[pinkandblueblurbs]

overcompensating

alpha!jack abbot x omega!fem!reader. a/b/o au and dynamics, references to omega discrimination, scenting, instincts, penetrative sex, fingering, sex at work, power imbalance, brat taming, praise, possessiveness, unprotected sex.

word count: 2.4k

a/n: I dont feel great about this one tbh... i dont think i captured the dynamic quite as well as i'd hoped to. but hopefully ya'll enjoy :')

Jack’s really not sure what your problem is.

You’re stubborn, headstrong, overly ambitious, and oftentimes just shy of rude. All of which are things Jack has come to expect from omegas after years of working with them in such a high-stakes environment— most take on an overly-harsh exterior to counteract the stigma they face. It’s a survival mechanism, a necessary precaution in order to be taken seriously and have any chance of success in a profession that’s dominated by alphas and deals with countless assholes day in and day out.

Jack doesn’t begrudge them. He knows that working in the Pitt— or in emergency medicine, or in any medical setting, for that matter— isn’t easy for omegas. He tries to keep that in mind and act accordingly. He works hard to foster a good work environment for everyone on his crew.

He likes to think he does a halfway decent job. And, seemingly, most of the omegas that have passed through his supervision over the years would agree. Once they see how he runs things they usually start to let their guards down a bit. They stop entering every situation with their teeth bared and hackles raised. They speak their minds with confidence rather than nervous aggression. They accept his teaching without assuming he’s trying to undermine them.

They even start to give in to their instincts a bit, without fear that he’ll think of them as weak or take advantage of their vulnerability. They allow themselves to preen under his praise, submit under his command, and settle under his comfort.

Not you. You’ve been here for 3 months now and he can still feel your eyes tracking him through every room like you’re waiting for him to pounce. You still respond to everything he asks through clenched teeth, like you’re bracing for backlash that never comes. You still roll your eyes at every one of his jokes and question every one of his orders.

Tonight is no different. If Jack took a shot every time you rolled your eyes, scowled, or talked back to him, his name would be up on the patient board.

He should find it infuriating. Part of him— the most basic, primitive part— does. You give him the urge to snap his teeth and growl, make you show him some respect.

The rest of Jack finds you… interesting. Exciting. Jack loves a challenge, and you pose a very fun one. He’s determined to figure you out.

Jack tracks you down after shift change. He finds you in the empty room of the last patient you discharged. You’re hunched over your rolling computer cart, finishing up some charting.

When he walks in you look startled, then cornered, then extremely irritated.

“You know, I came in here for some peace and quiet.”

“Do you have some kind of problem with me?” Jack asks, choosing to ignore your snide greeting. You eye him for a moment, like you’re deciding whether you want to tell the truth or not. He raises a brow and waits.

“You clearly don’t trust me with the patients.” You eventually say, stony. Not true. “You’re always— hovering. Like you’re waiting for me to slip up. But I’m not gonna slip up”

Anxiety and vulnerability roll off you in waves, souring your scent. When Jack smells it he desperately aches to soften. To gather you in his arms and rumble out assurances. I know you won’t, little omega. You do such a good job. You’re so good. It takes everything in him to stifle the urge.

“I’m your attending,” he says calmly, careful to keep his voice even. “It’s kinda my job to keep an eye on you. Y’know, to attend.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re not my attending.” You grind out the words, and maybe Jack’s reading into it, but you sound… bitter? Jealous? “You and Shen are the attendings. Supervising me isn’t your personal little pet project.”

“You want it to be?”

You look taken aback. Just for a second. Jack can’t help but revel in it– you’re not easy to shake.

“I just want you to fuck off and stop breathing down my neck so I can actually do my job!”

Jack doesn’t respond for a moment. He barely manages to stifle his surprise at the fact that an omega just, essentially, cursed him out and spat in his face. He stares down his nose at you, intentionally allowing the silence to feel thick. Studying you.

He sees you catch on. You straighten up, even puff out your chest a bit, trying to look strong and sure and unbothered.

