From the possible "Best Friend" series. Two best friends share a coffee and a cigarette one Sunday morning when you come across an interesting cosmopolitan article.
✨Blooper Reel, Baby✨- Joseph Quinn 🧸
From the possible "Best Friend" series. When a lone camera catches the shenanigans of two best friends on set.
✨Ikea Furniture✨- Joseph Quinn ‼️
From the "Booty Call Joe" series that will possibly happen. You show up for some rough and tumble.
✨Emergency Contact✨Joseph Quinn ‼️
From the "Booty Call Joe" series. Joe picks you up in a sports car and tells you something you never expected to hear.
✨Quietly Yours✨ Joseph Quinn ‼️🩸
You take your period and you can't quite get a handle on it. Joe tries to help the only way he know's how.
Ongoing Series
✨Under His Eye✨⚠️ handmaiden!commanderJoel : hiatus 🫥
summary: Robby had asked Jack Abbot to house-sit while he’s off on his three-month sabbatical. It just so happened that Robby also asked you, his sister. Out of all the things he’d managed to list, one would think Robby would have the decency to let you know that you weren’t the only one tasked to keep his house intact. But no, of course he didn’t because where’s the fun in that?
pairing: jack abbot x fem!doc / robinavitch!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI. explicit content, smut (80% filth, 20% plot), sexual and suggestive themes, unprotected p in v, m-receiving, inappropriate use of jack abbot's wedding ring, ass!jack abbot (a bit?), competency kink (more of an internal power struggle), reader is early 30’s, in case i miss anything: reader's discretion is advised. if this fic makes you uncomfortable at some point, i suggest to stop reading.
word count: 3.7k
note: honestly have zero idea what brought this on. enjoy!
Robby’s reminders were fairly simple: No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies—yours or anybody else's.
You remember rolling your eyes at your brother when he was listing things. You weren’t a smoker, you’ve never been to a party in what felt like forever, you have no pets and you’ve got zero plans of having children of your own; did he really think you’d want to care for one at all?
By now you’ve lost count of the times you’ve been to Robby’s place. It didn’t matter if it was for breakfast or a random weekend afternoon for a harmless grocery shopping in his pantry. You’ve come by so much he was beginning to be a huge dick about your frequent visits. Why are you here? This isn’t the reason why I gave you a duplicate. You can’t just take all my eggs and leave! Non-sense, really. What’s the point of having a big brother living in the same city as yourself if you cannot mooch off them?
You let a week pass by before you eventually caved and decided to do your sisterly-duty of making sure Robby’s house hasn’t burnt to the ground. Yet.
Conveniently enough, his house wasn’t that far from your apartment that you could easily deviate from your usual route on your morning runs to drop by and visit. You figured, house-sitting was an errand you can check-off your own list on your day-off. You didn’t really have the time to check on Robby’s home considering you were working overtime five times a week on top of your fifteen-hour shift at PTMC.
Huh.
To your surprise, you found Robby’s house immaculately clean—spotless. It was as if he hadn’t lived in it at all. There was practically no sign of Robby left other than the picture frames lined atop the family mantel and the ACDC poster hung by the living room wall. You didn’t think he’d leave his place this clean.
Clearly, you expected a lot worse from your poor brother. It wasn’t because he was that bad at housekeeping, but as you know from experience, he isn’t exactly above purposely leaving the entire place a wreck just to annoy you.
One time he’d left the entire sink filled with dirty dishes when he went away for a medical conference in Chicago. He even left you a note that said, “Oops. Too lazy. Hope you like it.”
At the immaculate state of Robby’s house, your surprise would surely be well-expected.
Without removing your airpods, you close the front door with your back as you toss the keys onto the accent bowl you’ve gifted him for his 51st birthday.
You eased your way into the kitchen, thinking you’d be proven wrong by how the living room looked. To your dismay, it was just as clean as the previous room. You can probably hear your shoes squeaking against the cold tile-floor.
Now that you thought of it, walking around Robby’s home in your running shoes would be a crime against whoever managed to get his house this clean. Too bad you weren’t Robby.
You make your way out of the first-floor bathroom, heading for the stairs.
Hopefully, your brother had only half-assed cleaning his home and left the entire second floor looking less staged and more lived in by someone like Michael Robinavitch himself.
“I’m that bitch, been that bitch, still that bitch,” you sing animatedly, mouthing the lyrics to Megan Thee Stallion’s Savage. Mel’s crash-out playlist has been coming in handy on your runs, you’ve got to make sure you compliment her about it.
Your footsteps are heavy against the floorboards as you round your way through the stairs to the second floor. Just when you’re about to walk towards the hallway leading to Robby’s bedroom, you see him: Jack Abbot.
Not just Jack Abbot.
Naked Jack Abbot.
Right in the center of your brother’s entertainment area; bare ass with muscles hard like stones rippling underneath his skin as he held onto a yoga pose so obscene it was rather enough to make you forget whose naked ass it was you happened to be staring at.
You gulped, absent-mindedly taking off your airpods.
You have always thought him to be muscular and fit. Logic dictates he would be; after all, he was a military man first before he was a doctor. But you hadn’t expected Jack Abbot to be so… jacked.
He met your eyes the second he caught sight of your figure through the mirror.
The two of you froze instantly, unsure of where to look other than your respective gaze.
Jack recovers faster than you, the look of shock on his face now replaced by the cold smug stillness he usually carried so effortlessly.
Screw his military instincts.
“Enjoying the view, Robinavitch?”
With that, you blinked, immediately turning your back against him so fast you could’ve easily gotten yourself a whiplash. Jack Abbot is buck naked. You find the need to remind yourself. Buck naked in your brother’s house with nothing else but a giant grin now plastered on his stupid face.
Up until this point in your lives, you hated his guts. He’s always been so insufferable. Arrogant. A huge prick and a know-it-all that fondly maintained a liking to making you feel incompetent and small.
You feel an unfamiliar warmth spread on your ears and your chest.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
“What the hell are you doing here?” You tried your best to sound miffed by his presence.
He’s on his feet now, one hand taking off his own earbuds whilst the other covers himself.
“House-sitting for Robby. Isn’t it obvious?”
You face him again as if to correct the previous notion, “I am house-sitting for Robby.”
“Really?” He arched a brow as he continued to watch you intently. “How come I didn’t see you last week?”
“Didn’t think a visit would be that urgent.” You answered him with a pointed look, fighting every fiber in your being from looking anywhere else but his eyes.
He doesn’t say a word but only smirks, reaching for the towel haphazardly draped on the leather couch. You willed yourself to look away but in the corner of your eyes you watched him as he turned to his side and wrapped the towel around his waist.
He’s waiting for you to break the ice.
Speak goddamnit.
“Are—are you decent now?”
“Only one way to find out.”
You rolled your eyes, knowing full-well that remark was accompanied by a smug look on his face.
Why does he have to be so full of himself?
You turned his way to see him still half-naked.
“You could’ve at least put on a shirt.” You snarked.
He merely shrugged, “Pretty sure you’d rather have me covered from the waist down, Robinavitch.”
“Please.” was the only remark you could utter.
Fucking hell.
You didn’t expect him to be this hot naked.
Half-naked.
You try diverting your gaze anywhere else but at him. Him and the sharp V-line starting from his waist and disappearing just below the cotton-fabric of his towel. Only when your eyes landed back to his eyes did you realize that just like you, Jack Abbot was staring.
Suddenly, you’re hyperaware of the fact that you weren’t in your hospital scrubs; the outfit he usually and more importantly regularly saw you in. You were in your favorite set of athleisure, chest exposed, skin still visibly sticky with sweat from your morning run.
“It’s rude to stare, Abbot.” you reprimand as you mirrored the same proud look he had.
“Could easily say the same thing, Robinavitch.” He answered, eyes trailing down onto your physique as though cataloging every part of your body he could hungrily gaze upon.
You scoffed a laugh because it was the only noise you could manage to muster.
Robby’s house is unexplainably hot all of a sudden. It didn’t make sense. There must’ve been faulty wiring in his cooling system.
Jack pulls you back to where you stood, chuckling with sarcasm. “Sure fire way to win an argument: Laughing.”
“This barely counts as an argument.”
The corner of his lips lifted infinitesimally just as he tauntingly asked, “Then what is this?”
Oh, you hate him. You hate his guts.
He’s enjoying this. Seeing you flustered and uneasy; catching you off guard just so he can say he had managed to shake the better Robinavitch under his palm.
It was barely eight in the morning and Jack Abbot had decided to play a dangerous game.
You’d kill Robby for being so despicable; for messing with you worse than a month-old load of dirty dishes. This… Jack Abbot and you with little to no clothing under one roof was simply diabolical. Even for Robby’s taste.
But killing your own brother would have to wait. For now, you’ll have to deal with his best friend.
You walked towards him, closing the huge gap that parted the two of you as you maintained your gaze upon him. His hazel eyes looked at you, visibly amused but nevertheless maintaining his cool and detached demeanor.
Your hand swiftly took the shirt placed on the armrest of a chair you assumed to belong to him. Jack had gone completely still.
“Depends on what you want it to be.” You softly suggest, eyes lingering on his for a beat longer just before it lands on his lips. “Why? Did you think I’d cave and run off after seeing you… exposed?”
You caught the way he was breathing and you swore you felt as though fire was being lit up on your abdomen. He was pissed. You know he’s aware of it.
“Not so talkative now, aren’t you, Jack?” You smirked, pushing his shirt against his rock-hard chest with a gentle shove. “You’re in my brother’s home. The least you can do is be decent.”
You were about to let go of his shirt when you felt his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist. Your eyes darted back at him.
He had regained himself.
“I distinctly remember there were no rules against nudity in your brother’s home.” He said, mimicking the tone of your voice. “No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies—yours or anybody else's. Remember?”
“That doesn’t mean I have to stomach seeing your wrinkled ass unprompted.”
Jack laughed at that.
“Wrinkled, you say?” He asked, voice sounding like a grunt just enough to make your knees tremble. “Then why do you look like you’re desperate to climb me, Robinavitch?”
Your breath hitched as you realized how close his face was from yours.
You might’ve just crossed a line with Jack Abbot.
You tried to break from his hold with just enough force in order to free yourself, but to no avail. He was simply and undeniably stronger.
“What? No snarky comeback off that smart-mouth of yours?” You hated the arrogance lacing his tone.
Incompetent and small.
That’s how you’ve always been to Jack Abbot.
Right now, the longer you fail to make another move, the more ammunition there is for him to use against you. Abbot can continue underestimating you and that’s the exact thing you can use to your advantage. There’s simply no way you will come out of this with a losing hand.
Stubbornly, you lifted your chin high as you met his gaze, hazel eyes trying to decipher what’s inside your mind.
“You know what I hate the most?”
You edged him on with a question he least expected. You know he isn’t going to do anything else other than talk you into embarrassing yourself more in front of him. He enjoyed that more than anything else. You know he liked making you feel uneasy and small and below him. Now, you’d called his bluff. There’s no turning back.
You catch his jaw clenched just as his grip on your wrist tightened.
“Men who talk too much.”
Without missing a beat you pull his weight towards you using his hand still wrapped around your wrist and kiss him.
Jack Abbot had remained stoned to the ground despite the fact you were kissing him. He was yet to recover from the shock of having Robby’s sister in his arms—with her tongue invading his mouth.
You feel his grip on your wrist loosen and it was enough for you to break free. With his shirt now on the ground, completely forgotten about, you take your hand and wrap it around his nape.
Come on, just a little more and you’d win against Jack Abbot.
With your teeth clashing, he manages to speak, “Is this really what you want?”
He felt your smirk in between kisses.
You wanted nothing else but win.
Instead you say, “I want you, Jack.”
You feel the last string of restraint leave his body and that’s when you knew winning was the only thing you’re destined to get out of this unlikely endeavor.
Jack pushed you towards the wall as if to cage you in his hold. One hand caressed your jaw while the other supported the small of your back. His kisses were hot and heavy and fueled with need you couldn’t quite understand how it came to being. It was as though he’d been starved for far too long and now, here you were, offering yourself to the enemy with all too willing hands reaching out for him.
You feel him push his body against you, fully aware of the fact that you can easily unwrap his towel loose to get a hold of his erection. He was hard. Just like how his muscles felt beneath your touch.
You slid your left leg around his midsection as you let out a moan. Jack’s hand left the small of your back and snaked its way onto your ass. You bit his lower lip and slid your tongue into his mouth as you continued to kiss him passionately.
“Take off your clothes.” He ordered, already working on pulling down your leggings just as you remove your sports bra. You didn’t even find yourself opposed to the idea. You just willingly gave in to whatever he wished.
“Fuck, Robinavitch.” He breathed, taking your lips into his, speaking in between kisses, “You have no idea how I longed to touch you like this.”
Jack’s kisses were doing more things to you than you’d initially expected. It was— it was more than ordinary. You always felt aghast by the idea of him touching you whenever Santos and Javadi would suggest it, but now it made sense. His touch was burning, his kisses fervent with more than just necessity. It almost felt as though Jack Abbot was fueled with nothing else but greed.
His right hand made its way to your breast, caressing it, twisting your nipples in between his thumb and pointing finger. You find yourself failing to contain your whimpers as your hand finds its way to his hair, pulling him as close as possible to your body. Jack offers himself quite willingly, taking one bud in his mouth—the heat of his tongue just enough to cloud your better judgment.
“Christ—” You curse, biting your lip as you arch your back, pushing your body further towards him.
Just when you think Abbot could never have you completely at his mercy, you feel a cold and foreign friction down your slit.
What is it? Was that his wedding ring?
“Already fucking wet for me.” He grinned, his ring finger gliding amidst the wetness of your clit. “Is this what you want?”
You fail to answer, settling with moaning his name, growing all the more impatient with his relentless teasing.
“Just say the word and I’ll stop.” He says, despite his lips trailing kisses down the crook of your neck and onto your clavicle.
A whimper tore itself off your throat when you felt him slide a finger inside you.
“Please. Don’t stop.”
“That’s it.” He said, the famed smug look finding him once again. “Beg for it.”
He finds the need to ask again, pushing yet another finger. “Do you want me to stop?”
You could only moan and squirm as an answer.
You catch him smile, pulling his fingers in and out of your pussy in an agonizingly slow manner.
“I need your words, Robinavitch.”
You hate him. You hate him so badly.
You curled your leg around him tighter just as you wrapped your other leg around his waist. He pulls his fingers out of you and catches you with practiced-ease as if your weight had meant nothing to him.
“Don’t stop.”
You wanted to win. You wanted this round against him.
That is what you wanted.
Isn’t it?
Jack pulls away momentarily, planting wet kisses on your cheek and on your jaw as though marking you in subtle ways he can claim his territory.
