Summary: At an awards ceremony, Jack makes a speech when he wins thanking everyone, especially his late wife. he just forgot one person: you, his fiancée. And it's only once you're gone that he understands how much you meant to him. Only it might be too late. (6.6k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x fiancée!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Smut—very descriptive with p-in-v, vaginal fingering, praise kink if you squint (this scene got away from me. I sincerely apologize); Angst; break-up and get back together; insecurities of the reader; comparing herself to Jack's late wife; psychiatrist reader; Parker Ellis is the reader's best friend; Jack calls the reader sweet girl and good girl in a scene; usage of y/n (sorry, not sorry).
Credit: GIF by @iluvseb and idea by @lunarayletters
You can tell that Jack is nervous even though he’d never admit it, you can tell by the way he’s smoothing his hands incessantly against the fabric of his pants, expression darker than normal and attention set on the stage, on a fixed point never wavering. Jack never likes to admit that he’s a normal human, that he feels nervousness like everyone else because for so long he wasn’t. He couldn’t.
He’s told you this, how showing nerves could sometimes be the difference between life and death. A steady grip on a rifle was needed when someone’s life was in the balance. But you’ve also reminded him that nerves about things like this, awards, are different. They are by their nature, self-directed things, no one else is relying on you for anything.
It doesn’t mean he listens.
“Jack,” you whisper, reaching over and lifting one of his hands, stopping his ceaseless rhythm of rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, Adam’s apple bobbing, bobbing, bobbing. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Hm…what?” he asks you, tearing his eyes from the stage, the movement looking pained as if the stage is the only thing that really exists, the only thing holding him together, right hand still rubbing, left held in yours, palm sweaty, clammy, cold.
“It’s going to be okay,” you tell him, the words said slow and calm and enunciated clearly. You do not want the ringing in his ears, the one that gets worse when he’s nervous, when his blood pressure is high, to drown out what you’re telling. To drown out your assurances.
“I know,” he says, the words fast and bitten out, his eyes shifting, roving over your face, taking in every detail as if he’ll forget, as if he needs it all to bring himself back for a moment. “I know,” he says again, slower this time, less believing.
“No, you don’t,” you say and his eyes flick up from where they’ve settled on your lips, the eyes like sun through fall bare branches fixing on yours. “But it’s okay because I do. You are going to win this award and go up there and give your speech and everything will be. Okay.”
“You just can’t stop being a psychiatrist, can you?” he asks with a broken kind of laugh, a cracking, breathy chuckle, deep and dark and bitter.
“Do you want me to give your speech a read through before they call the winner? You haven’t let me see it so…” you pause, but he shakes his head, simply squeezing your hand with his left, his right stilling its ceaseless motion.
“I’ll be okay,” he whispers, lips curving into his crooked grin as the announcer steps up to the podium, feedback crackling from the microphone, the kind of staticky sound echoing, squealing around you, fading slowly, slowly, slowly.
“You’ll be better than okay,” you tell him as the announcer’s voice cuts through the last of the feedback, calling up the award for PTMC Doctor of the Year.
“…Jack Abbot, everyone! Can we please put our hands together for Dr. Abbot, our new Doctor of the Year!” Jack is frozen, every muscle rigid, the paper on which he wrote his acceptance speech by hand crumpling in his fist. You teased him about the old-fashioned writing of his, the speech he wrote in between traumas and consults and cases, but really you loved that he wrote it by hand, on paper, the way you love to do everything.
“Jack, honey,” you whisper, your free hand coming to rest between his shoulder blades, shaking him awake from his frozen, dazed stupor. “You won. Go up there.” And he does, albeit shakily, his body seeming to move on muscle memory alone, programming from the time he was a toddler, learning to walk, learning control over the intricate network of his skelature.
He looks dashing, silver curls glinting in the gleam of the overhead lights as he steps onto the stage, his movements wooden, but the grin on his face anything but. He shakes hands with the announcer, accepting the engraved glass plaque and stepping up to the podium, setting the award on it along with his speech, his hand smoothing away the creases from his previous clenching of it.
“Good evening, everyone,” he says, voice low and sultry even without trying, his voice quiet but amplified without feedback, just perfect. Like him. “I would like to start off by saying thank you for the award. It means so much to me to know that I have helped people and that I have helped enough, well enough, to be…well, doctor of the year.
“But I would not be doctor of the year without the rest of the dedicated staff at PTMC. Even if you don’t work in the ED, I rely on you for consults and beds and patient help so I would not be the doctor that I am without all of you. Most importantly, I want to acknowledge the most important person in my life,” you know it’s not you, you know what’s coming, your hand fidgeting with your engagement ring, waiting for her name even as the people around look at you, smiling, mistaken.
“My late wife, Regina. She was everything to me, my supporter and my partner and the one who held me when I couldn’t hold myself up. She gave me enough to keep going so that I could keep everyone else going. She was my opposite, preferring to stay at home and keep it and that’s what she did. She told me that I could save the world and she would save me so even though I’ve been missing her for years, I still want to thank her. Losing her was the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but…” you wait, thinking now. Now he’ll address you, but I was lucky enough to find love again. Not a replacement, that’s not what you are, but someone else.