It’s a good attempt, he’ll give you that. You’d have plenty of alphas fooled.

But Jack catches the way your head tilts back for just an instant like you’re about to bare your throat. Sees the flash of doubt in your eyes, like your instincts are begging you to just give this up already, roll over, and show him your belly. Oh. That’s new. He feels his cock swell.

“Yeah? You want me to fuck off?” He lets his voice drop an octave. You make a choked, barely-there sound that he’d like to call a whimper. Your scent shifts sweeter.

Jack steps towards you, big and slow and imposing, and is surprised again when you don’t back up. Ballsy little thing.

“You know what I think?” His voice is smooth, low, almost a purr. Dripping with alpha condescension.

Jack sees your throat bob as you swallow. You just glare up at him without a word, and he knows it's because you don’t trust your voice not to waver. He smirks.

“I’ll tell you, sweetheart.” He watches you shiver. He’s so close now that he’s almost touching you. “I think you know that I’m good at what I do. I think you respect me. Maybe even like me a little. And all this attitude you give me…” he raises a brow and leans down, letting his breath fan over your face, “Is you trying to overcompensate for the fact that what you really want is to be bent over and put in your place.”

It’s bold, Jack realizes. Might be too much. Could make you turn tail, but he doubts it. You’re braver than that.

He watches you stiffen. There’s a flash of blatant hunger in your eyes— bingo— but it’s quickly snuffed out by stubborn defiance.

“I’m not just some needy ommie who’ll give it up to any alpha with a pulse.” Your voice only wavers a little.

“Oh, I know.” Jack nods. He feels, looks, and smells painfully smug. His voice is like velvet. “But you’ll give it up to me, won’t you?”

That breaks you. You practically collapse in on yourself, all small, and breathe out an involuntary “alpha.”

“There it is.” Jack coos. The praise makes you preen, and you extend your neck, baring your throat for Jack to brush his lips against. You smell fucking delicious. “Sweet little omega. You don’t have to fight it.”

“You’re such a douchebag.” You bite out. Sure, it’s weak and shaky, but it impresses Jack regardless. He has his nose pressed against your gland and you’re still talking back.

“Ooh, you don’t quit.” He rumbles. He pulls back slightly, his big hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His eyes rake shamelessly down your body, not even trying to hide his desire. He’s sure you can smell it on him anyway. “What’s it gonna take, baby? Do you need my cock inside you to finally start behaving yourself?”

“You tell me, Abbot.” You sneer. “What’s it gonna take, in your professional opinion?”

Jack smiles, challenging and predatory in a way that would make most omegas wither. But not you. Your lip curls up, showing off cute little canines. He can’t help but groan and grind down against your abdomen.

“Fuck, baby.” Jack growls. “So cute when you act all tough.” He grips around your hip with a big hand and backs you up against the hospital bed while the other works hastily at the waistband of your scrubs. Once he has them loosened, he shoves his hand right down the front of your panties.

The second he gets his fingers inside you, you melt. Slick practically pours onto his hand. The strong, heady scent of it is overwhelming. It makes his nostrils flare.

If the way you’re squirming around on the bed and whining incoherently tells him anything, it’s that he’s not gonna need to get his cock involved to make you behave. The realization hits him like a truck, right through to his ego.

“There you go, little omega. You like that?” He taunts.

You nod, finally eager and obedient. It’s like a victory after all the fight you’ve given him. Jack didn’t know that submission from an omega could feel quite this good. It usually comes too easy.

“Yeah. Good girl. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

“D-Dr. Abbot— alpha— please.”

You sound fucking broken and Jack can’t stand it. His instincts whir— make her happy, make her feel good, fill her up.

“I’ve got you.” He repeats in the low, steady voice he reserves for omegas in distress. He pulls his fingers out of you, and it’s only so he can free his cock from his scrubs, but you whine anyway.

“Fuck— hurry up.”

“Shh. Easy.” Jack murmurs. His free hand reaches up, intending to stroke soothingly across your cheek— but he has to yank it away when you turn your head and nip at his fingers like a kitten. Fucking brat.