“Tell me where you want me to fuck you.” He breathes, kissing you once more just as he begins listing parts of Robby’s house he’d been fantasizing about fucking his bestfriend’s sister. “The couch, Robby’s bed, or this wall? I will fuck you whichever way you want.”
Win, Robinavitch.
You wanted to win.
“I want you on the couch.” You ordered as you caught your breath, sliding off of his grasp and nudging him towards your brother’s leather sofa.
Jack Abbot doesn’t even stumble. He simply let his body fall onto the leather surface and watch your naked body flaunted before him.
“Come here,” He stated, clearly thinking you’d sit on top of him.
With nary a word, as you kept your eyes pinned on his, you dropped on your knees to take him.
With a gentle tug, the towel is lost.
You see the faint hesitation in his eyes fade behind the glint that settled quickly at the forefront. Hunger and greed. Who knew Jack Abbot could be so possessive?
As your hand wrapped around his shaft, the reality of what you’re about to do befall you. He was… well-endowed, to say the least. So much so, you’re beginning to second guess your ability to take him.
Jack must’ve sensed your reluctance, causing him to gently hold your hand to pull it away from him.
“You don’t have to.”
Win. Win. Win.
You pulled your hand free and smirked, “Underestimating me, Abbot?”
Jack stilled and his hazel eyes darkened. He looked at you in a way enough to scare most people. Too bad you weren’t ‘most’ people.
Instantly, Jack’s breath caught in his throat the second your lips envelope around his head. He feels your tongue dance around him, teasing him just like he did with you a while back. You look at nothing else but him, refusing to look away as you ease down on his girth and length, making sure he gets to see how well you take him.
“Fuck—” He gasped, breathing your name, hand darting out to catch the side of your head; fingers weaving through your hair and forming into a grip. You feel the pressure of his hold, fueling your own greed to win. Win win win.
Slowly, you drew your head back as Jack guided you down the entirety of his length. With both your hands, you hold him in place, twisting and pulling him as your mouth nestled his head.
You watched Jack’s chest begin to heave just as his hips jerk ever so often.
With it, you let him go with a pop—sliding your tongue underneath his length, causing Jack’s thighs to shake.
“God—you’re so good, Robinavitch.” He praised through his groans. “So good, you take me so fucking well.”
You let the praises go straight from your left ear, out to the right and continue to please him. You tightened your grip on his shaft as you drew your head back once more—taking him closer to the edge.
He went completely rigid.
“Stop—”
You looked at him puzzled, “Why? Did I do something wrong?”
You see a faint smile creep into his lips just as his calloused thumb grazed over your cheek, falling onto the corner of your lips to wipe the saliva pooling off it.
“You’re nothing short of perfect.” He simply said, “I just don’t want to come yet.”
Oh.
Without a word, he leaned forward, taking you by your arms as though guiding your way to his lap.
“Sit.” He commanded whilst fisting himself.
His free hand held you by your waist as you positioned yourself on top of him, clearly not needing anymore of his instructions.
When he lets go of his shaft, he pulls you into yet another kiss, each time more fervent than the last.
“So wet for me.” He said in between kisses.
You feel him sliding along your slit as though to gather all your wetness, just before he pushes your hips onto him. Indistinguishable moans and groans echoed through the four corners of your brother’s home the second both yours and Jack’s hips met, grinding desperately to meet your own ecstasy.
Jack’s right hand was planted on the crook of your neck—his thumb pressing onto your pulse point whilst the other remained on your waist, guiding the way you grind against him.
Thirty minutes ago he wouldn’t have imagined himself being in this position; with you grinding on his lap just to prove a fucking point.
You continue moving against him swiftly; fucking him with purpose as you feel the coil tightening in your abdomen.
“Yes, that’s right.” Jack urged you further, letting out a groan. “Use me, Robbie.”
You whimper against his lips, refusing to breathe.
“That’s it, baby.” Jack grunted, feeling his own hip jerk. He takes his hand away from your neck—his thumb finding your clit instead. “Come for me.”
“Oh my god, Jack.” You begin to shake around his thumb, feeling yourself close.
The release, inevitable with the way his touches burned punishingly and so unforgivingly. Your thighs shake underneath his hold just as you relish in your own high—moaning no one else’s name but Jack Abbot’s.
With both of your chest still heaving from your respective orgasms, a wicked smile is discernible on your lips the second you meet Jack’s gaze.
You bucked your hips against him, still relishing the feeling of his entire length inside you, just as you declare, “I win.”
note: reblogs and comments are highly appreciated i would love a chat with yall ◡̈ ᥫ᭡
✶ pairing | jack abbot x f!reader
✶ word count | 5.2k
✶ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; fingering, biting, squirting, dry humping, mildly dubious consent, fwb, unrequited love but not really, idiots in love, hurt/comfort, mild angst with a happy ending, you attended college with jack who is older than you, unspecified age gap, pining, porn with plot, realization of feelings, pet names, jealous jack, possessive jack, praise kink, manhandling, simp jack abbot, miscommunication/misunderstandings
✶ summary | Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection.
✶ notes | un-betaed atm. i snuck in a reference to animal kingdom as well as some greek myths and a musical lmao 🤭 edit: OMFG i forgot to update the summary ffs. should be fixed now.
masterlist | ao3 | inbox | requests, taglist, submissions: open
The text comes through.
Blunt.
Biting.
No explanation offered or false platitudes found in the lifeless string of black letters. Simple and straight to the point - as expected from Jack Abbot himself. He wasn't known for his verbosity, and even less so for his love of texting.
Hell, it took years of pestering before he finally caved and switched from his dinosaur of a flip phone to something made within the last five years.
Whatever, it's fine.
Except as you chew on the fat of your cheek, re-reading it over and over again to glean some hidden meaning that isn't there, you admit to yourself (privately) there's no more avoiding the truth. It's been hovering over your shoulder for weeks like a shroud; an unwelcome guest no longer content to be ignored.
Jack's avoiding you. Has been for a while now, in fact.
Honestly, it was only a matter of time.
It shouldn't be surprising - shouldn't hurt. Maybe Robby's seven week itch finally rubbed off on him (though he never seemed capable of anything less than heart stopping loyalty).
But there's an ache that shouldn't be there roosted beneath your ribs, a rotten tangle of roots, and the backs of your eyes burn as you stare down at his text thread, the blinking cursor another insult to add to the injury.
This little arrangement is supposed to be casual.
A little fun between good, albeit lonely, friends. Nothing more, and nothing less. Besides, you've known Jack Abbot forever and a day; having met back in college. The pretty upperclassman with an infectious smile who made you laugh.
Your best friend once upon a time, and then he'd graduated.
Last you'd heard, he was a field medic while you roughed it in bumfuck Ohio - struggling to make ends meet as you tried to sort out your life after everything went sideways.
It wasn't until you'd moved back to Pittsburgh a lifetime later - a little older, wiser, and jaded - you ran into him by happenstance. Who knew the both of you were drawn to the same shitty little bar you used to haunt in your youth?
Almost like fate, you reconnected and it was as if no time had passed; slipping back into the same dynamic as one would slip into bed at night. Comfortable and easy.
Much had changed (the scars of war and the grief of a lost love leaving their scars), but beneath it all he was still the same Jack Abbot.
Nothing but a gangly boy whose future stretched its fingers out before him, limitless and undaunted. Who held your hand when you were scared, and took your first kiss when you asked.
But now...
This fucking sucks, you think.
A pit yawns into existence in the depths of your stomach, and you kiss your teeth. The night managed to be ruined before it even began. Truly a new record in a string of shitty luck. The only thing left is to decide how to respond.
While in the past, you used a plethora of options (each more inventive than the last), this time you're stumped. Bereft. Left standing on a foundation of shifting sand.
How do you correlate the sting of this offensive to the nature of your not-relationship — could you?
In the end, he owes you nothing.
You scrub a hand over your chest with a frown. This should be a non-issue, and yet... And yet.
What the hell's wrong with me?
Beside you, the bartender averts his gaze. Pretends the task of polishing smudged pint glasses is of the utmost importance while you suffer through an existential crisis.
You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.
Not like there's much else for him to do.
It's a slow night, the locals more interested in the newest blockbuster than sticky floors and cheap drinks with a heavy pour. The music's decent and the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren't offensive enough to induce a migraine.
Moreover, it's quiet as far as bars go - one of the many reasons why it's a favorite meeting place of yours.
Because while its changed hands several times over the years, some things forever remain the same. Like the trashy, half-naked mermaids hanging from the rafters or the bright splashes of graffiti painting the walls in swaths of color... or the low booth crammed into the back corner; a hidden, tell-tale heart hosting an aged carving of yours and Jack's initials on the underside.
The lone vigil of a bygone life filled with coursework and exams, laughter shared over watered down lagers and the pressing clasp of warm palms.
Will we ever be like that again?
Nostalgia's a dangerous thing as you glance at your secret keeper. Makes it harder to avoid the lurch of your heart and the churn of your stomach; the tangled mess of strangleweed emotions threatening to steal the breath from your lungs.
You've been stood up.
Again.
Abandoned in a monument of your youth and surrounded by bittersweet reminders of a time when Jack cared. When he was tender and kind. When the distance between you didn't throb like an open wound.
This isn't the first time. It won't be the last.
Humiliation burns white-hot, sinks its fingers into the apples of your cheeks. It used to be so easy not to take his flakiness personally. He was a busy man with important things to do, even back in college.
When did that change? When did he stop saying sorry? When did he stop caring?
The desolation is much harder to shake off this time. You used to be so understanding but now it feels as if Jack's plunged a hand into your chest, scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find.
Goddamn it. What did you expect?
Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.
He likes getting shot at for fun, plays cop by listening to a police scanner in his free time, flirts with death to a concerning degree, and bends the rules when it suits his needs.
A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.
He reminds you of Icarus, constantly soaring to new heights. And like the boy with hope in his heart and wings made of wax, you live in fear of the day he'd get burned for flying too close to the sun.
However, you didn't expect to be plummiting towards the earth in his stead. And you don't share his knack for compartmentalization, instead thrown off-kilter by this recent disappointment in a long line of tragedy.
What’s going on with me, you think, regret bitter on your tongue. This is nothing new. Jack's doing what he's always done.
Hell, even after you fuck he never acts differently - as casual with you between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch with a carton of greasy Chinese food and beer.
It's been great.
It's been enough.
Why is now different?
Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment makes your skin crawl, knowing he'll swing by after his next shift with a half-assed apology and your favorite drink since you were a sleep deprived undergrad in hand.
Then he'll coax you into bed where you'll get lost in each other's bodies for hours.
He'll continue to take-take-take.
You'll continue to give-give-give.
On and on, a distant star orbiting a black hole - losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left but dust.
Then he'll leave your life.
First in inches, then in miles; a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye. You might be lucky if you get a check-up call once every three months.
After all, your lives went in separate directions before - what's stopping that from happening again?
Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you realize, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I —
An errant thought gains teeth.
Sinks deep and refuses to budge as an awful truth, one buried so well you forgot it was there - ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind. Hysteria swells. A cold chill rakes gnarled fingers down the nobs of your spine.
Oh.
It’s because I love him. Because I’m in love with him. I always have been.
Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. A steel band cinches around your ribs, threatens to crack you open. Your heart lurches. Despair follows on swift wings, and you have no one to blame except yourself.
Fuck, you scrub a hand over your face with a wane smile. How could I…
It'll never work.
Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. Besides, there are too many hurts to soothe, and too many disappointments to name.
Should’ve known better — should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.
Now, you're in too deep.
Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, if-only's.
No more.
It's time to muster up some semblance of self, untangle the threads of connection so you can rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him all those years ago. Relearn how to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock. Content yourself with his friendship and nothing more.
And it starts with a simple reply in the face of everything else you really want to say: Ok.
After, you grab the bartender's attention (not that it was ever on anyone else but you).
He pretends not to notice the tears brimming along your lash line."Ready to order?" he asks. "What'll ya have?"
"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"
The screen of your phone lights up with a notification. His mouth twitches. You waver, refuse to look. Everything is still too fresh, emotions scraped raw and tender.
A simple flick of your finger turns on DND, then you place the device face down where it'll remain until you call it a night. You're far too fragile - and sober - to think about reading Jack's reply.
“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”
Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.
Bottoms up, bitch.
In hindsight, having this conversation with Jack face to face the day after you realized you've spent a significant chunk of your life in love with a man who'll never love you back isn’t the brightest idea.
But if last night showed you anything, it's that every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen. What’s another mistake to add to your long string of misfortune?
It doesn't matter if there's a tremor to your hands when you unlock the door to let him in. It doesn't matter if your stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss only for you to duck aside, his lips catching on the slope of your cheek. It doesn't matter even when he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before pro-offering the drink he picked up on the way.
It can't get any worse.
Right?
(It can. It does.)
When he heads towards your bedroom with a slanted quirk of his lips and a playful wink, his crow's feet crinkling, the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you sputters before fizzling down to embers.
Your heart stutters.
In that moment, he reminds you so, so much of the fresh faced older boy you knew.
The one who dragged you out for pancakes at 3 AM after you crammed for an exam, soft eyes and tender hands. The one you explored your sexuality with, curled against his chest as you kissed and groped each other, lips clumsy and palms sweaty. The one who stole your heart before you realized how empty he'd leave you.
Anguish and despair nip at your heels when you follow him.
You step into the room. This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off for the sake of your friendship.
“Did you have a good night?”
Any attempt at smiling falls flat; ill-fitting, the corners stretched too wide, teeth bared like a dog.
Jack shrugs and shifts his weight onto his good leg, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.” He flashes you a smile. "Always do."
Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and feel far too exposed in the light summer dress you haphazardly threw on, skin too sensitive for anything heavier.
“Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”
Jack hums. “Mm, that’s not like you.” He steps forward, only stopping once he's in front of you. "You're acting weird."
Hands reach for your wrists, broad palms a heated brand as fingers encircle the bone like they're cradling precious china. A rough thumb strokes over your pulse point. Shivery sensation whispers at the touch, awareness dripping down your nerves.
"Is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?"
When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.
Of course he'd notice.
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
Jack grins, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing," he agrees.
With every inhale, your chests brush. The scant few inches between your bodies heats, electric. His torso is a tempting line of hardness begging to mold itself against you just like it has time and time again. It’s torture. It’s too intimate.
The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the glints of spun silver in his hair, the curling sweep of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy, his eyes the shade of kerosene and broken amber beer bottles. He's blinding - like looking at the sun.
Clearing your throat, you shrink back.
“Don’t do that. Where are you going?” He pleads with you to stay, his body curved towards you. A palm settles over your shoulder. “Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.
What a terrible thing to destroy.
If only this moment, this memory could last forever suspended on a string.
Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…
Better to be quick otherwise you fear the words will get stuck around the bend of your throat like a noose. Resolved, you inhale and muster your courage. Steel your heart and do your best to ignore the ginger stokes of his fingertips.
You exhale, "We need to stop."
The world grinds to a startling halt.
Silence descends but for the rigid exhale through his nose, and all you can do is watch as Jack's eyes darken, scalpal sharp in the dim overhead light. Even still, his half-smile never wanes. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. He's always been a greedy man. Wants what he can't have, and destroys what he does.
"What do you mean?" Jack asks (but he knows, there's no way he doesn't). "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetie."
You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "Jack, you know what I mean."
"Do I?"
"I just - I can't do," your voice cracks, your free hand motioning helplessly at him, "this anymore."
A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his stubbled jaw working side to side. Muscles bunch and release with every grind of his teeth. Tension impregnates the air, crackling between you like bottled lightening. The calm before the storm.
"You gonna tell me why? Or are you just going to ditch me - act like we," he catches himself, and re-phrases his sentence, "like it didn't fuckin' mean anything?"
“Jack…”
There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. You wish this wasn’t happening. You wish you could take it back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair. Not to you. Not anymore.
Though while you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, Jack's staunch denial still manages to surprise you.
“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.
At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.
— And that’s the problem.
You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.
Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.
As sweet as he is - has been - he won’t treat it gently. He can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.
No, it’s better this way.
Let's what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments. At least, that's what you thought.
Except Jack's shoulders draw up towards his ears and his hands fall away from you. His gaze is glacial as it pins you in place. There's a shadow that lurks in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.
Everything about him looks weighted down, adding years to his face.
If you didn't know better, you'd think it was heartbreak.
"Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I deserve a fuckin' answer after all the years we've known each other." He scoffs. "At the very least."
“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that, Jack. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”
He glares, a snarl rumbling from the depths of his chest. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me the reason.”
"Why does that - I -"
Words fail you when you need them most. Left scrambling for a reason to give while Jack looks so… God, you want to reach out and comfort him (the urge so strong you have to shove your hands under your arms to stop yourself). And then it comes to you, unbidden.
At the beginning of this mess, you only had one rule.
If there's someone you're serious about, you stop fucking. While made for your benefit more than his - barring the few flings after the passing of his wife - it comes as a handy lie. A believable excuse that'll stop any further questioning and save you from incriminating yourself. The last thing you want to do in this moment is be honest, and if he doesn't relent soon, you fear you'll crack under the weight of your grief and the fury in his eyes.
“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”
An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes this for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.
This is it, you think.
You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be his friend. Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward, a snake coiled to strike.
Air flees your lungs as Jack shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame. Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.
You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened. This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It's quickly turning into anything but.
How? Why?
The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.
Jack quickly crowds you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body. The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs as broad palms skim your sides. Warm and calloused, they ruck up the skirt of your dress.
"So that's it, huh?
"What—"
Reaching beneath you to grasp at the soft globes of your ass, Jack yanks you into him. Your pelvises slot together in a harsh clash of friction. Before you can stop yourself, a whine breaks free. The heat of his body sinks into you, and your lashes flutter. A bolt of awareness slices through you as your body responds to his proximity, liquid desire a slow kindling fire behind your navel.
He feels like home - like you're right where you belong beneath him.
Senses overwhelmed as he surrounds you, the heady, pleasent scent of his cologne flooding your lungs with every stuttered inhale. When teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your throat, sharp pinpricks of pleasure-pain lighting sparking sudden and bright, you squirm.
Then he's speaking, low and husky, "My girl's going to leave me for someone else? Think again, sweetheart."
“I’m not your girl. Never was.”
He doesn't need to know how your heart aches at your reply, every beat thrumming in your ears, screaming: it's you, it's always been you, only you.
A cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw, teeth worrying at the flesh as blunt nails dig into the soft fat of your ass. "That right?" Jack asks. His voice rumbles through your torso, your nipples pebbling as they drag over the plains of his chest. "You think you're not my girl?"
The line of his cock ruts into you, dragging wickedly over your swollen clit. It's almost enough to make you swallow your tongue, retract every hasty word and beg for his forgiveness. "I know I'm not your girl," you bite out.
"Ah, so if you're not my girl," he grinds into the cradle of your hips taunting - teasing, "tell me what's got your pretty little pussy so fucking wet, sweetie. C'mon, let's hear it - I'm curious."
"Jack!"
Keening, you rock up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle's just right, spreads your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties to expose your soaked core to the chill of your room. Mortification hooks behind your navel, a warm flush creeping from your crown down to the tips of your toes.
"Don't you know it's rude not to respond when someone asks a question." Jack presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, following up with a stinging nip. His stubble drags over your skin, a path of raw tenderness left in the wake of his attention. "Should I take a guess?"
"I can't — ffuck!"
Blood thrums through your veins, rabbit fast. You're steadily losing all sense of control and rationality, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency the longer Jack keeps himself pressed against your pussy.
"Do you think some nobody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."
A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.
Sweat dapples your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.
“Shit, Jack, please,” you beg, hands tangling in the sheets by your head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here.
Again.
“I want you to tell me who your pussy belongs to.”
Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs and play with the elastic of your panties. You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy. Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your dripping folds, “tell me you’re my girl - always have been ever since college.”
His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells. A brief flicker of worry for his leg snakes through you before being knocked loose by the harsh rut of his hips.
“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars."
Jack doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part to reply. All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch silken flesh open.
You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and puffy as they flutter around his finger. You can't help but wish it was his cock fucking in so deep the tip kissed your cervix with every thrust, hitting that spot just right to make you cum so hard you soak the bed.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Always so soft n wet n pretty for me.”
Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the stretch of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.
Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jack!”
Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.
Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jack's rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.
Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.
Jack peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.
Then his head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”
Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.
“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Jack, baby, please don’t stop.”
He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, sweetie.”
“S’good - I - I’m close.”
You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy, squelching sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.
“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”
You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”
If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure. In the back of your mind, you know Jack's only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry.
He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.
It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.
After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.
“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”
There’s no escape.
He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel. And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.
You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat. Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.
For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.
Jack's arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.
“Jack,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jack, I--”
He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”
The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”
Jack squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so fucking stupid sometimes.”
You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just - I - I don’t. ..Jack?”
“How could I not feel the same?” he asks rhetorically, tone resigned and wary. “Have since... since college - it just took me a little longer to realize it, that's all. Honestly scared the shit out of me.”
Me too, you think softly as something unfurls in your chest. Lighter than air; ridiculously buoyant with happiness - with hope.
Oh, how stupid.
He averts his gaze. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Robby helped me get my head on straight.”
“We're idiots, huh?”
Jack hums noncommittally, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a sheepish smile on his lips. “You said it, sweetheart.”
Summary: Jack knows you read smut. What he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. They are ideas. A whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. When he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, Jack has questions. Several, actually. Should he be jealous? Grateful? Offended? You are more than happy to explain.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, sexual themes, spicy book discussion, implied smut, post-sex scene, praise kink references, light restraint references, orgasm control references, semi-public hookup references, body worship, begging/asking clearly, lots of sexual tension, married flirting, Jack being fifty and deeply personally victimized by fictional men with shadows and jawlines, prosthetic mention, emotional intimacy, trust, mutual pleasure, reader owns her sexuality, soft/domestic married sexiness.
Author's Note: This fic is for every woman who has ever been made to feel embarrassed about reading romance or smut. There is no shame here. None. Sometimes books give us language for desire. Sometimes they make wanting feel normal. Sometimes they make asking feel less terrifying. And sometimes your very hot husband finds the red tabs and realizes he has been unknowingly participating in literary adaptation. This one is funny, sexy, soft, and deeply married. It is about trust as much as it is about heat. It is about owning what you want, asking for it clearly, giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, and being with someone who makes desire feel safe. Also, Jack Abbot versus a twenty-two-year-old shadow man? I had to.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.
This was the second kind.
He knew because your breathing changed.
Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.
He knew you read smut.
That was not new information.
You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.
What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.
You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.
The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be suspicious.
Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.
You turned a page.
Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.
Jack’s thumb paused.
You bit your lip.
Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.
You did not notice.
Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.
Jack had seen the tabs before.
He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.
You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.
He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.
He was about to find out that he was right.
Just not in the way he thought.
You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.
Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”
Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”
Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.
His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”
You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”
You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”
Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”
Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.
“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.
Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”
You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”
You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”
Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”
You did not hesitate. “Smut.”
Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”
You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”
Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”
You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”
Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”
You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”
You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”
Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”
Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”
You gave him a look. “Obviously.”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”
You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.
You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.
Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”
You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”
Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”
You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”
Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”
You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”
Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”
You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.
You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”
Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”
You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”
Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”
You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”
Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”
You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.
Jack waited.
He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.
Jack looked at the book.
The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.
He reached for it.
Not because he was snooping.
Snooping implied shame.
Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.
This was clinical curiosity.
Marital clinical curiosity.
He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.
Jack glanced toward the hallway.
The kettle hummed.
He opened the book where your finger had been.
He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.
Jack muttered, “Christ.”
You had not been kidding about the smut.
He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.
Red.
Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.
Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.
At first, he smiled.
Then he stopped smiling.
His eyes moved over the page once.
Then again, slower.
A throne.
A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.
A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.
Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.
At the end of that hallway sat his home office.
His chair.
His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.
The one with lumbar support.
The one with the locked wheels.
The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.
Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.
Jack said softly, “Well.”
The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.
He should have stopped there.
He did not.
The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.
Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.
He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.
His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.
Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.
Jack murmured, “Fuck.”
You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.
You stopped in the bedroom doorway.
Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.
Not casually.
Not idly.
Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.
Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.
You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”
Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”
You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”
You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”
Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”
You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.
That was the first thing that got him.
Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.
It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.
Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.
Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”
You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”
Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.
The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter.
“That’s what you wanted?”
You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”
Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”
You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”
His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.
He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”
You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”
Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”
You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”
You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”
You smiled. “You like it.”
Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”
The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.
Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“He’s twenty-two?”
You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”
Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”
You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”
Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”
You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”
He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”
Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”
Jack paused. “That was vague.”
You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”
Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”
You blinked. “Worried?”
Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”
You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”
Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”
You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”
His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”
You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”
His hand stilled on the book.
You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”
Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”
You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”
Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”
You laughed softly. “Noted.”
His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”
You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”
Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.
You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.
In the way his eyes came back to yours.
In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.
You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”
His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”
“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”
Jack went still.
You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”
His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.
You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.
“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”
His jaw shifted.
“That’s part of it too.”
Jack did not blink.
“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”
His thumb moved once at your waist.
You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”
Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.
You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”
His voice came out lower. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Because I trust you,” you said.
His hand stilled at your waist.
You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.
“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”
Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.
Then they came back to yours.
“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”
Jack was silent for a long moment.
Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.
“It’s the trust,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”
You laughed under your breath.
His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”
You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”
Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”
Jack looked toward the book.
His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”
You laughed.
He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”
Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.
His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”
You blinked. “How many what?”
Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”
You laughed softly. “Your problem?”
Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”
You smiled.
He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”
You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.
Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.
You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.
“You really want to know?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.
Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.
You tapped the page. “Start there.”
Jack glanced down at the red tab.
Then back at you.
His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”
You nodded. “The throne.”
Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.
He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.
You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”
You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”
“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”
Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”
“We covered the chair,” you agreed.
His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”
The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.
“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.
Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about worship.”
Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.
But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.
“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”
Jack did not interrupt.
You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”
The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.
His voice had gone lower. “What?”
You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.
“I want to try something.”
Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”
Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.
“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”
Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”
You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”
Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.
You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”
Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.
You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”
Jack had taken one slow breath.
Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.
“Close the door.”
You had.
By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.
“Here?” he had asked.
You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.
Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.
Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.
“You want my full attention?” he had asked.
You had nodded, throat tight.
His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”
And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet.
The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.
But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.
“Look at me,” he had murmured.
You had tried. God, you had tried.
Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.
“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”
And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.
It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.
Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”
You nodded. “That was the idea.”
His thumb moved once. “The worship.”
You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”
For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
You smiled a little. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”
Your chest softened.
You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”
You nodded. “Not the first.”
His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”
You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”
Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”
You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”
His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”
You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”
Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”
You glanced back at him. “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.
Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”
You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”
Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”
You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”
Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”
You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”
You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.
Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”
You added it to the stack. “That one too.”
His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.
You followed his eyes and smiled.
Jack sat forward. “No.”
You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”
Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”
You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”
His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”
You smiled. “It was.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”
You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”
Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.
The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.
Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”
You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”
Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”
You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”
Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”
His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.
Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”
Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”
Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”
You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”
You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”
The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His mouth had curved. “You need something?”
You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you.
You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”
Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.
Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”
You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”
Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”
He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.
Jack had checked once. “Like this?”
Your breath had caught. “Yes.”
Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.
His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”
You had tried.
Jack had noticed every second you failed.
Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”
You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”
Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”
You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”
You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”
Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”
You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”
His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”
You nodded. “The night it snowed.”
Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”
Your pulse kicked once.
You held his eyes. “Yes.”
The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.
He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.
Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”
You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”
Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”
You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”
Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.
You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”
His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”
You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”
You had nodded.
Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”
And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.
In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.
His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”
You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”
Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”
You smiled wider. “A lot.”
Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.
You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”
Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”
You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”
Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.
“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”
You laughed softly. “Mixed?”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”
You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”
You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”
Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.
His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”
You smiled. “The sundress.”
Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”
You held his gaze. “No underwear.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.
His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”
You smiled. “That was for you.”
The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.
Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”
Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”
You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”
Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.
Jack had asked, “You sure?”
You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.
“Bathroom,” he had said.
You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”
His hand had found the small of your back.
Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”
In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.
His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.
“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”
Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.
Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.
You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”
Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”
You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”
You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”
You laughed. “This is not a court.”
Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”
Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.
Jack watched your hand move to it.
His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”
You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”
Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”
You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”
His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.
You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”
Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.
You nodded. “After the double.”
Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”
Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”
The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.
“What?” he had asked.
Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.
His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.
You had nodded.
The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.
“Tell me what you need,” he had said.
You had swallowed.
You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”
Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”
Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”
Jack had gone very still.
Then his mouth had softened against your temple.
“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.
Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.
Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.
His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”
In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”
Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”
You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”
Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”
You sighed. “Yes.”
Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”
Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”
You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”
Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”
You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”
Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.
His voice softened. “There.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”
You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”
You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”
Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”
The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.
“Begging,” you said.
Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”
You nodded. “After your shower.”
The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.
His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.
You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.
Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.
“Ask for what?” he had asked.
Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.
His thumb had moved once over your skin.
“Then tell me.” Jack had said.
You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”
Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle.
“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”
Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.
“That one mattered,” Jack said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”
You breathed out. “Because I asked.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”
Your throat tightened.
You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”
You tilted your head. “The begging?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”
You laughed once.
Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”
Your smile softened.
His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”
The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.
You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”
Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.
Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”
You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”
You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”
You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.
“Green dress,” he said.
You nodded. “Green dress.”
The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.
You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.
Completely.
His eyes moved over you once.
Then again, like the first look had not been enough.
“Jack,” you had said.
He had crossed the room without saying anything.
You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy.
Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.
“I want you to help me see it.”
Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.
Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.
For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.
“Look,” Jack had said.
You had started to glance away.
His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”
Your breath had caught.
His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.
You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.
“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.
Your throat had tightened.
His fingers had spread over your waist.
“Beautiful,” he had said.
You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him.
The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.
You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”
Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”
Jack covered your hand with his.
You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”
Your smile wobbled. “I know.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.
You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”
The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.
“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”
You nodded. “Mostly.”
Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”
You smiled. “Pool house.”
His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”
“Fireplace.”
He tapped the third. “Risk.”
“Bar bathroom.”
His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”
“Supply closet.”
His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”
“Bedroom.”
Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”
You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“And worship.”
Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”
Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”
You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”
His eyes darkened.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled.
He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.
“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”
You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.
“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”
You laughed, startled and bright.
Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.
You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”
You smiled. “Every single one.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”
You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”
You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”
Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”
Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”
You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”
Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”
Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”
You laughed. “Obscene.”
Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.
“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”
Your breath caught.
His smile deepened.
“There,” he murmured. “That look.”
Later That Night…
The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.
Face-down.
Spine bent.
One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually.
Probably.
When your lungs worked again.
For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.
Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.
Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.
He had conducted research.
Thoroughly.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.
Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound.
“That was incredible.”
You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.
His eyes were still on the ceiling.
You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”
Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”
Your smile widened. “I heard you.”
Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”
You waited.
His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.
Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”
A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.
Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.
You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”
Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously.
“Yeah.”
Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”
His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.
“Just need a minute.”
You smiled. “Take your time.”
Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.
His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”
Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”
That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”
Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”
You raised your eyebrows. “No?”
“Wrong word.”
You waited, biting back a smile.
Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.
“Beautiful,” he decided.
Your throat warmed.
Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”
You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”
Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”
You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.
His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”
You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”
You pressed your lips together. “The process?”
He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”
You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”
Jack looked back at you.
His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.
“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”
You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.
Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.
You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.
His heartbeat was still too fast.
You smiled against his skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.
Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.
“That was incredible.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”
His eyes shifted to yours.
He looked almost offended by your amusement.
“What?”
“You’ve said that four times.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”
Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”
Jack’s eyes held yours.
For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.
“I liked that you showed me.”
Your chest tightened.
His thumb moved against your back.
“I liked that you asked,” he said.
You swallowed.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”
The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.
When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then he exhaled.
“That was also incredible.”
You burst out laughing.
Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”
His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.
“I’m enlightened.”
You laughed against him. “By smut?”
Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.
“By my wife.”
That stole the breath from your chest.
You lifted your head.
Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.
Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”
Jack nodded once, like that mattered.
Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.
His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”
Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.
“Too late.”
You stared at him.
He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”
You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.
Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.
You hit him with it.
He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.
Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.
After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR — June 1st
PART FIVE — June 4th
PART SIX — June 9th
More chapters TBD
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
Summary: You've made a habit of stealing Jack's clothes.
Contents: Jack Abbot x fem!reader, pure smut, scent kink, reader wears his unwashed laundry okayyy, one spank, prone bone, unprotected piv, creampie, soft dom!jack, endearments such as hon, sweetheart, and pretty girl.
Note: a wee blurb/oneshot that i've been meaning to write for awhile. entirely inspired by that one photo of shawn wearing a hoodie on set. i would be pilfering jack's hamper im gonna be completely honest. Credit to @/saradika-graphics for the divider.
Word Count: 1.1k
Ao3 Link: read here!
Truthfully Jack shouldn't be surprised in the slightest. It's far from the first time you've done this. His clothes go missing left and right. His t-shirts, his boxers, his gym shorts, and most frequently his hoodies—his favourite hoodie especially, which is the catalyst for his current search.
"Hon, have you seen my hoodie?" He asks as he moves down the hall on his crutches.
"Which one?"
"My favourite—" He cuts himself off as he turns into the living room. Sure enough, there you are. The culprit has been caught red handed—wearing the very item of clothing he’d just been scouring the bedroom for. "The one you're wearing."
You turn your head and peer at him from over the back of the couch. There's not an ounce of guilt on your face. He would go as far as to say you look amused—perfectly content and snug in his hoodie. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s offered to buy you one of your own. The same brand, same size, same colour. His efforts, however, have been fruitless, but it doesn’t deter him from posing the question again and again.
"Would you let me buy you your own already?" He asks.
"It wouldn't be the same.” That’s exactly what you say each time he offers, so he can’t say he’s surprised to hear the reasoning again.
Jack crosses the room and lowers himself onto the couch beside you, setting his crutches against the arm of the couch. Even though he doesn't entirely understand, he doesn't mind, not really. It's endearing, and he's pretty certain part of the appeal is the reaction he gives. The push and pull.
Well, that and his scent. That little tidbit of information hadn’t been easy to get out of you, not with the amount of teasing you knew would ensue, but you had admitted it once. Quietly, avoiding his gaze, and twiddling with the hem of one of his shirts.
You like his scent—you find comfort being enveloped in it. It was sweet, and he hadn’t poked fun in that moment, not with how fast he chubbed up in his pants over your bashful admission. But he hadn’t exactly let you off scot free since then.
"It would be the exact same."
"No it wouldn't," you insist, shaking your head.
"It wouldn't?"
"Nope, not at all."
"Pretty sure that thing hasn't been washed in awhile," he remarks as he reaches to tug at the sleeve.
"Yeah, that's kind of the point." You roll your eyes. The dots connect.
"Okay, weirdo, no need for the attitude." He lifts his hand to flick your nose, watching as it scrunches up.
“I’m not weird,” you protest, and he laughs.
“Right, you just like lounging around in my unwashed clothes.”
“You’re not being nice to me,” you say, crossing your arms.
“Why should I be nice to a thief, huh?” He fires back, before adding teasingly, “stealing my clothes to fulfill your sick and twisted needs.”
“You have other hoodies!”
Silence falls over you. Neither of you say anything for a moment—two. Then his eyes rove up and down your frame.
"You're gonna make me pry it off you?"
"I'd like to see you try."
In the next instant he's on top of you, caging you against the couch. You squeal, and flip over to try and crawl out from beneath him, but he lays himself over you, effectively trapping you.
You huff, and kick your legs but it's no use. "This isn't fair!"
"This all could've been avoided if you let me have my hoodie."
"I think you mean our hoodie," you correct. As he sits up his hand skirts the hem of it. "Wait, wait, I'm not wearing anything underneath!"
He quirks a brow. "That's not the discouragement you think it is, sweetheart."
It sets his wandering hand on another course entirely, one that brings his broad palm down and into the space between your thighs. He slides hand along the curve of you. A ragged breath escapes him when he's met with the velvet heat of your bare cunt.
"Oh so this is what you wanted all along?" When you neglect to respond he removes his hand only to bring it back down in a smack to your ass. You jolt, mumbling something into the throw pillow.
"Yes?" He prompts again, rubbing his palm over the tender skin. He waits for your answer another moment before lifting his hand.
"Yes...!" You concede with a shudder, and when his hand lowers, slowly this time, he tucks his fingers between your legs. Even if you had tried to deny it, your body betrays you. The slickness that coats his fingers gives you away without need of an utterance from your lips.
"My pretty girl just wanted some attention, is that it?" He circles your clit, smiling as your hips twitch. “You only ever need to ask. ‘m not gonna hold out on you.”
“I need you, please,” you mewl, and it sends a wave of heat straight to his groin. He can't wait a moment longer, and he's sure you can't either. He fumbles to shuck his pants down along with his boxers, just enough so he can free his cock.
Hovering over you, he lowers himself back down as he sinks into you. You tense up beneath him. A low groan pours from his lips. His chest presses to your back, trapping you beneath the solid heft of him. There’s nothing neat or tidy about the way he fucks you then. It is a messiness that comes only from unbridled desperation.
His lips at the nape of your neck, nose tucked against sweat damp skin. He inhales. Maybe you aren't the only one who has a thing for scent. You're barely coherent anymore—rendered dumb from the very moment his voice dropped into that low and sultry tone. Mere insinuation was often enough to turn you to a helpless puddle of whimpers and babbles.
One arm remains wound around your waist, hand snug between your legs while two fingers strum your clit. He ruts into you from behind. Whatever tiny inkling of rhythm he had to begin with disintegrates when your cunt starts to pulse and constricts around his cock. He moans, hips faltering before he buries himself to the hilt and lets himself go. His eyes shutter, and hot air fans against your skin as he breathes out another moan.
“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, rocking his hips as he comes.
He forgets himself—completely blissed out. Then you wriggle beneath him, letting out a gentle whine. He peels his eyes open only to lean down and press another kiss to your neck before extracting himself from you. He watches as you turn over, your chest heaving and eyes heavy lidded.
Summary: Jack Abbot, a seasoned emergency physician, marked by war, loss, and quiet routine, crosses paths with a younger psychiatrist who refuses to fit neatly into his carefully controlled world. What begins as a private, complicated connection becomes impossible to keep hidden when their lives collide under unexpected circumstances.
content warning: age gap (reader late 20s, Jack late 40s.), friends with benefits, no established relationship, hospital setting, car accident, no use of y/n, smut, angst, oral (f&m receiving), protected sex
A/N: hiiii my mind has been filled with Abbot and Pope so I’ll be writing for them for the foreseeable future! WC; 7k
This is part 1, part two is here
You place your tea mug on your desk, peering over your glasses at the lump under your blankets. The chalet alarm blares, breaking the silence in your one-bedroom apartment. An arm slaps around on the nightstand until it finds the source of the sound. A groan comes from the mass of blankets before the alarm stops, and Jack sits up. Jack Abbott, the man who has been occupying your bed for 1.5 years. Your person? Neither of you has said the words or made things official; instead, you both find safety in routine. You put your glasses on the desk and run over, jumping into bed. He smirks and lazily pulls you into a hug. You pepper his chin with kisses, and he yawns.
“Fuck, I’m tired.” He laughs. You quickly maneuver yourself onto his lap. Jack stares up at you, holding your hips.
“Well, the day is ending for normal people and just starting for you.” You kiss his scuffy beard before leaning back. Jack smiles up at you.
“As much as I would love to give you the attention it craves,” He looks down between the two of you, where his cock is already fully erect. He cups your face and rubs your bottom lip with his thumb.
“I promised Robby I would come in a little earlier.” He whispers against your lips. You lean further into the kiss, ignoring his comments. Jack groans as you begin to stroke him. His alarm goes off again, and you pull back from the kiss, smiling. He grabs his phone, and you get off his lap.
“I’m sure this Robby guy would be okay with you showing up on time for your shift and not a minute earlier, especially if he knew the special things we would be getting into. I think your friends would appreciate you having some enjoyment in your life.” You smirk. After putting on his prosthetic, he bends over to kiss you before walking to the bathroom. You return to your desk to finish up client notes. Jack emerges from the bathroom, shirtless, dressed in his scrub bottoms. You close your laptop, bite your lip, and scan his body.
“Eyes up here, angel.” He jokes. You lean on your desk, smiling as he walks over, bending to give you his heart-melting kiss. He pulls back, giving you small pecks before walking to the nightstand. You watch him slip on his wedding ring, and your smile slips. You open your laptop and return to the documentation. Jack makes comments, but you only hum and nod. He kisses your forehead and leaves you to your work.
“He has a girlfriend. I’m telling you.” Mateo whispers from behind the counter as Abbot checks his phone for the 4th time that hour. He shakes his head and returns to a patient. Ellis chuckles and shakes her head.
“I bet you $5 its one of his crazy endeavors.” Shen places the money on the counter. Matoe digs in his pocket, slamming a 5 down as well. Robby briefly hears the conversation and shakes his head, walking towards room 17.
“I don’t need dinner. I’m fine and-”
“I’m already on the way. Are you really going to turn me away? It’s 15 degrees out. I made you dinner, and I am bringing it to you.” You argue back. Jack sighs and rubs the phone on his temple.
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Jack.”
“Okay. Come to the ambulance bay.”
“Are you embarrassed by me? I’ve never met your friends. You’ve met mine.”
“They’re my coworkers, not friends,” Jack replies.
“They’re the only people you talk about or hang out with besides your old military buddies. And I haven’t even met them, so it seems like you’re fucking hiding me! I’m not-”
“Angel….I have to go. I’ll see you in a bit.” He replies, hanging up. When he turns, Robby stands there grinning.
“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Abbot says, shaking his head.
“Was coming to say goodbye, but I see you are tied up in something.” He smirks. Abbot shakes his head. Mateo opens the door to let him know he’s needed. Abbot thanks the heavens he doesn’t have to hear Robby’s questions.
You do not park at the ambulance bay; instead, you park in the visiting parking lot and walk to the front entrance. You hold the cute, bright pink lunch bag on your shoulder and walk inside. It’s pretty calm, so you’re able to get to the front quickly and let the receptionist know you are here to drop off lunch.
“Jack Abbot? Like Dr.Abbot in the ED?” She smirks. You remove your heart-shaped earmuffs and nod. Did she not hear you or what?
“Yes? I brought him dinner.” You smile and nod.
“Are you his chil-”
“I will page him.” The other receptionist hits her and turns to get him. You smile and step back, letting the next patient in. The doors opened, and you’re motioned back. You follow the receptionist on the other side of the door, and you spot Jack talking to a nurse. When his eyes follow you, it takes him a second to register. His eyes double in size, and he quickly walks over. He smiles and pulls you into a private room.
“Baby, I told you-”
“I know what you said. But I have no idea where the ambulance bay is.” You lie. Jack rubs the bridge of his nose. He takes the lunch bag and places it on the table. You made him spaghetti and garlic bread. His favorite. He was a simple man after all. You sit on a chair watching as he sits and eats quietly.
“Is it our age difference that bothers you?” You whisper, eyes glance over the tiles on the floor. Jack wipes his mouth and places the tupperware on the table. He reaches over and grabs the leg of your chair, pulling you over.
“I just like to keep my life separate from work. It’s complicated.” He rubs your thigh, and you stand up.
“You still wear your wedding ring. I’ve not met your friends. You’ve met my parents for God's sake!” You say as frustration grows.
“Meeting your parents was an accident, and newsflash, they fucking hate me because I’m 20 fucking years older than you and 5 years younger than them.”
“So it is my age?”
“It’s-”
“Sorry, Doc, there’s an emergency,” a curly-haired guy says, opening the door. Jack gives you his stupid, sad puppy eyes, and you cross your arms, sitting down. He leaves, and the curly-haired guy opens his mouth, but Abbot grabs him, shutting the door. Mateo wears a goofy grin as he leads Abbot to the room where a man has a knife in his chest.