“But I was not alone, my best friend, Robby, helped me through it. He kept me going and told me that the ED needed us, that we needed to keep it running. So, I stayed. Because he reminded me that it needed me. I also want to thank,” me, you think. Me, “Dana Evans, Parker Ellis, John Shen, Crus Henderson and Lena Handzo. My team. And again—”
You can feel the tears in your eyes, a burn and sting that echoes in your throat, so bitter a taste that it spreads through your mouth as your throat thickens and tightens, seizes with a sob you can’t let out. Even through your blurring vision, you can see that he’s not looking at you and so you rise from the table, feeling just a bit unsteady, feet burning in the heels you bought, torso feeling squeezed by the dress’s tight bodice. The dress you bought for him, for tonight.
It’s a familiar pain, one that you know. The feeling of inadequacy, the one you have every time you’ve been forgotten, like you are not enough. Never enough for anyone. That’s how it’s been your entire life, but you thought Jack was different. You thought he saw you, but apparently he didn’t.
You didn’t even warrant a single line in his thank you address, not even thank you to my fiancée. Not even thank you to Y/N. You didn’t even warrant a single fucking mention. And that hurts. It hurts because of the mention of Regina and Robby, the way he twined the two and left you out. It’s like the four years you’ve been his have never mattered at all. What were you? Just some warm body in his bed?
Some Barbie doll replacement for the wife he lost? Were you just something he thought he should have?
Did he ever see you at all?
You don’t want to know, you realize, as you leave the hall, flagging down a taxi, your hands gripping your clutch so tightly that your knuckles feel stiff, fake, wooden. False. Your nails are bending from the way they’re digging into the fabric and the clasp, but you don’t care. Pain is good.
Pain is a distraction from the image in your head as you climb into the taxi, whispering your address, the vehicle screeching away from the curb, tire tracks no doubt left behind on the damp asphalt road. Pain distracts you from the image of Jack, finishing his speech and walking back to the table, sitting down, unaware of your empty spot at all.
Almost like you were never there at all.
You’ve forgotten how many material things you seem to acquire over a life, things you can’t let go of even when they’re stupid, silly, materialistic. Like the mug Parker got you back when you were in med school, the one with a picture of a pipe and the Freud quote Sometimes a pipe is just a pipe. They always did like to tease you about your profession.
Or the wooden car you picked up at a flea market when you were abroad, the one carved and painted by hand to look like a Corvette, your favourite type of car. Or, even, the stuffed snake Parker got you when you held one for the first time even though it scared you.
Stupid things really, but all pieces of a life. But everything Jack is staying here, like the hoodie he brought you one day when you came in for a consult, the one he gave because he noticed you were cold the last time you were down. Or the Lego bouquet of flowers that the two of you spent a rainy afternoon assembling together.
Those are pieces of the life you’re leaving. You wish you could say that you were just overreacting to a one-time event of being forgotten, but you’re not. Because this wasn’t the only time.
You knew when you fell in love that he had already been in love and you do not begrudge him that or hate that or her. You hate that he has expected you to be her. When you get home late and he asks why you weren’t already home and you explain for the millionth time that you have work, patients, your residency and he makes some off-hand comment about Regina always being home.
You hate the comparison that’s always drawn between you and her, her and you, but it’s so automatic, that’s the worst part. You don’t even think he’s noticing it, as if he’s just hard-wired to compare everyone to her. And you keep coming up short.
“What are you doing?” you hear Jack say from behind you, his voice confused, but not broken. It’s like he’s just curious and doesn’t even wonder why you left the ceremony. He just wonders why you’re packing your bags, the suitcases your parents gave you when you graduated high school.
“I’m leaving,” you tell him, your voice thick and pained and broken. You can hear him stepping into the room, pulling open the closet door, the wood squeaking just a little along the metal tracks.
“Where? Did you get called away for something?” he asks, his voice seeming distracted, the sound of him undressing, shirt unbuttoning and being pulled from his body enough to make you turn around, the ever present tears burning away, evaporating as you look at him with anger.
“I’m leaving you,” you tell him and that’s enough to have him pause, muscles frozen mid-flex, the shirt half-off, half-on. You can tell by the slight shift in his head, the slight cant to the right that he sees your missing clothes, missing shoes and everything else.
“Why?” The question sounds broken now, his voice cracking into that huskier register he has, the one you know from when he wakes you at night with screams caught in his throat, mind on rains of bullets and cold, limp hands, beeping medical monitors and all his other demons.
“In your entire speech,” you say, your voice flat, broken no longer breaking, “you never once thanked me. Not that I need it, but you thanked Shen and Parker and Lena and Dana and Robby and Regina, but I never warranted a mention aside from everyone at PTMC.”
“You knew my wife was important to me,” he says, turning around, his face set like stone as you shake your head, the exhale sounding more like a whispered cry as you haul your first suitcase off the bed.
“That’s not the problem, Jack,” you tell him, pulling the second one, the last one, the others in your car already except for these two. “The problem is the fact that you spent time waxing poetic about Robby and the ED, but I, your fiancée didn’t get a single line. I didn’t get anything and that hurts.”
“Then let’s work through this,” he says, stepping towards you, shedding his shirt in one fluid motion and reaching for your hands in another, “instead of just leaving.”
“You didn’t mention a fiancée, Jack,” you whisper, wrenching your hands from his and pushing him away with both hands flat on his chest, “so you don’t have one.” The back of your throat is stinging with tears, thick and pained and your skin is drawn is too tight.