“Settle down.” He growls. The tone squeezes you tight, wrings out any fight you have left. You’re left lax on the bed below him– boneless, pliant, willing. Good, his alpha purrs. “That’s better. Just take what I give you.”

Jack slides his hard cock through your slit once, coating it in your slick, before he pushes into you.

You feel like heaven— the hottest, wettest, tightest fucking pussy he’s ever had. And the sound you make when he stretches you. That high pitched, keening moan of pleasure. Jack wants to bottle that sound.

“Good omega.” He purrs, leaning down to press hot kisses along the column of your neck. He’s possessed by the need to ensure you smell like him for days.

You arch into it, exposing your throat further, pushing your hips down on his cock.

“You feel so fucking good. You were made for this.”

You whine at that, and Jack can see your mind wrestling with the sentiment despite the way it makes your pussy gush and your instincts sing.

Jack hushes you. “It’s okay.” He holds you still by your hip and litters more wet, soothing kisses across your jaw. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it, sweet girl. Let yourself enjoy this.”

“Abbot—“ when you say it, Jack can’t stifle his choked laugh— “feels so good.”

“Call me Jack, baby, my fuckin’ dick’s inside you.” He shakes his head before he briefly connects his lips with yours. “Jesus. I woulda done this ages ago if I knew you wanted it this bad.”

His cock sponges over your g-spot and his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust. He can feel you getting close— your pussy’s clenching, you’re whimpering louder, slick is dripping down your thighs and onto the bed below. Your hands grapple desperately at his freckled sides, arms, and shoulders, nails leaving indented crescents in their wake.

“Come on, sweet omega.” Jack purrs in your ear. His hand finds your breast so he can thumb circles on your nipple as further encouragement. He fucks into you relentlessly. “I want you to cum for me. Milk my cock.”

“Jack— Alpha— fuck.” You sound broken as your orgasm washes over you. You shake below him on the table— lips parted, brows furrowed, eyes locked on his. Jack growls.

“There you go, that’s it. You’re so good.” He means it more than he’s ever meant anything. You’re so fucking good. You look good, you smell good, you feel good, you sound good. Jack’s not gonna last much longer. “You’re such a good omega.”

“Yours,” You keen— and fuck, you’re still cumming. “Your omega.”

“Mine.” Jack nods. His hips falter. “My good girl. Doing so well for your alpha.”

Jack lets his teeth ghost over your mating bond, grazing the tender, unbroken skin there.

The whimpery sound you let out sends him over the edge. His hips snap forward one more time and he spills inside you with a long, low groan. It takes everything in him to hold back and not bite you right then.

“Babygirl,” Jack grits out once he can speak, breathless. Your walls are still fluttering around his softening cock. “You’re fucking incredible.”

You don’t say anything. He lifts his head from the crook of your neck. “Hey. Look at me. You okay?”

“Jack…” you murmur. You’re looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars, and he feels like he could start glowing. Still, your scent sours with uncertainty. “Jesus, this is— we shouldn’t have—“

“Why not?”

“This is completely unprofessional—“

Jack scoffs. “Yeah, doll, we’re well past that.”

“This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid!” Your voice is raised. “And you make it very difficult!”

You’re clearly dismayed, and Jack shouldn’t grin, but he does.

“Do I?” Jack leans down to nose against the gland on your neck again. He smells only himself there, mingling with your scent, and goddamn he could get hard again. His tongue darts out to soothe over the area, and you melt. “Do I make it hard for you to conduct yourself?” He lets a mocking lilt bleed into his tone. “Is that why you insist on being such a pain in my ass all the time?”

“Don’t be mean.” You grumble. You're trying, and failing, to maintain your contempt. The words come out far too pleading.

“Attagirl. Now you’re getting it.” Jack coos. He leans down and gives you a kiss. “If you want me to be sweet on you then all you have to do is ask.”

You scowl at him. You still smell anxious, and that won't do at all.

Jack's expression softens. He deepens his scent to match, radiating protective reassurance. "Everything's gonna be okay, doll. I'll make sure of it."