Abott takes off the bloody gloves, washes his hands, and makes his way to you, but Shen and Mateo corner him.
“Who's the hot young piece of as-”
“Don’t finish that sentence if you want to keep your teeth,” Abbot warns. Shen zips his lips. Mateo laughs.
“Well? Who is she?”
“My neighbor.” Abbot tries to walk around the duo, but they stop him.
“My “neighbor” has never brought me dinner during my shift. Who is she? Your girlfriend?” Mateo asks using a quotation. Abbot shakes his head.
“No. What?”
“How old is she?” Shen asks. Abbot walks to an empty room, his hands running through his hair.
“She is 29. We’ve been seeing each other for almost 2 years.”
“Dude……nice,” Shen adds. Abbot shakes his head.
“She’s pissed at me. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“Well, she is out of your league for one, do you see the size of-”
Mateo elbows Shen.
“Have you asked her to be your girlfriend?”
“No. I didn’t think you guys did that anymore. It’s all hook-ups and-”
“How often is she at your apartment and vice versa?” Mateo asks, sitting on a bed. Abbot scratches his eyebrow.
“I sleep at her place when I can sleep. She sleeps at my place too,” He replies, scratching his neck.
“Do you have clothes at her place? Toothbrush? Keys? Have you met her friends?”
“Yes to all of it….and her parents.” He mumbles. Shen whisles.
“That’s your girlfriend…..Why are you still wearing your ring, though?”
Abbot stares down at his ring. It’s a bad habit. The ring was a reminder of his life before it went to shit. He takes it off when you guys have sex out of respect, but to part with it completely, it’s something that hasn’t worked up to yet. He stares up at the ceiling.
“Idk your feelings for her, but you need to figure it out before things get too deep and you end up really hurting her.” Mateo stands and pats Abbot on the back as a nurse comes in for another emergency.
You wipe your eyes and look at the time on your phone. It’s after midnight now. This was a stupid idea, and you're partially embarrassed. You should go. This was stupid. It was such a bad idea. You rush, throwing everything into the lunchbox and out of the room, back to the front, and to your car. You throw the lunchbox in there, wiping your tears, and call Jack.
“I’m sorry. I really am. My emotions are all over the place. I can explain, but I just-i’m sorry. I am rambling. I’m going to my place, we can talk in the morning. Again, I apologize.” You hang up after leaving that pathetic voicemail and start your car up. Great. It’s fucking snowing.
It seems like after you left, shit hit the fan. Abbot wasn’t able to get a break and try to call you or listen to your voicemail. By the time things calmed down a bit, it was 6 am. He listened to your message, and it felt like a gut punch. He dialed but got your voicemail. You should be up getting ready for work. He tries again and gets another voicemail.
“Our guy in room 8 is up a little groggy, but he’s good,” Mateo says, walking into the room. Abbott scratches his head. He quickly sends a text. The delivered does not pop up. He calls you again. Most of the day crew starts straggling in as he redials your number.
“Hi, it’s me. I’m-”
What the fuck? Voicemail again. You should be up and ready for work. Something was off. Something wasn't right. When he called, you answered him no matter what. Even if the two of you were mad at each other, you answered the calls. It was your one request. He sighs and steps out of the room.
“Incoming trauma, female, late twenties, MVA, found in a ditch, unknown downtime, Hypothermic. Multiple injuries ETA two minutes.” Dana shouts. Abbot rubs his eyes, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“Trauma two. Let’s get warm fluids. I want Core Temp as soon as she gets in.” He shouts out as Robby puts his bag behind the nurse's station. The two give a quick nod and prepare for the incoming patient. The team starts moving immediately. Controlled chaos, that’s what Abbot was used to. You were unpredictable, and it pulled at his heartstrings. The doors burst open, pulling in the cold air with the gurney. The patient in room 8 hops out of his bed and toward his door, watching just as the ambulance doors swing open.
“Found unresponsive, vehicle totaled and flipped, down an embankment. No witness. She was outside the car when we got there.”
“Vitals?” Abbot asks.
“Bradycardic. Core temp reading is low. We couldn’t get an accurate reading.”
Abbott’s eyes quickly scan over the woman in front of him. Her clothes were soaked with blood, water, debris from the vehicle, and her hair-
“Oh fuck she’s okay? She’s alive?” The man shouts from room 8. A nurse helps him back to bed.
Abbot stops in his tracks as the team works around him. It wasn't obvious at first because he wasn’t looking. A small flicker of familiarity, and his brain began to fracture. Abbot’s hand reached, brushing against her wrist that was far too cold. No. Everyone kept moving around him, but he was stuck. You. It was you. Abbot, watch as they cut away your clothing. Your stupid SpongeBob shirt is cut off and falling to the floor, pants cut away like nothing. Bruises and blood lined your body, and it took everything in Abbott to hold down the rising bile.
“Dr.Abbot!” A nurse calls, breaking him from the trance as they wheel your body away to the trauma room.
“That can’t be…That-” Abbot fumbles over his words as he makes his way into the room. Robby is quickly working on you and notices Mateo, who steps in front of Abbot. Abbot shoves him away and starts giving orders. Robby stops what he is doing and pulls Abbott away from your body.
“You need to step back.”
“I’m fine,” he replies, trying to step around. Robby pushes him.
“She has a team, Jack. Get out now,” Robby warns him. Abbot’s eyes drift over your body as they work around you.
“I have to. She needs me-”
“You can’t be on this case. Go. Mateo.” Robby calls. Mateo guides Abbot out of the room. The doors close with a final thud, the chaos behind them being silenced. Abbot stands at the doors watching them, listening to them.
“BP’s dropping!
“Core temp 31 and falling.”
Abbot’s heart drops to his stomach. Your hand lay limp, unmoving. His eyes dart to your wrist. That stupid fucking SpongeBob bracelet you asked him for. It was so childish, but it meant something to you. You and that stupid show. Jack hated it when you put that on before bed. But it was your safe space. Abbot snaps out of it as you begin to crash. He steps back, slowly stepping out of doctor mode. It was protocol. He stood by the nurses' station watching trauma room 2. His brain refused to shut off as he tracked everyone’s movement in that room.
“EMS thinks she was out there for possibly a couple of hours. Guy in 8 might know her. A nurse says in passing. Abbot clenches his jaw. Mateo tries to grab his arm, but he’s quick. He pulls back the curtains of room 8. The man sits up.
“You piece of shit! You left her out there!” Abbot shouts, walking around the bed. He grabs the guy's gown.
“I tried. I pulled her out of the car! I thought she was dead. I was scared.”
“So you fucking left her there without calling 911? Huh, you piece of shit!” Abbot raises his fist, but Mateo and Langdon grab him. Dana is in the room before anything escalates further. Abbot stands at the nurse's desk, shaking with anger. The thought of you alone, crying and hurt. Did you ask for him? Were you conscious that whole time?
“She was conscious when we arrived. Confused but responsive for a min.” One of the EMS states that it is answering his unspoken question.
“Must have been a gnarly scene. What did she say?” A nurse asks. Abbot tries not to eavesdrop and focus on your room.
“First thing out of her mouth was baby. Thought there might be a baby in the car. Nope. She then said she was pregnant. Kept repeating it. She’s 3 months pregnant.” The EMS whispers as they fill out paperwork. Pregnant? Abbot almost bucks over. Your voicemail about explaining. Was it that? The arguments. The clinginess. Abbot walks towards the room. He has to be there for you. For both of you.
“No fetal cardiac activity detected,” Mel shouts. Mateo pulls him out of the room.
“Let them work,” Shen states. Abbot walks to the waiting area and sits. The door opens to Dr. Al-Hashimi.
“Is there anyone we can contact for her?” She asks, taking a seat. Abbot is quiet.
“Her parents. Let me make the call.”
“We can have a social worker or-”
“I got it. I want to be useful.” He mumbles, pulling out his phone. You had saved your mother’s number in his phone a few months ago. Dr.Al-Hashimi leaves, and he sighs, dialing your mom. It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” Your mother’s voice breaks through. Jack sighs.
“Mrs-”
“Why are you calling me?” She cuts in, recognizing his voice.
“Yes, umm, this is Dr.Abbot from the emergency department.” Jack clarifies. The line is already quiet, with tension.
“Where is she?” Your mother asks with no warmth in her voice, just suspicion. Jack pulls the phone away from his ear and swallows. Into the warzone he goes.
“She’s been brought in after a motor vehicle accident. She’s currently being treated.”
The line goes quiet, then Jack hears what sounds like rustling of papers, then the sound of your mother’s choked cry.
“How bad?” She sniffles. Jack stands up and begins to pace.
“She’s critically injured. We’re stabilizing her now.” He replies. Silence again. It cuts deep into him now. He has said these lines a 1000 times to the patients' families, it doesn’t hurt less, but in this moment, it feels like his heart is slowly crushing in on itself.
“Why are you calling me?” Her voice is sharp with anger. There it is. The big fuck you he was waiting for.
“I’m the attending physician on shift.” He replies. It wasn’t a complete lie.
“Put someone else on the phone.” She snaps.
“They are actively working on her. I can answer your questions-”
“I don’t want you answering anything. You shouldn’t even be anywhere near her!” She spits. Jack clears his throat. He knows. He has heard it a million times.
“This isn’t about me. Your daughter is in critical condition. You and your husband need to come to the hospital in case a decision needs to be made.”
“Oh god….Is she alive?
Jack pulls the phone from his ear, trying to compose himself.
“They’re working on her.” He replies. The link goes silent before the call ends. Jack nearly throws his phone, but the door opens to Dr.Mohan. Jack takes a seat, and she sits next to him quietly in the overly bright room with stained carpet and the smell of hand sanitizer. Samira is the link between the two of you. Friends from the book club you run, and the only one in the department who knows about the two of you. Samira reaches out and squeezes his hand. A small gesture reassuring him. Jack stands and starts pacing. Samira leaves to attend to other patients. Jack doesn’t know how long he has paced in the room, but soon the door opens to your parents. He freezes and clears his throat. He can’t look at your mother. You’re a spitting image of her.
“You,” Your mother says, eyes on him, full of fury. Your father stands behind her, jaw clenching as he watches Jack.
“I’m here,” Jack whispers, his voice steady even though it feels like it doesn't belong to him. Your mother rolls her eyes.
“Of course you are. They’re not giving us an update.” She states, sitting down.
“Is she alive?” Your father asks.
“Yes. She’s alive.”
“What happened?” Your mother almost demands.
“She was involved in an accident. She was found outside the vehicle. We’re treating her for hypothermia and multiple-”
“And you were there?” Your mother cuts him off.
“I’m on shift.” He replies, placing his hands on his hips. Your father steps closer, neither aggressive nor neutral. The tension is building.
“You called us. Why you?” Your mother asks.
“Because I was the physician who-”
“No. No, that’s not what I’m asking.” Her tone is sharper and her hands ball into fists. The waiting room feels smaller now.
“You don’t get to be the one standing here.” She whispers in a tight voice. “You don’t get to be the one telling us anything.”
A nurse walks in, and your mother stands.
“My daughter? How is she?”
“She’s critical, and they are doing everything they can.” The nurse replies. She looks at Jack, who looks like a caged animal.
“Where’s the doctor in charge?”
“I am,” Jack replies. Your dad turns to him and looks back at the nurse. She nods.
“You shouldn’t be anywhere near her case.” Your mother snaps, turning towards him.
“I’m not. Another attending is leading her care.” Jack corrects. Your mother opens her mouth, but Robby steps in, introducing himself. Jack excuses himself, but before leaving, your mother gives him a warning.
“If anything happens to her…”
Jack closes the door behind him and exits. He’s on the outside again. He stands near the nurses' station, zoning out to all sounds around him. 5 mins later, your mom is closing the distance between them fast.
“You piece of shit! You knew!” She shouts. Your father steps in before your mother can lay a hand on Jack.
“I-” Jack can’t find the right words and stops himself.
“You knew and didn’t say anything?”
“I just found out.” Jack clarifies, awakrdly scratching his neck. This is not a conversation he wants to have out in the open. Your father shakes his head in disbelief.
“She didn’t tell us about the pregnancy. That should tell you something.” He adds. Jack clears his throat.
“It tells me she hadn't decided what to do yet,” Jack replies as Dana glances at him and nods to the waiting room.
“It tells me she didn’t trust you enough to tell you either.” Your mother spits back. Her eyes drift to the ring on his finger, which he plays with. Jack stops and hides his hand like a child who has been scolded. Jack walks away before the conversation can escalate into a no-turning-back danger zone. Jack returns to the waiting room and sits down. Was this his fault? You wouldn’t have been out on the road if it weren’t for him. The day you guys met should have been the only time you cross paths….
You tried your best to hold onto the several grocery bags, but it was becoming too much. A man entered the elevator and quickly helped you. He took all the bags, and you thanked him. He looked crushed, so you pressed your number and asked for his floor.
“I’ll help you with your bags,” He mumbled. The elevator chimed as it reached floor 5. You exited, and he followed you to your apartment. He put your bags on the floor.
“You’re not a psycho killer, right?” You joked.
“Do you normally allow men to follow you home under the pretense of helping you carry bags?” He asked with a tilt of his head. You couldn’t help but giggle.
“Only when they’re attractive.”
“Oh wow.” He laughed. He stuffed his hands into his pants, and that’s when you noticed his scubs.
“Coming off of night shift?” You asked. He nodded. You unlocked your door and picked up some bags, with him following you in. Your place was still unpacked, even though you moved in 3 weeks ago. He set your bags on the counter.
“Just moved in?”
“Uhhh, officially today, yeah. I was still at my old place, so I haven’t had time to unpack.”
He nodded his head and left without another word. You chuckled, thinking how that could have gone terribly wrong. The next day, you finally started to unpack and explore the city a bit more. You will start your new job as a crisis psychiatrist on Monday. You decided on a jog to loosen up. While locking your door, you noticed that the stranger who helped you was locking his door as well. Neighbors. Nice.
“Hey, stranger.”
“Hey.” He grumbled. He had bags under his eyes and looked a little disheveled. You both headed to the elvarotr and waited quietly. You didn’t know how to approach a conversation, so you remained quiet. He let you in the elevator first and followed. You pressed one and turned to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me we were neighbors?” You asked playfully.
“I didn’t know if you were a psycho killer.” He smirked. Fuck he was cute. You step back to take in his appearance. His grey curls and wrinkles indicated that he was much older than you, but Jesus, he was really good-looking. You put your headphones in and smiled to yourself as you exited the elevator. Unexpectedly, you would cross paths again and again and again. This time, you wanted to really get into a conversation. You leaned against the wall as he locked up his apartment. You're coming, he's going.
