No, I’m taking you back to mine. You’re moving in. Right now.”
You tilt your head and blink back your astonishment. “B-but…”
“Hey. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything later, sweetheart. Let’s just go home for right now.” He pulls you into another kiss, sweet and saccharine, and it’s enough to keep you from putting up a fight. Jack traces your lips once you break apart and tugs your lower lip open, working the tip of his thumb slightly into your mouth.
“Okay?” he prods.
Your warm tongue licks along his finger, and you nod, clasping your hand in his other one. “‘M’kay,” you say, to the best of your ability.
Days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into nearly a year since you’ve moved in with Jack. You were worried at first. You had no reason not to trust him and his intentions, but there’s always going to be some small part of your brain that tells you that something might be a bad idea.
It wasn’t. Not by any stretch of the means. You did take your relationship slow at first. Withholding from sex until you both got to know each other properly was the hardest thing to do—especially since you’ve already had sex. After sleeping in his guest room and going on simple dates for a few weeks, Jack couldn’t help but agree.
He’s your person. And you’re his. And you both shared that sentiment after breaking your short vow of abstinence when he finally threw you on the bed and brought your ankles to your ears. He finally did come inside you that time. Many, many times. Maybe almost too many. He’s ruined you for anyone else, and you always feel a bit empty when you don’t take his load at least once a day. He does get tired, though, that poor old man. But even when you’re milking him dry and he’s shooting blanks with a pained expression, he’s half-smiling.
You did end up leaving not too shortly after your rooftop conversation with him. Morgan was understandably upset but (surprisingly) supportive at the same time. You supposed it was because she could see the writing on the wall. You did continue to work for a short while after announcing you’d be quitting to help her find a replacement for you and Kai, and FFM was even reached out to by a few sponsors who caught wind of Jack’s interview and enjoyed it. But it wasn’t enough. Jack didn’t have enough pull, and everything fell apart.
Joining an indie station was a risky endeavor; you knew as much when Morgan onboarded you that first day after passing the interview. It was a passion project, she said. But when the news got to you that the station was decommissioning, directly from her, she didn’t seem devastated by it.
That was a few months ago now, and since then, you’ve brought her, your producer, and some of the other folks at FFM to work alongside you on your podcast. Progress on your own was very slow-going, but with them by your side, everything rapidly fell into place. Jack teased you that you could finally get off your ass and stop leeching off him after months of building everything up to this point.
Morgan has the connections and industry know-how, your producer produces, and everyone else just helps where they’re needed. It’s perfect. It’s almost as if you’re still hosting Renegade, just… reformatted. And under a new name.
Your first season wrapped up not too long ago, and it did more numbers than you would have thought possible. And the anticipation for the next just keeps growing. Money is flowing in from social media and lucky sponsorships you were able to secure, and you couldn’t be happier. You can actually pay your team livable wages.
Who knew how much more popular a podcast would be compared to a radio show?
You can’t take all the credit, however. Jack financed what you couldn’t in order to set up everything.
He’s more than relieved to be back to being a nobody to everyone except for his patients, colleagues, and you, of course.
You do worry that as the podcast grows, he’ll somehow be thrust into the spotlight again. But you still use your pseudonym, and your episodes are audio-only. As time goes on, more people will forget your face from your radio days and only recognize you by the sound of your voice.
You’re okay with that. You get to do what you love. While being with the person who you have quickly come to love.
Jack knocks on the door to your studio, making you flinch in your chair and clutch your heart. He swings the door open and approaches you.
Your new studio is located in a much nicer building downtown compared to the one that situated FFM. It’s also conveniently close to PTMC and Jack's condo.
“Hey. What’re you still doing here? You’re supposed to be home. Came right back here when I didn’t see you there. Couldn’t have called me?”
“Jack. Jesus. You scared me.” You shake your head. “‘M sorry. Guess I lost track of time figuring out next week’s script. How was work?”
“Tiring, as always.” He stands behind you and rubs your shoulders, drawing a light moan from you. “Especially since Shen and Ellis have been bugging me about getting on your podcast. I give them one shoutout, and they go crazy…” he trails.
You laugh, and Jack chuckles. “I can make that work. From what you tell me of them, they sound like a riot.” You hold one of his hands over your shoulder and look up at him. “Why haven’t I met your coworkers yet? Robby not included.”
“Can’t I keep you to myself? I already share you with the world,” he mumbles.
You roll your eyes but smile. He says this, but he has always been and will always be your number one supporter. And he's kidding himself if he thinks the entire world tunes in. Maybe just a few tens of thousands of people, but who's really counting?
You spin around to face him. “You’re who I come home to, Jack. Not my coworkers or my listeners or anyone else. Just you.”
He leans over and cages you in by the arms of the chair, slotting his lips against yours. He kisses you with an intensity you’ve come to know is so him.
You pull apart and eye the string of saliva connecting you both with a dazed expression. Fuck.
“Let me make you my wife first. Then I might consider it.”
Double fuck.
You press your thumb to his brow, smoothing out the frown, to do something to calm your racing heart.
“Then ask me already.”
He shakes his head and breathes through his nose, pulling your hand from his face. “Time’s gotta be right. Let’s go home.”
Jack is holding your hand in the elevator going down to the ground floor of the building when it suddenly lurches and stops.
Why is it stopping? It’s not supposed to stop. You mash the button for the ground floor, but it doesn't respond, and that sets you off.
“Are you kidding me?” you blurt out.
You stare at Jack with bulging eyes. He’s cursed. That’s got to be it. Surely breaking down in elevators isn’t this common. This is your first time. Ever. This is Jack’s second. Within a year.