“No,” he says, his hands taking yours from where they’ve been resting on his chest, left ring finger bare except for a faint line from where the ring had been. “No, you’re not leaving.”
“Yeah, I am,” you say, but he shakes his head, jaw tense as he pulls on your hands, tugging you towards him, his head canting, lips pressing against yours in a kiss that burns, a kiss that tastes like fire and pain and ash. Like everything broken.
“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers against your lips, the vibrations of his words echoing through you, down your spine, shivers in its wake. His hands tighten on your wrists, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough that you can feel it, feel him.
“You don’t really want me to stay either,” you reply, pulling back and taking in the way his eyes are heavy-lidden and pupil-blown, lips swollen from the kiss, from the way it was each side taking, a sheen of saliva lingering on his bottom one.
“I do,” he whispers, stepping towards you, pushing you back until you fall back onto the bed, the springs bouncing underneath you as he stands over you, his hands still holding your wrists, “let me show you how much.”
He lifts your hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss against each one, that look in his eyes that you know well shining through, the one that says he wants you, the one that looks for all the world, like he’s hungry. Like he’s the predator and you’re the prey.
“What are you gonna do to change my mind?” you whisper, that feeling of burning inside of your skin taking over because even though you feel invisible, you cannot deny that sex with Jack Abbot is perfect. Kind and gentle and rough and explosive in equal measures.
“You know what,” he whispers, letting go of your hands and smiling that roguish smile he has at you, the one that promises fun and good times for a little while. Until reality decides it’s time to come back, but you don’t care now.
You want the good times, the fun. You can handle reality’s crash-landing after. Because you’d rather not feel right now.
He looks at you, right now, with desire and want and love, but the burning in your body is only lust and hate. Because a part of you does hate him for the you that you are becoming. He reaches for your hands, drawing you up from the bed again, hands drifting to the hem of your shirt as he presses his lips against you, hands sliding underneath the t-shirt and up your stomach, fingers trailing across, inching towards your breasts while his lips move against yours.
It’s an open-mouthed kiss, desirous and destructive and the way his tongue slides against yours, the feelings it elicits, should be illegal. His hands are cool against your fevered skin, your one hand on his back, fingers digging in, the other twining in your hair, the two of you moving, shifting your back slammed against the bedroom wall.
“I hate you,” you whisper as he pulls back from your lips, a kiss-drunk expression on his face as he trails his lips over your jaw, the hot press of his mouth causing the ache in your stomach to grow.
“No, you don’t,” he whispers against you, his hips grinding against yours, hands roaming over the expanse of your lace-clad dress. When you got home, climbing out of the taxi with tear-stained cheeks, you stripped out of the dress, pulling on boxers and an old t-shirt, perfect for leaving and crying on a warm summer’s night.
“I do,” you whisper, your breath hitching as he sucks on the sensitive skin of your neck, the spot just below your ear, your back arching, pressing you deeper against him, wetness pooling between your legs as his hips continue to move against you. “But I also love you.”
You’re rewarded for that admission by a pinch of both your nipples, the ones covered only by the thinnest expanse of lace.
“Good girl,” he whispers, pulling back from you, hands sliding back down the expanse of your stomach, fire burning in your skin with every trail of his fingers on your skin. “I don’t like it when you lie.” You hate the way your body reacts to his good girl, the way he says it in that raspy voice, his hands now at your t-shirt hem, pulling it up in slow drags along your body. “Arms up, baby girl.”
You hate how you listen, lifting your arms as he lifts the shirt up and over your head, along your arms, tossing it aside, his hands on your waist, hot and firm and possessive. His pupils expand even more when he takes in your body, in your breasts, a sight that every time seems to short circuit him.
That’s the worst part of this losing because he likes you, he just can’t love you. He sees your body not your soul and you can’t stay with someone who is only a spark and not a fire. A bonfire over a blaze. In truth, you want water over fire, something essential and lasting and life sustaining.
His mouth is hot on your chest, the touch bringing you back here and now, the way he trails his mouth across the lace, pressing kisses along it as your breath hitches, breathing changes and a throbbing begins to take place with vigor between your legs. His hands trail up from your waist to your bra, unhooking the strapless number, the material falling away in the space between one breath and the next, his mouth instead on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting at his touch.
“God, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your breasts, eyes flicking up to you, dark and pupil blown, “the things you do to me.” One hand is steady on your waist, but the other dips below the waistband of your boxers (his boxers, actually, ones he gave you, but they were too comfortable not to keep in the leaving) finding your folds, stroking them, taking in the feeling of your pussy, your arousal.
“Fuck,” you breathe as he dips one finger between them, the tip of it touching your entrance, pressing against it but never entering, rather teasing you with the pressure and the presence.
“Do you like that?” he whispers, thumb straying to your clit, circling it and pressing on it at the same time.
“I hate you,” you hiss at the same time that he pushes a singular finger into you, the stretching feeling not too much, but he curls his finger inside, dragging it along your walls before pulling back out and pushing back in, the sound of skin in slickness dulled by the layer of cloth still covering you.
“Really, sweet girl?” he asks you, his lips back on your neck. “Because it doesn’t feel like you do.” He plunges two fingers into you, his other hand rising from your waist, trailing along the side of your body, your ribcage, his fingers drumming a rhythm on your skin as he inches towards your breasts.