“I thought you were a doctor or nurse. Why do you always look like you got off a shift from hell?” You asked, leaning against the wall. He chuckled.
“It depends on the day.” He joked, stopping in front of you. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and you bit your lip, staring at the veins. He nodded towards your apartment.
“Unpacked?” He asked. You nodded and introduced yourself properly.
“I’m Jack. I have to head out, but I will see you around, neighbor.” He smiled. You watched him walk away before retreating into your apartment. Jack stood in the elevator, thoughts running a mile a min. He was going on 48 hours of no sleep, clearly losing his mind in the way he was staring at you tonight. You had to be in your 20s, and he has not stopped thinking about you since the first interaction. Control yourself,Abbot. he reminded himself. When the weekend came, Jack found you at your door fumbling with your keys. You were wearing a short red latex dress with a small slit over your right thigh. He damn near groaned at the sight. You turned your head, and that is when he noticed the tears streaming down your face.
“Hey? Hey, you okay?” He walked. You mumbled something, shaking your head. Jack was at your side and unlocked your door. Jack opened your door and helped you inside. You plopped down on the couch and buried your face in your hands. Jack stood near you awkwardly, waiting for the okay to move. You sniffled and wiped your eyes. You knew you must have looked a mess. Make-up running down your face. You wiped your nose.
“Bad date?” He tried to lighten the mood. You chuckled.
“I wish. It’s the anniversary of my brother’s death. I went out with friends and thought I could handle hanging out tonight, but it all came crashing down, so I left.” You stood up and smoothed out your dress. Jack couldn’t help but scan your body. He cleared his throat and looked away, which made you smile.
“I can go if you want to be alone.”
“I don’t want to be alone. I’d like to change and have company if you’re up to it?” You whispered. He nodded and took a seat as you walked away. You changed into shorts and a SpongeBob shirt. You sat on the couch, knees against your chest, staring at the man across from you. He sat with an upright posture, and his expression bordered on serious and curious. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, closed in his lap. The ring caught your eye.
“Are you married?”
He played with the ring.
“Widowed.”
“I’m sorry.” You replied, looking away. He nodded.
“My brother was my best friend. It’s been two years without him. I thought I would be okay today, but it hit me hard. They say it gets easier, but I feel like I’m stuck in this loop.” You buried your face in your knees. Jack moved closer.
“It isn’t about getting easier. You live with it.” He whispered, placing a hand on your back. You turned your head to the right, resting your cheek on your knee.
“How long?”
“She passed away 3 years ago. I still wear my ring, as you can see. I live with it.”
You nodded.
“I have to get to work, but I can check on you in the morning if you would like?” He asked. You nodded, smiling. Sure enough, Jack checked on you after his shift. And from that point forward, the two of you shared small moments as you got to know each other. He told you about his job and his side job, which you strongly disapproved of. You sat across from him, watching him eat your spaghetti. Jack was telling you about his shift from Hell, and you couldn’t help but fall into every word he said. You reached your foot out and ran it up his leg. Jack put his fork down. You were done playing games, and you wanted him. He picked up his water and took a sip as your leg went up further. He grabbed your ankle and placed the glass on the table. You pulled back and stood up, walking over to sit on his lap. Jack stared up at you, swallowing hard.
“Do you want to touch me, Jack?” You whispered, running your hands through his curls. Jack was silent. He immediately put the line between you, but at this very moment, all that was going to go out the door. You were 20 years younger than him in a completely different place in life. He was a widower who hadn’t looked at another since his wife. You pull down the strap of your tank top, and his eyes follow. Your nipples peak through the white fabric. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. You pulled down the other strap, letting the shirt slide down, exposing your breast. Jack reached up and took your nipple between his fingers. He leaned in, eyes still on you, and you nodded. His lips rubbed against your left nipple before he opened his mouth, sucking on it. You sigh and run your hand through his hair, rocking your hips slowly. The line was quickly disappearing. His tongue circled your nipple, and you let out a moan. The line was gone. Jack pulled back to stare up at your eyes, glazed over.
“Do you want this?” He whispered. You nodded, leaned down, and pressed your lips against his. Jack picked you up, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you to your bedroom. You lay back on the bed as he helped you out of your shorts and shirt. Jack sat on his knees, staring down at your lacey underwear.
“Lift your hips.” He whispered. His raspy voice made you clench around nothing. You did as you were told as he peeled down. Jack lay on his stomach and spread your legs. He kissed up your legs every time his stubble brushed against your thighs, and you clenched greedily. Jack kissed between your legs. His tongue swirled around your clit, sending shockwaves through your system. He pushed a finger inside of you, and his sweet eyes darted up to your half-lidded ones.
“This okay?” He mumbled against your cunt. You nodded, begging for more. Jack inserted another finger, replacing his tongue. He sucked on your clit, causing your legs to close around his head. Your hands found rest in the sheets you pull, and you arch your back. He was a messy eater, and his name fell from your lips effortlessly. Your legs rested on his shoulders, your heels digging into his back. The familiar sensation letting you know you were close. He pulls away from your clit to stare up, watching you come undone.
“Give it to me, pretty girl.” He mumbled, going back to your clit. He used his tongue and fingers to fuck the orgasm out of you, making your toes curl. Your chest burned, your face was sweaty, and your body shook from the aftermath. Jack kissed your thighs and sat up, watching you. You could see the outline of his cock in his boxers. You reached over to your nightstand, grabbing a condom. Jack watched you rip it open. You crawled over and pulled his boxers down. You removed his dick and kissed the pink tip already leaking with precum. Your tongue swirled around the slit before inserting it into your mouth, inch by inch. You hollowed your cheeks and slurped, coming back to the tip.
“Good fucking girl,” Jack said, biting his bottom lip. Jack had to pull away from you because he wasn't too sure if he could hold back cumming. He took his boxers off and spread you out on the bed. You watched him slide on the condom.
“This is okay, right?” He asked. You smiled.
“Stop asking me and fuck me, Jack.” You giggled. He groaned and bent down to kiss you. Your nails dug into his back as he slid in. You don't know what you were expecting, but the stretch made your breath get caught in your throat. He distracted you enough with his mind-altering kissing. You couldn't think of anything else except his lips and tongue and how good he felt between your legs. Jack pulled away from the kiss, trying to keep it together, but he couldn't help but moan your name.
“Eyes on me, pretty girl.” He mumbled, snapping his hips. You pulled him down for another kiss.
“Feel so good. Oh god.” You cried out. Jack grabbed your legs, placing them on his shoulders, putting you in a mating press immediately, finding your G-spot. You choked and scratched his arms, his name becoming mixed with gibberish spilling from your lips. Jack felt himself losing control, but he would not let himself cum before you. He poudnied away at you, not caring about the wet nosie of your bodies, the creak of the bed, or the sounds spilling from your lips. He felt you tighten around his cock before you let out a silent cry and reach another orgasm.
“There you go. Good girl. Give it to me.” He mumbled. You dropped one leg off of him as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm, then his. He kissed your neck before pulling back and tossing the condom. That was the first of many rounds. You were a bit surprised at his stamina, but not that much, knowing his extracurricular activities. You woke up, wiped down, cleaned the bedroom and kitchen, but no Jack. Your best friend, Leila, came over around noon and stared at you. You couldn’t stop smiling, and you and Jack have been texting back and forth all day. He had to leave because he was called in, but he told you it was a good night.
“Omg….you fucked that old man,” Leila said. You slammed your phone down.
“Lei…he’s not that old.” You replied.
“Umm, he’s 20 years older than you. Be so for real. Tell me now!”
And you spilled details about how he was the best you’ve ever had and how fucking good he was with his tongue. She asked if he had any friends, and you told her you guys keep it very casual, so you’re unaware. Over the next few weeks, the two of you fall into hookups and early mornings together. He gets off work fucks you on whatever surface he can get you on the quickest, and you shower and rush to work. It was a habit you were getting used to. Then Jack met your friends, and things from that point on got more personal, without proper wording about where the relationship was going.
“Jack, you could totally be our DD.” Leila beamed. Jack was currently reading over documents sitting at your island while you and your friends were getting ready for a girls’ night out. The two of you have been in this situation for about 7 months now. Jack put his glasses on the counter and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“What is DD?” He asked.
“Designated driver,” Maria shouted from the bathroom. Katie started laughing.
“You guys could Uber. That’s the rideshare thing, right?” Jacked replied, eyeing you from across the room. Leila grabbed your face and squeezed it.
“Trust me, if you see the little number this beauty is wearing, you’re not going to want her in a rideshare.” She smiled. You smacked her hand away and stood up. You crossed the room and stood between his legs. You rubbed his cheeks before pecking his lips.
“So what were the 80s like?” Leila asked, leaning on the counter.
You rolled your eyes and laughed as Jack and Leila started bickering. It was endearing how your friends and Jack got along. After the four of you were dressed, you stepped out of the room. Jack put his pen down. You were dressed in black latex pants with stitches up the sides. Your thong strings sat on your hips, and the tube top, which could barely be called that, left nothing to the imagination. Your friends were dressed the same, and Jack wiped the corner of his mouth and sighed.
“Don’t have a heart attack, gramps.” Leila laughed. Jack grabbed his keys.
“I’ll drive you guys. It’s freezing outside, by the way.”
“We’re going to sleep at Kate’s so you can drop us off there after.” You smiled, kissing his lips. He nodded. By the end of the night, all 4 of you were drunk, and it took Jack everything in his power to get all of you to the car buckled.
“Where keys?” Katie cried, standing at her door, shivering. Leila leaned against the door, shaking eyes barely open. Maria recorded them laughing.
“It’s so fucking cold. Please go see what’s taking them so long.” Katie cried bednign over.
“Jack! It’s cold, dude! Jaaaaaack!” Leila shouted. Jack came around the corner carrying you as Leila continued screaming his name.
”Shut up. Shut up.” He mumbled to Leila, setting you on your feet and using Katie’s keys to unlock the door. Jack scooped you back up as the girls trickled in, laughing. That was the first of many nights with your friends.
“Jack,” Leila enters the waiting room. He stands up, and they share a hug.
“How is she?” Leila asks, trying to keep her composure. He shakes his head.
“You’ll have to ask her parents. They won’t tell me anything so-”
“I’m sorry. They’re just looking out for her. You know how much they care.” She whispers, looking at the floor.
“I care about her too.”
“I’m not denying that. But…”
Jack places his hands on his hips, waiting for her to continue. Leila pushes her hair behind her ears.
“But her parents might be right about some things.”
“Jesus Christ, Leila, I don’t need this shit right now!” He snaps. She purses her lips together. Jack rubs his eyes.
“Did you know she was pregnant?” He asks the only person in this world besides you who would know why you hid your pregnancy. Leila can’t meet his eyes, which tells him everything he knew.
“Yes. She found out two weeks ago.”
“Two..Ha, two fucking weeks ago? When was she going to tell me?” Jack snaps. Leila stands up.
“She didn’t know how. She didn’t know where the relationship was going. She just needed time-”
“Time? She is through her first fucking trimester hw much time did she need to tell me? Me, the father of her child!”
“Jack….calm down. She has her reasons. You still wear your wedding ring. She knows no one in your life! You hid her like a curse.”
“She’s not…I don’t hide her. I-”
“You do. She didn’t think you wanted something more with her. She-”
“Leila, there you are.” Your mother walks into the room. They hug, and your mother glares at Jack. Jack excuses himself, making his way to the only place besides your apartment where he finds peace. The roof. Jack doesn’t know how long he has stood out there. He lost feeling in his face and hands a long time ago. A hand appears with a cup of coffee. Abbot takes it from Robby.
“How is she?” He asks.
“She is stable for now. We intubated and sedated, and her core temp is coming up slowly.” Robby responds, looking out to the city.
“What about her injuries?”
“Multiple fractures, nothing we can’t manage. The biggest concern right now is hypothermia and possible internal trauma. We’re monitoring closely. Robby explains. Abbott lets out a sigh. The question is lingering on Robby’s tongue; he knows. There are questions that Abbott isn’t ready to answer. Abbot nods, absorbing the information, not on the family side but on the doctor's side. He knows there is a chance you might crash. You could fucking die, and he would-
“And the pregnancy?” Abbot clears his throat, turning towards Robby. Robby lets the question linger, which makes Abbot’s chest tighten, preparing himself for heartbreak.
“We did a bedside ultrasound once she was stable enough. There is fetal cardiac activity.” Robby replies. Abbot stands there staring at him. He was preparing himself for the worst and was unable to process this news. Robby pats his shoulder.
“There’s a heartbeat,” Robby adds on.
“Okay,” Abbot replies. His voice is softer, and he doesn't recognize it.
“It’s early. About 12 weeks, like she told EMS. We can’t monitor it continuously at this stage, and with her condition. There's risk.”
“But right now?” Abbot asks.
“They are both holding on right now,” Robby confirms. Abbot lets the thoughts toss around in his brain. Both. He closes his eyes, letting everything sink in. This was real, you this baby he didn't even know about last night.
“I shouldn't be giving you this update. You know that.” Robby brings him back.
“I know. Thank you.”
They’re quiet again, drinking their coffees.
“Is she your?” Robby doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“My girlfriend. yeah.” Abbot clarifies. Robby hits his back and smiles.
“Get down there and support her like a boyfriend, then. Take off your scrubs and get out of doctor mode. Get fucking lucky with her parents.” He laughs. Jack smiles. He returns to the waiting area dressed in regular clothes. Your other three friends are here now, and each gives him a hug. Your parents sit in the corner, not making eye contact. Instinctively, Jack reaches for his ring to play with, but stops, remembering he put it in his locker. He folds his hands in his lap and puts his head down.
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, parent death, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓 — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. — May 24th
PART THREE — May 28th
PART FOUR — June 1st
PART FIVE — June 4th
PART SIX — June 9th
More chapters TBD
If you'd like to be tagged in posts for this series, let me know!
authors note: this is the first time i’ve written smut. i’m sorry if it’s horrible. don’t crucify meeee. actually WAIT tell me if its bad so i can improve.
—
the first time she stayed at jacks place she spent the hours of their date pretending she wasn’t nervous.
dinner. museum. ice cream.
giggles. kisses. whispers.
when they ended up back to their apartment complex, he asked if she wanted to spend the night. of course she obliged. feeling like a giddy school girl, she went to her place to change into an oversized sweater and pajama pants. it made her feel more at ease.
when she walked back into his dimly lit place, she found him standing in the kitchen. he was putting the cake they ordered at dinner into the fridge for later because suddenly all they wanted was ice cream.
“baby,” he murmured from where he leaned against the counter, amused eyes dragging over her. “you good?”
her cheeks burned. “yeah, why?” she scoffed.