He shakes his head and chuckles. “At least the power’s on this time ‘round and we’re not in the middle of a heatwave.” Turning to you, he pulls out something from within his pocket. “Guess this is as good a time as any. Fated, maybe.”
“Wh—now? Like… now? Don’t tell me you have a ring in that pocket! I don’t want to see it! Not here!”
He smirks and pulls the ring out anyway.
Gorgeous, by the way.
Is this really happening?
“Too late. Make me the happiest man alive and be mine, sweetheart?”
Wow this felt like a movie. What a unique idea! I just am so obsessed with how bashful Jack was, but downright fucking nasty and feral for reader. Oufff that was hot. Also why is it so damn attractive when a man just wants to take care of you?
I’m such a softie so stories like this always make my heart explode. I was smiling the whole time :)
Sarah moved from Boston to the small town called creekside
she now is a detective for the cspd
she just wanted a calmer life away from Boston and her failed marriage
turns out now she has to deal with a serial killer and being the only detective in creekside who already dealt with such a macabre situation, the creekside killer case consumes her whole life
her favorite spot to get a break from the case is a 50s diner near the highway - the coffee is not great, but the waffles are the best she ever had
a certain waitress named Beth is also a bonus
she always greets Sarah with a big smile even if the grumpy detective is sporting her grumpiest facial expression
Beth is a single mom who works two jobs and has full custody of her son Spencer (who prefers to be called 'the chosen')
Sarah finds the kid hella weird
'The chosen' is obsessed with Sarah and asks her tons of questions whenever he has to stay at the diner after school until Beth's shift ends because she can't afford a babysitter
there are more head canons I have for this au. but I don't want this post to be ultra long.
content: post-sex fluff, soft domme energy, praise, nudity, giggling superman with nothing but a necklace on, silly romantic vibes, obsessed!clark
He’s standing in the kitchen — tall, golden, glowing in the morning light. Nothing on but his little Superman necklace (the one you bought him as a joke but he wears like a badge of honor now). His hair is a mess, he’s barefoot, and he’s flipping pancakes while humming Lana Del Rey under his breath.
And he’s naked. Fully.
Necklace + smile = outfit of the day.
“Clark.”
He turns around, eyes bright, dimples out in full force. “Hi, baby.”
You blink. “Where are your clothes?”
He looks down at himself like he just realized. “Oh. I didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”
“What vibe?”
“You know,” he says, stepping closer, chest all firm and freckled, syrup-scented and smug. “The sexy househusband vibe.”
You snort, still wrapped in a sheet on the couch, legs tangled from where he folded you in half last night and said “please, let me make you breakfast, princess, I can’t live like this if I don’t serve you.”
“That’s your sexy househusband look? Just the necklace?”
He shrugs. “It’s the one you gave me. My little ‘S’ for “Submissive.”
You nearly choke on your tea.
“Clark!”
He giggles. GIGGLES.
Like a literal six-foot-four golden retriever boytoy who just made the funniest joke of his life.
“I’m your princess boy,” he says, coming to kneel in front of you, resting his cheek on your thigh. “Aren’t I?”
You raise an eyebrow, stroking through his curls. “You’re my everything, baby. My princess boy. My good boy. My sunshine. My clingy, naked, post-sex domestic dreamboat.”
He smiles like you handed him the moon on a silver plate. “Say it again?”
You lean down and kiss the top of his head. “My princess boy.”
He hums. “I’m gonna cry.”
“You already did last night.”
“I’ll do it again.”
And he will, too. Right there on the living room rug if you so much as lay a finger on him with intent.
But for now, you let him melt against your leg while the pancakes start to burn and his necklace glints in the sun — your proud, subby little Superman in all his naked, clingy, princess glory.
carmy sucked the life out of syd. we actively watched syd go from the hopeful, optimistic chef to everything we watch carmy be from the earlier seasons.
dissociative nightmares
self isolation
giving in to his vices (smoking)
we, as the audience, is watching the death of what is good about the restaurant and what held the crew together from the beginning.
in the beginning i was a sydcarmy shipper, because i am always an advocate for a Black female protagonist to be loved in the way we thought Carmy would love her.
but as the series progresses, i am starting to hate carmy a little bit more because his negativity is sucking the whimsy out of syd.
this might be a controversial take, or brash. but i hope they get far from each other. they cannot function as platonic colleagues, i dont want to see her experience him on a much more intimate level. we have seen what hes put claire thorugh, i dont think i could enough the show if he puts sud through more of that.
♥︎ the next door ⸺ neighbor!reader: Finding your person is never easy, especially when they live in the apartment next door and have a life as complicated as Spencer Reid's...especially when he disappears for three whole months and comes back a different person.
♥︎ avoidant!bau!reader: Avoiding conflict and any kind of confrontation that isn't strictly part of your job is your specialty, but that all goes out the window when you put your eyes and heart into your coworker...because there was no one with more conflict and confrontation on the horizon than Spencer Reid.
Aaron Hotchner
♥︎ father figure!hotch x bau!reader: Those who didn't really know Aaron Hotchner believed that his first child had been Jack, but the few who really knew him knew that he was much more complex than that…because you existed long before.
Being indigenous and hating this country is like having a couple of abusive assholes move into your house and declare themselves your parents. You shouldn't have to leave because it was your house first, but you can't kick them out because they absolutely will murder you about it.
being Black and hating this country is like getting adopted at a vulnerable age by absolutely abusive parents that everyone agrees are bad people for taking you from your home country, but no one does anything because its “not their problem” and “at least they gave you a place to stay”. now that you are grown up and are able to make it on your own, that abuse has psychologically crippled you and has kept you tethered to that abusive household. always in debt to the abuser