He flicks your nipple as he plunges a third finger inside of you, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, curling and drawing out, the coil in your stomach drawing tight, tight, tight as his thumb circles your clit in lazy gestures.
It’s when he puts four fingers inside of you, curling one and pulling out, followed by another and another, the last one dragging lazily down and out of you that you can feel your orgasm coming, can feel it when he slips his index finger back in, applying pressure to your clit, just enough to have you shattering around him, his smile growing as he waits out your aftershocks before withdrawing his fingers and popping them into his mouth, the mouth that was previously on your neck, the one that has left hickeys on your skin for sure, the mouth curving into a smirk as he releases his fingers with a pop.
“Don’t think you hate me, sweetheart,” he whispers, hands bracketing you on the wall as he leans forwards, aiming to give you a kiss, but you turn your head, removing your hands from where the nails have dug into his back, the back of his neck, planting them on his chest and pushing him back and away until he falls onto the bed.
“I do,” you whisper, kneeling before him, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your hands going to the waistband of his pants where a noticeable bulge sits. “I just like fucking you more.” You help him out of his pants and boxers, his lower half free, cock up, hard, a vein on the underside prominent as your hands find his prosthetic, releasing it and pulling it off, setting it aside.
“Sweet girl,” he whispers, watching as you stand, stepping out of the boxers, letting them fall to the floor, now as naked as him. You step over, lining yourself up with the head of his cock, teasing him as you move back and forth, his hands flying to your hips, gripping them tight. He makes a small noise, one from the back of his throat as you move back and forth, back and forth, teasing him. “Stop teasing me.”
“Why?” you ask him, your voice breathy as you stop, just hovering over him. “How badly do you want it?”
“Badly,” he growls, pushing down on your hips, pushing you down on his cock. You give a surprised cry as he pushes you down, down, down until you’re sitting on him and he seems to be everywhere, stimulating every inch. “You started this game,” he whispers, leaning forwards, his lips inches from your own, “now finish it, sweet girl. Ride me.”
And you do, pushing up, swirling around the tip before sinking back down. He lets out a noise, another one from deep in his gut, a dark, deep sound that echoes through the room as you build a steady rhythm, up, swirl, down, over and over.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Good girl.” You hate how much his words effect you but it is what it is and you like how he is as you ride him, the noises he makes, the praise he gives, the way he kisses your neck and your breasts and your lips. The way his eyes darken even more when he takes in the sight of you bouncing on him, using him like his good girl.
It’s not long before your release is close, your legs shaking from the pose, from the feelings. You know that Jack is close too, can tell by the way he groans, his head falling forwards into your chest. “Keep going,” he urges, his hands on your hips, helping you up and down, but then you’re orgasming, your walls clenching once hard around him, enough to pull his own from him too, his cock twitching inside of you as your walls flutter with the aftershocks of your release.
“I finished the game,” you whisper, your voice tired but teasing as he leans forwards, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, helping you up and off of him.
“That you did,” he replies, watching as you walk around, legs shaking as you fall beside him in the bed. Already you can feel reality crashing into you, but you’ll let Jack think he’s won. That you’re staying, but you can’t.
You wait until he falls asleep, his breathing heavy and even and then you climb from the bed, dressing quietly, taking the last two suitcases and slipping from the bedroom, from the house, out to your car.
You dump your suitcases into the trunk, climbing into the driver’s seat, your phone waiting for you, a text from Parker glowing on the screen.
Parker: Your room’s waiting, bestie
Parker: Come home.
“Jesus!” you whine at the bright white light shining through your curtains. Your suspiciously drawn-back curtains. “PARKER!”
“Get out of bed,” they say, arms crossed and lips pursed as they look at you. You know what they see. Someone who hasn’t gotten out of bed all weekend, who changed their number just to avoid seeing messages from their ex. Someone who is falling apart because they weren’t enough.
“I don’t wanna,” you whine, pulling your comforter over your head, but they’re there already, pulling it back off.
“We’re going to the farmer’s market,” they tell you. “And if I have to drag you kicking and screaming from this bed into a shower and into clothes, I will. Do not doubt me. I have dealt with worse.”
“Why can’t you let me mourn in peace?” you grumble, pushing yourself up to sitting as they sit down on the edge of the bed, holding out one hand to you which you take, their palm calloused against yours.
“Because you’re not mourning,” they say, “you’re self-deprecating, okay? You may not have been enough for that fucker Jack Abbot, but you are more than enough for me, okay? You’re my best friend and I don’t hang around with losers.”
“You hang out with Shen,” you point out, your eyebrows rising and they roll their eyes, standing up from the edge of the bed, pulling you along with them. Your feet land on the cold hardwood floor, the rough unsanded finish scraping against the soles of your feet.
“He’s not that bad,” they tell you and you shrug.
“Just saying.” They roll their eyes at you, their hands going to your shoulders as they peer at you, their gaze unrelenting, warm, steady and familiar.
“You. Are. My. Best friend. And, you know what? That is not nothing, that is everything, okay? You are more than enough for me so let me be enough for you right now, okay?”
“Okay.”
“There’s an ED consult,” Nurse Gia says, knocking on your office door, you look up from your computer, from the file open.
“You know I’m not taking those,” you tell her and she sighs, scuffing one sneaker on the carpeted floor. Only Psychiatry has carpet floor and you will never understand why. Blood flows out of everyone, this floor is no exception to that rule. “Pass it onto Caleb.”