[skyrimhusbandmaterial]

[depsidase]

[ahoeforfandomsblog]

can’t a girl just want to be in a throuple with two old men

[vyvilha]

need some female director to lock in and make a movie where a grotesquely ugly and disgusting and monstrous woman slasher killer butchers handsome men in humiliating and sexualized ways. and it CAN'T be because they are rapists or abusers or otherwise misogynistic okay, she has to do it because she's a fucked up pervert

[finefeatheredfabler]

I believe in the separation of church (fandom) and state (media creators)

[whineosaur]

There is no greater bond on this earth than when you all despise and carry untold righteous anger about one person and then when you’re all together someone is like “so about that dead horse” and everyone starts sounding like Michael Jackson with the way they’re chanting beat it

[sunnytastic]

occasionally f1twt throws out a banger

[lukasadss]

'hey so what's the plot of Count of Monte Cristo?'

The plot:

[t00thpasteface]

boxers and a house robe. the thinking man's pajamas. the boxers say "i have worryingly low standards for what pizza i will eat" but the robe says "i have read at least one book"

[miiilowo]

sorry for bitching and whining. unfortunately i have to or else ill start killing and eating people instead

[amijulesenough]

who else up missing jack abbott like a motherfucker rn

[cowboyslikedean]

i love saying ‘im obsessed with him’. do i wanna fuck him? be him? study him like a bug? ur guess is as good as mine :)

[shakingdown]

miami gp 2026 final lap

[i-am-a-fish]

lock the fuck in?? no way dude. I am TUCKED the fuck in :) good night

[starxs-s]

[cherrywineisawaltz]

MINORS DNI

notes: reposted cause the images wouldn’t work otherwise

warnings: p in v sex, gun play, no actual threat of violence, dirty talk

Pope never chastised you for your curiosities. Lingering inquiries about his family, conversations and tales that made him feel disgusted with himself, past actions he had spent years attempting to bury in the wallowing pit at the center of his doomed soul. You were right in your intrigue, so doting on even the ugly bits of Pope, it was natural. You had never been callous, knowing the part he plays in his family is not quite himself, accustomed to the isolation, the following sense of emptiness and unreality after playing into his family's hand. You were so inviting, so loving, an excitable person who cared little for his monstrous deeds, he could do nothing but indulge your curiosities. It had been hard at times, succumbing to the memories, the fear of finally breaking the camel's back, scaring you away—but it never occurred. Not even when you found a gun in his bedside table.

Pope never liked his family pool parties. The beaming sun or the lingering scent of sunscreen and cheap beer his brothers bought in bulk. Least of all the noise. He kept to his usual seat on the deck, in the past having been completely turned away from the festivities and giggly chicken fights between people he’d never met toward his fountain, watching and listening to the trickle of the water in the shallow pool. Not wanting to hear how he wasn’t attempting to involve himself in his brother's shenanigans. Now he sat in that same reclined seat, but his sights remained set solely on you.

Yellow-white sunlight baptized the poolside in a spherical halo, blue purplish shadows bleeding together on the edges, melting into each other over the wading water. A smooth curtain of hair concealed your face as you laughed with an acquaintance, manicured hands glinted in the precarious light, gaze sweeping across the water. The ties of your tiny bikini press divets into your soft skin, thighs squeezed together on the pool edge, hands pressed behind you, a sheen of sunscreen on your damp skin.

You had gotten up first. Excusing yourself to Popes bedroom to grab something, he had only been a minute behind. You were looking for a necklace, one Pope had bought you, having refused to confess the price tag on it. You were giddy enough to show it off to your friends, the thin chain having been removed the night before when you had been in bed with Pope, horrified when you couldn’t find it in your own drawer, you had checked his.

The small black pistol rested in your palm when Pope had come in and he lingered on the sight for a moment. The small gun resting on your pretty fingers, secure in your unsure grip, looking over the shiny metal with that same intrigue reserved for Pope, glistening chest rising up and down in quick excitable breaths, “It’s empty.”