“yeah?” he teased at her a little. “your eye’s twitching.”
she groaned softly and covered her face. “please stop looking at me.”
his laugh rumbled low in his chest. the kind of laugh that alone could make her knees buckle if she wasn’t holding on to the counter next to him for support.
-
things between them had changed slowly over the last month. breathless kisses while jack would pull her into his lap whenever they watched movies, and dangerous traveling hands before he had to run for work.
he was patient with her. almost painfully patient.
he always would be. but sometimes he wondered if she realized how badly he wanted her.
“c’mere,” he murmured as he sat on a plush bar stool.
she peeked at him through her fingers as he held a hand out toward her.
she walked over slowly and he quickly pulled her between his thick thighs, calloused hands settling on her hips effortlessly. he squeezed making her swat at his hands playfully.
“hi,” he said quietly.
“…hi.”
his thumbs rubbed against her sides through the sweater. “you okay?”
she nodded too fast making his eyebrow twitch. she sighed, tilting her head at him as she grazed her fingers against his jawline.
“sweetheart.”
he always sounded so unfairly gentle when he called her that.
“you know we don’t have do anything tonight, right?”
that made her gasp, “i want to.”
and before she could take another breath, he pulled her flush against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. she melted embarrassingly fast as his mouth brushed against her temple.
“you know how long i’ve wanted you?” he questioned, leaning back enough to look at her. “seriously. you have any idea what you do to me?”
she couldn’t even hold eye contact anymore as the heat at her center started to intensify, pressing her thighs together for some relief.
he noticed. of course he did. he smiled softly, thumb brushing beneath her chin until she looked at up at him again.
“you’re so goddamn pretty when you get shy.”
her entire body flushed as he started trailing wet kisses against her check, moving towards her earlobe. earning a hum in response for him to keep going.
she clutched his shoulders, letting out a small whimper as he rubbed his scruff against her skin teasingly slow before finding her sweet spot. right below her ear and nibbled playfully before pressing a tender kiss.
“jack…”
“what?” his grin turned crooked. “am i wrong?”
she buried her face against his in the crook of his neck
his laugh vibrated against her chest.
“baby,” he said warmly, caressing her arms. “stop hiding from me.”
she nodded in return, wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips against his making him groan.
his kisses deepened slowly, carefully. like he was still checking every few seconds to make sure she was okay.
but then her fingers slid into his hair and she kissed him back harder like a fire that wouldn’t relent and jack lost it a little.
“fuck,” he breathed against her mouth.
the sound shot straight through her making her whimper as she felt his palms grasp her bum. she kissed him again, opening her mouth for him as he squeezed her skin.
they heaved as he pulled away, his forehead pressing against hers briefly, his chest fast against hers. her nipples going hard at the friction.
“look at what you do to me.” he said roughly. he took her hand in his and moved it down towards his erection. hard. needy.
she palmed him through his jeans as their lips glued together again, causing her to sigh as he slid his hands under her sweatshirt, groping at her breasts beneath the fabric.
“no bra—” he moaned as he felt her runt against her wrist as she palmed his cock through his jeans. “f-uck baby. look at you.”
she sighed into him as she continued her exploration. the hand resting in his hair trembling as he pinched her nipple harder.
“please.” she cried out— breaking the kiss as she rocked her hips against her wrist again. biting her lip painfully hard. her cheeks flushing as he gaped at her in awe.
he was quick to grab her wrist and hover his palms against her heat, “can i?” he asked drunkenly as he trailed his hands to the hem of her pajama pants.
“y-yes” she quivered.
jack swiftly pushed them down her ankles. she kicked the useless pair of cotton behind her as his eyes stayed glued into here, moving his hand back towards her throbbing center.
when his fingers grazed the thin fabric of her panties— already wet for him, they hissed shapely, her head falling onto his shoulder.
“what do you want baby?”
she wiggled her hips, gasping at the contact of his thick fingers. jack pushed up for her to feel the friction as she let out a string of soft moans— before he removed his hand.
she nipped at his skin in protest, lifting her pretty head to look at him in. “use your words.” he told her, “i want to hear your pretty voice.”
she pouted, gripping at his shirt to pull his body closer to her. a blush traveling down her neck. jack chased it with his lips as he pressed open mouthed pecks against it as her head fell back.
her body shook. letting out a, “p-please.”
“please what?”
she groaned and he chuckled in astonishment. he loved this. every single second of it.
“touch me.”
“where?”
she nearly screamed. frustrated at him and embarrassed at how needy she was. she liked to think she held herself well when it came to this. she snatched his wrist and pulled it down between her legs again.
gritting her teeth she whispered, “here. touch me here.”
“yeah?” he murmured.
“mhm.”
“need words, sweetheart.”
“Yes.”
that nearly killed him. she saw it happen in real time as she watched jack’s eyes darken immediately, his grip flexing against her waist to hold her steady before he kissed her again deeper this time. rougher. the patience finally cracking around the edges of his teasing demeanor.
he moved her panties to the side before exploring her slick with his middle and index finger causing her whole body to jolt. she gasped loudly into the kiss.
hearing the wet sound of herself echo through the room around them. she bucked her hips into his hand as he moved dangerously slow. he smirked against her mouth as he slowly moved his finger to press onto her clit.
she saw white, “oh, fuck!” she sobbed into his mouth and his head dropped instantly to her shoulder.
“jesus christ,” he muttered against her skin. “you like that baby?” he pressed. moving his finger in the most sinful motion— her legs trembling beneath her.
“oh god— yesyes!”
her hands clutched his shoulders. hard. to keep herself from crumbling as his mouth moved lower. more slow open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive spot beneath her ear and moving to the base of her neck as she arched.
everything felt dizzy.
hot.
“i got you.” he said, pulling her flush against his body as his fingers worked. his jaw going slack as he looked down at her with hooded eyes. “i got you, do you understand?”
“uh—huh” she moaned, nodding her head quickly.
his pace started to quicken making her wrap her fingers around his wrist, the feeling becoming too much— her mind turning into s mess of static mush. her wetness dripping down her thighs as she strung out curses under her breath.
“oh god— ah!” she let out a voiceless scream as she felt herself come close.
he smiled at that.
his little lady. on his fingers.
looking all flushed. all pretty and sweet.
“jack!” she cried out.
he didn’t relent his pace.
“baby” she said louder.
she didn’t even know what she wanted to say. or how to say it.
“yeah, baby?”
“i’m going to come.” she said panicked. like she was coming undone too fast for his liking.
he looked up at her, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from kissing her.
completely wrecked already and they’d just gotten started.
“mh- yeah okay baby.” he said her name.
“b-but i’m barley lasting.” she babbled.
jack growled. hating how self conscious she was even now.
“sweetheart, we have all night.” he said, pushing his fingers into her hole making her clench her things together in response at the overwhelming feeling of them.
“bu—“
“come.” he demanded.
and with that. she came. hard. shockwaves making her body convulse as he held her. she moaned his name over and over as he moved. kissing her hair.
he finally stilled his hand as her body fell limp on his lap. he was quick to scoop her up into his arms.
her eyelashes fluttering as he made his way to the bedroom. he kissed her forehead as he kicked the door behind them and walked them towards the bed.
his expression was soft and he kissed her again— slower this time and she could feel how carefully he was holding himself back for her.
“don’t ever feel like you need to hold yourself back.” he cooed as he moved her onto the bed.
“i’m sorry.” she said.
she moved back towards the headboard. watching him as he staked towards her, pulling his shirt over his head.
“you’re apologizing because i made you feel good?”
her face burned instantly.
“when you say it like that—”
“because that’s exactly what you just said.”
jack laughed softly under his breath and sat on the bed next to her.
“hey.” his fingers brushed hair away from her cheek gently. “why are you embarrassed?”
“i don’t know.” she smiled shyly despite herself. “i just felt dramatic.”
“dramatic?” jack repeated. “sweetheart, i was trying very hard not to lose my mind watching you.”
she made a mortified noise immediately.
he grinned. “there she is.”
“jack, seriously.”
“no, seriously.” his voice softened then. “you have nothing to be self conscious about. nothing.”
his thumb stroked slowly across her knee while he looked at her with that same overwhelming tenderness that always made her chest ache.
“if anything,” he murmured, “all i could think was thank god she feels safe with me.”
that hit her right in the heart.
jack leaned down, kissing her forehead softly.
“you never have to apologize for letting go with me,” he whispered. “ever.”
she nodded as his hands caressed her legs. smiling at her with his eyebrow raised before pushing her legs open to look at what he had just done.
she pressed her lips together while he brought a finger close to her folds again. a sharp inhale filling the room.
“how many times can i make you come tonight?”
she reached for him and pulled his forearm so body was fully on the bed.
“i- i don’t know.” her voice faltered.
her head falling back against the headboard while jack rested on his knees, hovering over her so dangerously she thought she’d combust right then and there.
her hands found his chiseled chest and gripped onto his pecks, “why don’t you find out.” she grit out.
SYNOPSIS: After 4 months of night shifts, and an accidental bonding with the widowed attending, fleeting days out after extensive shifts and feelings that grow into an unnamed relationship with a man who refuses to acknowledge anything - you finally switch back to day shifts. Now, it becomes harder to find where you stand in the life of the night attending, and whether or not there really was anything at all.
𖦹°⋆ next to a chapter means it includes a written part!
TAGLIST CLOSED
CHAPTERS:
╰┈➤ background info & extra context!
⋆˚࿔ CH.1 GOONETTE RETURNS
⋆˚࿔ CH.2 MOMMYS SICK, BABY
⋆˚࿔ CH.3 DOUBLE STANDARDS 𖦹°⋆
⋆˚࿔ CH.4 HOLD YOUR HEAD
⋆˚࿔ CH.5 AIRING OUT
⋆˚࿔ CH.6 yikes…. 𖦹°⋆
⋆˚࿔ CH.7 THE MORNING AFTER (LOSING ALL YOUR FRIENDS)
⋆˚࿔ CH.8 NEVER LOOKING BACK!!
⋆˚࿔ CH.9 ALWAYS COMES TOO LATE…
⋆˚࿔ CH.10 JACK ABBOT IS OVER PARTY
⋆˚࿔ CH.11 TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, BREAK MY HEART
⋆˚࿔ CH.12 RUMOUR HAS IT
⋆˚࿔ CH.13 GOONETTE RETURNS (AGAIN!)
CONTENT WARNINGS BELOW THE CUT!
Content warning throughout: hurt/comfort in last chapters, implied neurodivergent! reader (can be read by people with neurodivergence as it’s not major or a plot line :) , mentions of mental health issues, miscommunication (?), reader is an anxious mess, author trying to be funny & overuse of reaction pics 😣, jack lowk an ass for a bit, probably OOC (i tried my best but this is my first time doing any writing for the public!)
i tried not to use any ships! i know some people get put off fics bc they don’t like ships within it . There is also mentions of Mohabbot in earlier chapters FOR THE PLOT!!!
A/N: Hii! iim actually shitting myself bc i have crippling RSD and im terrified somebody’s gonna dookie on my ass for this - lowk have no idea how writers do tag lists or masterlists or anything because im slow so gimme a sec 🥹 Im also currently doing my A levels (yes im aware jack abbot is like 30 years older than me i do NOT gaf) & working so pls be patient with me if i get slow — i have 4 chapters planned atm. im not really a dedicated soul & this may get forgotten and unfinished. peer pressure me and send me aggressive DMS and i’ll comply!
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), period sex, period symptoms, fingering (f rec), period blood as lube
wc: 800ish
a/n: reader is wearing period panties even though I have no experience with them, but I don’t want to have a tampon flying around in this fic, and I personally dislike pads.
also, I think this is my first period sex fic??? I remember writing one or two within the last year, but I don’t think I ever finished one. correct me if I’m wrong
now playing: River – Leon Bridges
It’s 7:34 AM when Jack comes home. For once, he is on time. The 12-hour shift lasted exactly 12 hours, no sudden emergencies or catastrophes forcing him to stay longer.
The first thing he notices is how high the heat is in the apartment. Jack sweats a little after only a minute inside. He kicks off his shoes and advances further into the home he shares with you.
A half-empty mug sits in the sink, the tea cold now. Jack peers at the label and frowns softly as he sees that it is raspberry leaf—your go-to herbal pain relief for cramps.
The kettle is still warm when he presses his fingers against it.
He walks up to your bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, and the soft sounds of the TV on low volume spill out into the hallway.
Jack finds you curled up on the bed, with your lips pressed together tightly and the hot water bottle resting on your lower tummy. Your face is buried in his pillow.
“Hey,” he whispers and leans down to kiss your forehead.
Your eyes flutter open, a little hazy and unfocused, slightly reddened from tears spilled earlier.
“Hi,” you manage to mumble.
“Bad day, hm?” Jack asks quietly.
He sits on your side of the bed and plays with your hair in an attempt to soothe you.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“You talk to that gynecologist yet that I—“
You interrupt him with a glare. Now is not the time to talk about doctor visits.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Got it.”
For a while, he just stays with you and smooths his palm over your head, whispering soft reassurances.
When a bad cramp hits, and your entire body tenses up, Jack winces sympathetically.
“C’mon, sweetpea,” he instructs softly. “Scoot over. Cuddle time.”
He spoons you from behind, one arm slung over your waist while the other snakes under your shoulder. His lips press against the back of your head.
“You take any painkillers yet?” he asks.
“Of course.” The ache makes your tone a little sharper. Jack forgives you instantly.
“Okay,” he replies and kisses your cheek.
His arm slides from your side to your lower tummy, applying gentle pressure over the tensing muscles. The warmth of his skin seeps into yours, easing the pain just a little.
Jack watches as your face relaxes a bit.
“That okay, sweet girl?” he mumbles and rubs his nose against the back of your head.
You nod silently. He tightens his arms around you until you melt right back into him.
Sleep doesn’t come for either one of you. Jack worries too much as your body tightens and shivers through the cramps. He just wants to help in any way he can.
He lets his hand wander from your lower tummy, just dipping down a little further until the tips of his fingers brush against the waistband of your panties.
“Jack?” you murmur.
You’re exhausted. Tired. A little out of it.
“It’s okay, sweetpea,” he answers. There’s a light rasp to his voice.
“I got you. Gonna make it better.”
His fingers drift below the waistband of your panties—your muscles clamp together.
“Jack, what are you doing?” you question.
He shushes you gently.
“I’m just helpin’, baby,” he mumbles. “Just helpin’ with the cramps.”
He feels the dampness in the curls that protect your folds, the blood that clings to your skin. His middle finger teases your slit, picking up some of that wetness as he swipes through your cunt.
“Let me help you,” he whispers.
He finds your clit with two fingers and slowly starts to circle it. His lips press against your cheek, soothing you tenderly.