“You know,” she says, thick black eyebrows arched as she takes a step backwards, out of your office, “you tell your patients to confront their demons, yet…have you?” She wiggles her brows and you shake your head at her.
“Go nurse the patients!” you tell her, but your voice is teasing and she laughs as she closes your door, the consult onto Caleb while you sit at your desk, feeling the familiar, ever-present thickness in the back of your throat.
You have felt hollow, relentlessly, endlessly hollow since you left Jack, since you left him when he was sleeping, the rings left on the dresser, right on top with the note, the one where you told him sorry. The one where you told him that you felt like you were never enough for him because you were not Regina. You were not a stay-at-home wife. You were a career woman, building her life, her name in psychiatry and you felt like that was not right for him. The one where you told him that you needed to feel seen, something you had never felt before.
The one where you told him that you wanted to feel enough for someone and you weren’t for him.
You feel hollow though, that loss of him even knowing that it was right, that now you can heal.
You just wish it didn’t have to hurt so bad.
You see a glimpse of Jack’s back in the parking lot and you duck down, breathing fast as you crouch behind your car, heart rate elevated, ears ringing from the increase in your blood pressure. Just the sight of him is enough to hurt you.
You wish it didn’t, but it does and as your breathing continues to stay fast, heart rate elevated, you realize that you’re crying, tears slipping down your cheeks, silent tears, silent cries.
“Oh, babes,” you hear Parker and you look up at them, noticing the hand they hold out to you, one which you take. “Go home.”
“I was—going to,” you hiccup and they draw you against them in a tight hug, tears falling on their black scrubs.
“You saw him, right?” they ask and you nod against them, their arms tightening in response. “Well, fuck him, okay? Not actually,” they say, drawing back, holding you at arm’s length, your tears having dried and stopped now. Breathing even.
“I’m good,” you tell them and they nod.
“You’re better than good,” they say and you can feel a smile growing on your face, cutting through your sadness as you say, “hell yeah, I’m badass.”
“Kicking ass and taking names, right?” they ask, holding out a pinky for you and you respond, linking your pinky with theirs, the two folding down.
“Right,” you tell them, “kicking ass and taking names.”
“You up for Backrooms?” you call out to Parker and they step out of their room, dressed in a Black Sabbath concert shirt the two of you found when thrifting and plaid pj pants—a matching outfit to yours.
“Does it look like it?” they ask, striking a dramatic pose, one hand waving down their body.
“Hell yeah!” you reply, holding a hand out which they slap, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the house, a stinging, burning feeling in your hand. “That was at least an eight of ten,” you say.
“I would go a solid nine on the high-five scale.”
What can you say about this year without Jack?
Well, it was long and hard and painful, but you’re here, you’re present. You hear his name and see his back and you don’t cry anymore.
And yesterday…yesterday you noticed the sunrise.
It’s hard, but it’s not worthless.
You hate award ceremonies, you truly do and you would not be here if you had not been nominated for the same award that ended with your heart in tatters one year ago today. But this time, you’re not wearing a dress, rather a dark emerald green suit, Parker as your guest in a matching suit, navy to your emerald green.
“And now,” the announcer says, as the applause for the last award dies down, “our second last award of this evening, PTMC Doctor of the Year. This year the award goes to a doctor who is strong and smart and willful. She is known for her recent publication on the systemic prejudice in the healthcare sector against those with schizophrenia. Please give a warm round of applause for Dr. Y/N L/N!”
You rise from your seat, a little light-headed as you smile, waving at people, walking up the stage to the sound of applause, your acceptance speech tucked into your suit jacket pocket. You shake hands with the announcer, their palm sweaty against yours; you accept the plaque and then you stand at the podium, pulling your speech from the inside pocket and laying it flat on the wooden surface of the lectern.
“Thank you, everyone. It means so much to be recognized tonight for my achievements in a room full of my peers who are just as accomplished, if not more, so thank you for this honor. I truly did not expect to win so my speech is a little bare bones, I apologize. I want to thank everyone at PTMC, doctors, nurses, social workers, all the staff. I want to thank my colleague, Dr. Caleb Jeffereson in particular for balancing a floor with me, which I do not believe is easy. And I want to thank my best friend, Dr. Parker Ellis, who refused to let me fly solo to this and insisted I needed to use that plus one ticket. Thank you, bestie, for never letting me fly solo. Um…yeah, thank you, everyone!” You wave again, taking your award and stepping off stage, feeling the burn of eyes upon you, eyes the colour of sunlit fall bare branches.
“Now,” the announcer says, their voice echoing behind you as you sink back into your seat at the table, double high-fiving Parker once you’ve set the award on the table, “the final award of the evening. The award of Most Integral PTMC staff member. This award goes to a very familiar face, known for winning Doctor of the Year just last year. Let’s give a round of applause for Dr. Jack Abbot everyone!”
You can feel the blood drain from your face, throat tightening at the sound of his name, but you are better, you are better. Seeing him will not hurt you like before. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
You watch him with blurry vision, tears just lining your eyes, just a hint if you look down, enough to make his form blurry until he steps out onto the stage and you blink your eyes, blinking away the last of the pain, the last bit of tears, two slipping down your cheeks, framing from each eye. Your tears the frame for the portrait of your pain.