You jumped suddenly at the sound of Pope's voice, turning quickly to face him, a conspiratorial grin on his lips as he stood at the door, “In case you were wondering.”

“I’ve never seen this one,” you replied meekly, a bit more comfortable holding the weapon now that you knew it wasn’t loaded. Though the idea that it could have excited you.

“It’s new. It was actually a gift.”

“From who?”

“Not a gift to me,” he crossed the room, hand curling around your wrist holding the gun. “For you.”

“Really?” Your lips curled at the corner of your lips, looking down at the sleek black gun curled in your fingers, “it’s so small.”

“Would you like it more if it was pink?” a breathless chuckle left your lips, Pope's fingers trailing from the inside of your wrist to the ridges of the metal, “It’s a good model. Easy to carry around. Just so I know you’re safe.”

You hummed, eyes peering up at Pope, a small grin on your lips, “And there’s really nothing in it?”

You watch with piqued interest as Pope takes your hand in his, still holding the gun in your palm, making you press the barrel of the gun to the taut muscle of his abdomen. The weapon catches on the fabric of his shirt as he drags your hand up, small clicks filling the stalled silence as the ridges of the gun drag along the pearly buttons. Your skin burns hot watching the stark black trail higher and higher, over the collar of his neatly folded linen shirt, under the hard junction of his jaw, sharp muscle angled to press the mouth of the gun under his chin. If it had been loaded, the position could kill him instantly if that had been a desire. But no, your desire was entirely different. His deep shadowed eyes meet your heated gaze, fingers falling off your hand, letting you hold it up all on your own, “Yeah?” he breathes, breath fanning across your lips, “How’s that feel, baby?”

Lips parted, you exhaled an elated breath, excitement thrumming along your pulse. The callous length of his fingers trail up the curve of your hip, the soft shallow dip of your waist, tugging you in. You startle, bracing your hand against his shoulder, gun still tucked under his jaw, as he pulls you down to sit atop his lap on the bed, plush thighs bracketing either side of his waist. The morning chatter of the party outside lulls at the back of your mind, Pope's intense gaze peering up at you, “Put your finger on the trigger. Feel it, baby,” he murmurs, watching the way your eyes flicker from his face to the gun pressed against the arch of his throat. Your pointer finger coyly traces the soft curve of the trigger, pressing the mouth of the weapon harder into Pope's blushing skin, “Like that?”

“Yeah,” he groans, fingers tugging the looped ties of your bikini bottoms, pulling them loose, “Just like that. Just fuckin’ like that.” A smile stretches across your lips, sinking down to slot your lips with Popes, eager gasps spilling between your open mouths.

Your grip wanes on the gun as Pope shoves his cock into you, the harsh grip of his hands moving you back and forth on top of his hips. Your swim bottoms thrown somewhere across the room, cock rearranging your guts at the deep angle of his hips thrusting up to hammer into yours, the sound of skin slapping masked by needy moans. The mix of your juices flood the base of his cock, coating the curly patch of pubes in a sticky mess, a ring of cum circling the thickness of Pope's length. His fingers press divots into your soft skin, the barrel of the gun pressing indentations into his own blushing skin, disshevlee covers ruined under your heinous fucking. The power of the weapon in your palm doesn’t go unforgotten, but the suspended threat flees your mind as the beading tip of Pope's cock notches deeper and deeper into your needy cunt.

He watches your pretty eyes roll back as he picks you up and slams you back down against his hips, fingers divvying into your waist to grind you down against his deep seated length. You whine sharply as he threatens to punch against your cervix, thighs burning at the rise and fall of every sheath, helpless sounds garbled in your throat, “Hiding some sick fantasy’s from me, huh, sweet girl?” he groans, watching you sink down again to take all that he has to give you, a shrill cry leaving your lips, gun nimbly lulling to fall against his shoulder as you shudder. “Nu-uh, baby,” he drags your hand back to press the gun against his throat, pushing up on the underside of your chin to lightly tap your cheek, “Gotta take what you want. You wanna cum so bad? Make me give it to you.”