“Hello, everyone,” you hear him say and god, his voice is just like you remembered it. Deep and dark, but light in a way too, the sound singing in the marrow of your bones, that masochistic part of yourself that doesn’t mind being invisible.
Honestly though, they say psychiatrists become psychiatrists because they’re broken inside and trying to fix themselves and yeah that fits you. You so badly want to fix yourself and you had thought you had plastered up all your cracks, but the sound of his voice is enough to have them breaking all over again.
“Last speech I gave, I messed up. I forgot someone who meant everything to me and it was the last straw for her and she…well, she left. And I can’t blame her. I did at first when I woke up alone, but in her absence, I realized that I messed up because she felt like she was never enough for me because I forgot to tell her something.
“I forgot to tell her that she is ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. I lost her because I forgot to tell her that, I forgot to tell her that I saw her, every inch of her, that I still do. That I still wait for her and always will because no one has fit me like her,” you lift your gaze from where you’ve had it trained on the tablecloth to meet his eyes, those sun dappled branches in brisk autumn light. It’s steady and warm and clear and you know. Oh, you know, he’s telling the truth.
“I forgot and I will regret it every day of my life but this award is only because of her. So, every thank you I have goes to her and only her. Always and forever. Thank you.” He steps back, confused applause sounding as he steps back, eyes never once leaving you.
And as you leave that night, walking with Parker, away from the man who left your heart in tatters but who is also repairing those same cracks, you feel more confused than ever.
“Jack Abbot!” you hiss, marching across the ED floor towards where he stands at the nurse’s station, his cocky grin set on his face as he watches you march towards him, heeled boots clicking on the tiled floor. You love psychiatry because you don’t have to wear scrubs, rather whatever you want, shoes always announcing your presence.
“What’s up, sweet girl?” he asks and you grab his arm when you reach him, electricity sparking across your skin at the contact. You pull him off to the side, into a small nook, jabbing a finger into his chest.
“I hate you,” you tell him, but your words lack the conviction, rather sound like a wish. His words of ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough having rung through your head all night.
“No,” he whispers, stepping closer, the cocky smirk fading away to a pensive, mournful expression as he reaches one hand beneath his scrubs, fingers hooking on a chain, “you don’t.” He pulls the chain from underneath his scrubs, revealing the ring you left behind, the simple, classic one with the diamond set in the solid gold band.
“You’ve been wearing that all year?” you ask him, your voice squeaking a little as he lets the ring hang there, his hands finding yours, fingers interlacing.
“Yeah,” he says, “because I’ve been waiting.”
“For me?” you clarify and he nods, a soft smile breaking across his face as he steps closer to you, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Always for you,” he whispers, “because you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough. Now, can we try again?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking into those eyes that you love, eyes that look at you like they see you. “I think so.”
“…I vow,” he says, “to always remind you that you are ever enough, more than enough, perfectly enough and better than enough every day. I vow to never make you feel unseen. I vow to listen when you speak because you’re everything. Because you understand me. I vow to you the rest of my life.” You can’t fight the tears that slip down your cheeks as you smile, laughing just slightly, a watery laugh that makes him smile at you, tear tracks on his own face from when he watched you walk down the aisle in your dress.
“Then,” Robby says, his voice thick and happy, “if there are no objections, I now pronounce you woman and husband.” You can’t help but laugh at Robby’s word choice, stolen from Enola Holmes 3, the movie you made him and Jack watch when it came out. “You may now kiss the husband.”
And you do, stepping forwards and placing your hands on his stubble covered cheeks, drawing him down into a kiss.
And this kiss doesn’t taste like fire or ash or burning. It tastes like love and light and second chances. The kind that work.
“God, I love you, sweet girl,” he whispers when you pull back and you smile at him, a happy one.
“Ditto, Jack.” And in this moment, with the way he’s looking at you, you know that he’s been speaking true.
Main Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist - Expanded Edition (oc) - Expanded Edition (reader)
Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, mental health issues, mentions of rape/non-con, and sexual content.
Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff.
Series Summary
Three years ago you were normal, the only demons you had to fight were your own, and you the most you knew of Vought and the Boys were what you saw on TV. But then you met Homelander at a stupid party, and woke up the next morning in a cell.
After almost two and a half years of you being Homelander's little project, Soldier Boy was woken up only go rouge and be put back under. Somewhere in there, you escaped. And before Queen Maeve went underground, she told William Butcher about the Anomaly, a powerful supe who recently escaped Vought captivity and may have an agenda against Homelander.
One month later, the Boys found you.
You spend the next five months helping them best you can, though your control over your powers is weak and your fear of Homelander makes you useless in combat. But you get an idea. A stupid, dangerous idea that turns you into Soldier Boy's keeper, giving him a second chance to take down Homelander, you hanging over his shoulder, a threat should he want to go nuclear again. It's exhausting and frustrating, and you might kill him and yourself as soon as this is over, but you said whatever it takes.
And this is what it takes.
Author's Note
This story is non-canon compliant, with the two main differences being;
1) Butcher doesn't have brain cancer, because I said so.
2) All of Gen V didn't take place, because I don't want to deal with the whole supe-plauge thing. Also that's too many characters to keep track of squad.
Because of this, the story will start in a similar setting as s4e5, but with different events leading up to it, and will deal with similar themes and have similar events to the rest of s4, but at an inconsistent rate. If you have any questions about other, smaller changes I have made, feel free to ask!
Navigation Key
❤️🔥 = Smut
🚩 = Additional Warnings
Chapter List
"Season 1"
Chapter 1 - Where Winning Looks Like Losing
Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension
Chapter 3 - You've Torn Your Dress 🚩
Chapter 4 - You Might Be The Same As Me
Chapter 5 - Popped, Cool, and Ready to Go
Chapter 6 - I've Been Searching for a Fortified Defense
Chapter 7 - The Blinding Ultra-Violence 🚩
Chapter 8 - I Just Find My Way Back ❤️🔥🚩
Chapter 9 - Can't Cover It Up ❤️🔥
Chapter 10 - Lead Me To The Ark ❤️🔥
Chapter 11 - The Wolves or The Ocean Rocks
Chapter 12 - While My Blood's Still Flowing
Chapter 13 - The Terror of Knowing
Chapter 14 - Choke on Sun
Chapter 15 - I Found A Martyr ❤️🔥
Chapter 16 - Let It Flood ❤️🔥 🚩
"Season 2"
Chapter 17 - Make My Chest Stir
Chapter 18 - Something In The Static ❤️🔥
Chapter 19 - Don't Look Back 🚩
Chapter 20 - Forget to Fall Down
Chapter 21 - Some Things You Just Can't Speak About ❤️🔥 🚩
Chapter 22 - I Stayed In The Darkness With You
Chapter 23 - Wherever You're Going ❤️🔥
Chapter 24 - You'll Never Be Alone ❤️🔥
Chapter 25 - All I Know ❤️🔥
Chapter 26 - I’ve Loved Everything About You That Hurts ❤️🔥
Chapter 27 - Just A Shot Away 🚩
Chapter 28 - Something That I'm Supposed to Be ❤️🔥
Chapter 29 - All My Bets On You
Chapter 30 - Every Demon Wants His Pound of Flesh 🚩
Chapter 31 - I'd Do It All Again ❤️🔥
More Than You Could Ever Know - A No Love Lost Christmas Special
Part 1 - The Boys start Secret Santa, Ben pretends to do his job. ❤️🔥
Part 2 - Ben and Ryan go shopping, and you all try to find a tree.
Part 3 - You and Ben have a Christmas Eve date. Many gifts are opened.
Bonus Footage (Standalone Chapters)
Dying’s Up to Me - A Prologue. Takes place 6ish months before Chapter 1. 🚩
They're Never Gonna Find You A Home - Request! Everyone adjusts to your life with the Boys. Takes place 5ish months before Chapter 1. 🚩
Back to Here - Request! They get horny at the dining table, and Butcher takes it personally. Takes place in Chapter 14.
It's So Simple - You make Ben do icebreakers. He's a little bitch about it. Takes place in Chapter 14.
Just Your Time - You give Ben internet lessons. Takes place in Chapter 14.
As Much As I Do - Request! Ben finds you dancing, is immediately very normal about it. Takes place after Chapter 14 and around Chapter 15.
Calling Your Name - Ben's first birthday awake isn't great. Takes place in Chapter 19. ❤️🔥
I Skip My Pride - You share some music with Ben over text. Takes place in Chapter 22.
The Only Place That I Call Home - It's team game night, and everyone is sick of you and Ben's shit. Takes place in Chapter 24. ❤️🔥
Can't Help Myself - Request! Ben has a breeding kink, and you're incredibly horny, so it works. Takes place in around Chapter 24 and Chapter 25. ❤️🔥
Anywhere Else Is Hollow - A halloween special episode! Takes place in Chapter 25.
It Was Smiling Down - A Ryan pov Chapter. Takes place between Chapter 26 and Chapter 27.
A Call To Motion - Request! There's a lot of things you're good at. Sex with Ben is one of them. Takes places in Chapter 28.❤️🔥
I Want You Only - You and Ben go shopping. Takes place in Chapter 28 ❤️🔥
I’ll Hold Your Hand - Request! You get your period, and Ben has to do his job and take care of that. Takes place post series.
Found Footage (Post-Series Chapters)
Just Too Important - You and Ben head to Costco. Takes place about two months post-series.
Dreams of Love - Request! You and Ben have to babysit. Takes place ten months post-series.
Setting In A Honeymoon - You and Ben finally get a honeymoon. Takes place about a year post-series.❤️🔥
The Best Thing - Request! You, Ben, and Ryan get a cat.
You Can Feel It - Ben has a birthday. Takes place on May 19th, post-series.❤️🔥
Never Saw the Sun - You and Ben have a baby!❤️🔥
Wilder and Lighter - Your daughter learns a new word, and you go to a baseball game.
All I Need - Request! You're pregnant, and Ben has some misconceptions about said pregnancy❤️🔥
The Shave - Request! Ben Shaves his beard.
Everlasting - Request! You and Ben's daughter has a birthday party
Clip Show (Drabbles and Headcanons)
Coming On - Request! Someone very foolish flirts with you in front of Ben. Takes place a while post-series.
Compare and Contrast - Request! Ben gets introduced to modern vibrators. You pay the price.❤️🔥
Stuff By You Guys!!! (Art, Memes, and Anything more)
Early Chapters Moodboard by @deans-yn
Ben and Sunshine Inspired Art by @castielsfootBen and Baby Rhia Art by @youdontknoweBen and Sunshine Poster Art by @youdontknoweBen Camera Roll by @thebitchandjerkwinchestersSunshine's Camera Roll by @thebitchandjerkwinchestersBen in a Maid Dress by @youdontknoweBenshine Memes by @thebitchandjerkwinchestersPlaylist by @deansbbyx
Benshine piccrew, and another by @thebitchandjerkwinchestersSunshine piccrew by @thebitchandjerkwinchestersFamily Portrait by @youdontknoweSunshine Edit by @thebitchandjerkwinchesters
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter One: Mulled Wine (4.4k)
Chapter Summary: You've known that harsh, frustrating Dr. Park is your fated mate for months, a fact you've been able to keep to yourself thanks to your suppressants. Then he shows you a rare moment of human kindness. And catches your scent. And things feel very, very different.
Chapter Two: Standing Offer (7.3k) ❀
Chapter Summary: While your friends meddle and your nesting urges start, Park keeps finding himself drawn to you as you start to smell better and better.
Chapter Three: For Good Luck ❀ ☆
Chapter Summary: Your attention and affection rapidly soften Brendon into an alpha you think you could be with for real.
Chapter Four: Gonna Make Our Own Lightning (2.6k) ❀ ☆
Chapter Summary: How Brendon Park realizes you're his with a first kiss that triggers his rut.
Chapter Five: Safe (2.1k)
Chapter Summary: An emergency code in the hospital finally pushes you and Brendon into each other's arms for good.
Chapter Six: Made for Me (7.6k) ♡ ☆Chapter Summary: Once Brendon has you safe and comfortable at home, your shared heat and rut take over. You finally learn the perfection that comes with accepting your fated mate.
Statistically Speaking (Ongoing)
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter One: Trinity Santos (7.2k) ♡ ❀
Chapter Summary: You and Brendon celebrate your upcoming first shift at PTMC with a huge family bash and a hot night together.
Chapter Two: Frank Langdon, Samira Mohan, & James Ogilvie (5.2k)
Chapter Summary: During your first week at PTMC, a few particularly foolish staff members decide to test you by throwing you to the Shark, not realizing the huge mistake they're making.
Chapter Three: Dana Evans (3.5k)
Chapter Summary: Dana's the one to catch you in the bathroom when you come down with a stomach bug.
One Shots
Hooked (14.2k) ❀ ♡ ☆
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Take Care & Listen (4.9k) ♡ ⚠︎
Summary: When you go back home to your stepdad, he guides you through taking better care of yourself.
A Chance in Hell (6.2k) ❀
Summary: You're the person who has to deal with the consequences of Brendon Park's actions, which means you're the only one willing to bite his head off. You want to strangle him; he wants to kiss your feet.
Blurbs & Ficlets
park punches robby for you (1.2k)
getting back together/body worship (1.6k)
betting pool/love confession (1.7k)
omegaverse code silver (omegas shelter in place) (1.7k) ⚠︎
Series Summary: Despite the blood in your veins painting a glaring-red target on your back, John Winchester once left you alive and kept you hidden for a reason. But when his two grown sons drag their muddy boots onto your crime scene one day, the first meeting is anything but cute.
You have a regular job and a carefully constructed, somewhat normal life built on just enough lies to keep the supernatural at bay, cleaning up messes no one else wants to see. And you definitely never advertise the fact that your magic comes from a bloodline ancient enough to make demons jitter.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. He sees a witch and reaches for a weapon – no questions asked. You lie to survive. Dean judges to cope. The rules of this world dictate the two of you are supposed to hate each other for eternity, but somewhere along the road, something glitches in the cosmic machinery of fate.
That glitch is you.
Warnings: 18+ language, canon-level violence, canon-divergence, set after 2x02, enemies to friends to lovers, super slow burn, eventual smut, mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, mystery, reader is also a CSI, tons of witchy vibes (tarot, auras, herbalism, spells...)
Word Count: 134k and counting...
A/N: My first full canon-divergent, non-AU series that’s been ten years in the making 🤓 It’s my little attempt to fix canon (aka making Dean happy). The goal is to eventually cover all 15 seasons in various shapes and forms, but each season is kind of its own "book." I’ll also try to keep it as OG as possible, only brushing past canon as far as it allows and focusing more on bonus content than episodic rewrites. Ready for an epic adventure with the Winchesters? 😉💜
It has been literal years but every time I see Martin’s tweets posted somewhere and his word is shared as truth while her post is not shared it sort of reiterates the fact that we trust men to speak about feminism more than we believe women who experience it.
Reading her account of how their boss treated her blows me away. Men are so emboldened that they will literally admit to illegal discrimination casually and face no consequences.
Adding screenshots of her post. His whole post is there without needing a link. Hers should be, too.
Also, she posted this is 2017! It’s fucking 2020 and I’ve seen his side of this for years, but it took 3 years for her side to make its way to my dash…
i support universal free healthcare for one simple reason: if you are diagnosed with a terminal illness you should quit your job. quitting your job is the correct response to terminal illness. but you can’t do that if your healthcare is tied to your job
listen if somebody knows that they will be dead in a years time, and you are forcing them to continue to come into work, that’s fucked up. terminally ill people should be able to quit their jobs and live their last few months to the fullest. i don’t get how that’s a controversial opinion
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
ellievsbear
prguitarman