A soft moan tumbles from your lips, making Jack smile.
“That feels good, doesn’t it, sweetpea?”
You nod, whining needily in response.
He keeps his touch gentle, just massaging your bundle of nerves for now. You’re in enough pain as it is; he won’t give you his fingers until you’re a little more relaxed.
Instead, he uses his free hand to slide under your sleep shirt and cup your breast. He feels the tenderness, the swollen tissue, and sighs pitifully.
“I got you, just relax,” he whispers.
His fingers keep swiping over your clit, easing you off towards an orgasm. Your face scrunches up beautifully, brows drawing together in bliss. For a moment, all cramps are forgotten as Jack guides you over the edge.
You cum softly—not so hard that it might disrupt the peaceful cocoon he’s been working hard to spin around you, but enough that your body releases happy hormones, which ease the cramps naturally.
Jack coos faintly and presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead.
“Better?” he whispers.
You nod, eyes half-lidded.
Jack smiles and pulls his hand from your panties, dismissing the blood underneath his nails completely.
“Good. Just what the doctor ordered, hm?”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Man-child / Why you always come a-running to me? / Fuck my life / Won't you let an innocent woman be? / (Why so sexy if so dumb?) / And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them
Overview: You're the Codys' new neighbor. You seem boring enough, not much of a threat. But Smurf and Baz are interested in that cushy new job at the bank you'd told them about.
So they send in Pope, hoping to get some decent information out of you. And he knows the rules, don't fall for the marks. But you make it impossible to stick to that rule and Smurf sees that as a threat. She sees you as a threat.
wc: 17.0k
Belle’s 3k follower extravaganza!!
It’s hard to stare at the interior of your new home and not think that the past two years of your life have been a complete waste. You’ve dedicated them to one man who couldn’t offer you anything more than broke-boyfriend hugs and a complete absence of emotional availability.
Twenty-four months of your life were spent financially, emotionally, and physically supporting a man who crawled right back to his mother’s basement when you finally dumped him. He had slept with every one of your friends, maxed out all your credit cards, and generally been a blight upon your life in every conceivable way.
Now, with no family or friends, you hauled out what little belongings you had from your U-Haul and dragged them into your new house. It had been an absolute steal, one you were still suspicious of. In a prominent neighborhood with houses that look straight from an architecture digest, you managed to find one you could afford with a bank teller’s salary. Which, admittedly, is not as much as you need right now to get rid of your ex’s debt he’d so generously left you.
The realtor had been more than happy to dump the keys in your palm. The owners themselves had dropped their price to your last-ditch offer in a way that made your stomach turn. But you needed something new. Something that didn’t remind you of the man-child you’d spent two years cleaning up after and re-mothering.
So, despite the red flags and klaxon alarms, you took the keys and ignored the pitying way the people across the street watched you. You’d researched the neighborhood, it didn’t have any higher crime rates than your old one. You hadn’t read any headlines in the news that would make you regret your choice.
It wasn’t until your second night there that you realized why, exactly, everyone had treated you like a kicked stray.
You have your pillow wrapped as tightly as possible around your head without actually suffocating yourself. The house right beside you has its music blaring on obnoxious speakers, girls screaming the lyrics, and guys cheering as they jump off the roof into your neighbor’s pool.
Despite the fact that everyone over there looks, at the very least, thirty, they’re partying like it’s Y2K and the world’s about to end.
So, this is why the house was so fucking cheap. Figures.
You let out a low groan and bury your face into the mattress. You have your TV on, white noise playing, even music blaring from your phone. It doesn't even put a goddamn dent in the howling happening in the next house over.
The universe really just did not feel like giving you a break. Dating Colin wasn’t enough punishment for the sins of your past life. Now you had to live next to the goddamn Playboy Manor.
The number of women who had streamed in there in thongs and barely-there bikinis had been concerning, to say the least. And the fact that half of them received payment on entry was even more disturbing.
Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have been posted at your window, glaring down at the neighbor’s house. But, really, you didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what you tell your nosy ass.
Tomorrow, you swear to yourself. You will march over there, demand an explanation, and then politely ask them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, though, you were too damn exhausted to do anything but bask in your own misery.
Fix the bitch face, you remind yourself, forcing a half-pleasant smile on your face as your neighbor opens her door. The smile slips into a slightly awed expression as you take in the older woman. Her hair perfectly tousled, boobs right in your face with that bikini, and a silk robe wrapped around her like a second skin. Holy shit. You’d been expecting some finance ass in his thirties, not a hot mom in her fifties.
“Hi,” you draw out uncertainly. Her eyes narrow, flitting up and down your form as she appraises you. Your shoulders straighten, chin jutting out under her judgment.
“Can I help you, baby?” The rasp of her voice should have been expected, but it still takes you off guard.
You hold out your plate of (poorly-baked) cookies and adjust your smile. “Yes, hi,” you give her your name. “I just moved in next door,” you tell her, nodding toward your house. “I thought I would introduce myself to my new neighbors.”
And politely ask you all to shut. The. Fuck. Up. On weeknights. You’re a reasonable woman.
The stern look on her face makes way for something you wouldn’t describe as soft, but at least it didn’t look like she was about to pull a gun on you. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She opens the door and motions you inside. You almost protest but the sharp look on her face has you stepping forward with your tail tucked.
“You know,” her hand hovers over your lower back as she leads you deeper inside. “Not enough girls are like you, anymore. No manners,” she scoffs, voice airy like she’s already a world away from your conversation.
“Why don’t you change, we’re having a little party by the pool.” Of course you are, the only reason you don’t roll your eyes is because you’re 90% sure she would spank you like a child.
“Oh,” you flounder. “I just wanted to introduce myself, that’s all. Besides, I don’t have a suit.”
She laughs, the noise unkind, and turns you toward a bedroom. “You know the great thing about string bikinis,” she rasps into your ear. “They look good on anyone. Bottom drawer,” with a slight shove, you’re stumbling into the room and the door is closing behind you.
That woman is a witch, you’re so sure of it. Not only did you obey, picking through different sizes of bikinis until you found your own, you found yourself waiting for her next instructions. Standing outside the bedroom in your heels and half naked, you feel ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when she lets out a low whistle at the sight of you.
“Smurf,” she offers, holding out her hand. You repeat your name again and follow her through the glass doors of her patio.
“Let me introduce you to the boys.”
Your eyes widen as you trip slightly. “Boys?” You croak. Meeting Smurf was bad enough, especially now that she’s got you half-naked prancing around her pool. You had no interest in meeting any of the rowdy assholes screwing around in her backyard.
She hums and sends you a smug smirk, “My boys.” Great, more of her. You’d hit your quota of mama-boys in your life after your ex. You had no interest in meeting any more, but there wasn’t much of a choice as she shouted, “Boys, get over here!”
Four messy heads of hair whip toward her and suddenly, four grown men are racing toward you. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand as you swallow down the urge to turn tail and run back home.
“Craig,” she motions toward the tallest and the one eyeing up your body like you’re a slab of meat at the butcher’s. You’ve never wanted to crawl out of your skin more. “Baz,” he offers his hand. You take it tentatively. His gaze isn’t any better. Only Deran and J, the other two, seem to be looking at you like you’re a human being.
“She brought us some cookies,” Smurf holds out the plate and you frown at the condescending tone of her voice.
“Who are you?” Craig mutters around a mouthful of chocolate chips.
“New neighbor,” Smurf answers for you. Baz’s gaze darts to her and you don’t like the narrow-eyed look they share.
“Really?” Baz asks. The interest in his stare is entirely different now. So unsettling you almost wish he would go back to objectifying you. It feels like he’s trying to crawl under your skin, pick you apart until he’s got your inner workings memorized.
Smurf hums and places the plate down on a nearby table. “I thought we should keep her around, maybe have her for dinner. Get to know her,” the men’s eyes widen slightly and you know that they’re hearing something you’re not. Your stomach rolls unpleasantly.
“Well,” your voice cracks as you take a shaky step back. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Baz steps toward you, herding around you until you’re being pushed toward a lounge chair. “No intrusion,” he insists as you pretend not to notice the woman doing a line off her hand beside you. You sit stiff and straight, praying as desperately as you can that you’re not about to be trafficked.
“Stick around,” he instructs. “I want to get to know our new neighbor.” You offer nothing more than a squeaky hum. He walks back toward his family and suddenly you’re a deer caught in a fox's den as they stare at you, whispering amongst themselves.
God, you really stepped in it this time.
You’ve had three drinks shoved in your hand in under an hour. Each of them has gone untouched, passed off to whatever partygoer walked by you. Smurf doesn’t speak to you, just sits in her chair and watches everyone. J and Deran asked you brief questions about yourself, but it’s been Baz who’s truly been hounding you.
Every ten minutes, he’ll stop beside you, ask you some “innocent” questions about yourself. You keep your answers brief, each response feeling like a test that you have no luck in passing. Your limit for strangers and loud music is about ten minutes and by this point, you feel ready to pass out or throw up.
Not only is Smurf’s family disturbing and intimidating. The people all around you have been snorting, sniffing, and smoking illicit substances that you want no part in. You actually don’t care how loud they are at night, now, you just want to get out of this party alive.
So, when Baz gets held up breaking up a fight between Craig and Deran, you take your chance. Your heels click against the stone path as you make your way toward one of the doors. Smurf’s blocking the one she led you through, so you end up finding your way into someone’s bedroom.
Just as you’re sliding the glass door shut, the one behind you clicks open. “Fuck,” you hiss.
“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, sharp in a way that has chills breaking out along your body. With a tight smile, you whip around, back pressed to the cold glass.
Hazel eyes are narrowed in your direction, cold and emotionless. “Hi-”
“Who’s that?” A little girl pops up behind him, head tilted curiously.
“Don’t know,” he replies. The man turns, pushing her out of the room. “Find your dad,” he tells her. He waits until she runs off to close the door and you realize how well and truly fucked you are. Because not only are you in a stranger’s house, you’re now being cornered against a bed by a man who looks like he hasn’t felt remorse in years.
“Who are you?” He asks again. He doesn’t raise his voice, but you still feel a shock of fear regardless.
“Neighbor,” you stutter out. His eyes dip down your body, not admiring, assessing. Still, you find your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach, wishing you were in more than, essentially, a bra and thong.
“We don’t have neighbors,” he takes a step closer, rolling up his sleeves in a way that has your breakfast coming up your throat.
“Now you do,” you offer weakly, hands splayed like you’re some sort of surprise. “I, um, brought cookies and Smurf told me to stay. Gave me a bathing suit and…” you trail off as he comes to a stop. His shoulders roll back and for a moment, you feel a little bit of your anxiety ease.
“I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of here. I didn’t realize this was your room, I’m sorry.” He nods once, eyes still roaming across your body. Finally, he steps back, opening up the door and nodding you forward.
You hesitate just a moment before he lets out a slight huff. “Get out.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just bluntly. It’s enough to get you hightailing your way through the rest of the house. You feel him following behind you, rather than hear him. His presence is looming despite his size, broad and an imitation of your own shadow.
When you pause at the entrance of the bedroom you’d first walked into, he comes up beside you, arms crossed. “What?”
You startle at his sudden appearance and wrap your arms around yourself once more. His eyes narrow on the movement but he says nothing. “My clothes are gone.”
“Clearly,” you’re so caught off guard by what could, almost, be a joke that you forget to take offense.
“No,” you stutter over his audacity and glare. “Smurf put me in this. I left my dress in here. It’s gone.”
The patio door opens behind you both and he shoots you a sharp look. “Go home.”
You glance down at your half-naked body and then back at him. “Like this?”
His hand, rough and calloused, is already wrapped around your arm and dragging you to the front door. “Either that or stay for dinner.” Even if you did want to stay, he gave you no choice. With a light nudge, you’re stumbling down their front steps and the door is slamming behind you.
Before any other neighbors see you, you book it toward your home and throw yourself inside. Tomorrow, you’ll mourn the loss of that dress. Right now, you’re just thankful for the shark-eyed stranger who hustled you out of there.
“Again, Mr. Murray, I’m not allowed to date our clients.” You offer the eighty-year-old man in front of you a forced smile. He laughs you off and leans against the counter. There’s a distinct pop that you’re sure is his hip slipping out of place.
“Nonsense, sweetheart, it’s just a little lunch.” Normally, the older clients are sweet, a little touchy. But they just want someone to talk to, to have someone listen to them, since their kids gave up on them years ago. Mr. Murray, however, is nothing more than a pushy nuisance who thinks sexual harassment is a PC snowflake term invented by prudes.
You glance around him and groan at the long line forming behind his hunched back. “Mr. Murray, you’re flattering me, really, but I have a lot of people waiting.”
His brows draw in and you brace yourself for a temper tantrum when a frighteningly familiar voice interrupts. “Are you done?” Mr. Murray turns and you find a man with shark-eyes and auburn curls watching you. Jerking back slightly, your hand smooths over your hair, primping, as your neighbor moves beside the old man.
Mr. Murray draws back with a why-I-oughta look but he cowers under the younger man’s intense gaze. It’s not even a glare, just the kind of stare that makes you completely rethink who you are as a person.
“Just a joke,” Mr. Murray grunts as he wanders off.
It’s just you and shark-eyes now, you can’t tell if you’re excited or dreadful. “Hi, again.” He says nothing and you scratch the back of your neck. “Nice to see you while I’m fully clothed.” It takes everything in you not to drop your head to your desk, because what compelled you to say that?
A small noise leaves him, nowhere close to a laugh but you think it’s the best you’ll get. “Need to open an account,” it’s all he says before sliding a large pile of hundreds toward you.
“Oh,” your eyes widen as you gape at the obnoxiously large amount of money. You’re used to working at credit unions. They’re homely, poorly furnished, and not used by the richest people. This new job is cushy, a bank so fancy it’s even got a chandelier dangling from the ceiling.
You haven’t had much time to grow accustomed to people with real money working with you. Still, though, this seems like an obscene amount. “Uh,” you clear your throat and tidy the bills into two piles. “My manager opens accounts, just give me a moment.”
His hands ball into fists and he lets out another sharp huff. “I’d prefer if you did it,” he insists and your brows turn in.
“I don’t think I’m-”
“What’s going on over here?” Your manager comes up behind you, hand trailing across your shoulders as he leans against your desk. Shark-eyes tracks the movement and how you shudder. Your manager’s attention falls to the stacks of cash and his breath stutters.
“He wants me to open his account.”
“Why aren’t you?” He demands sharply, pulling back.
Your eyes dart between the two men and you shrink back. Switching jobs was supposed to help you regain control over your life, not put you under the thumb of another poorly developed man-child.
“I’m not supposed to,” you grit out. “You said that, Mike.”
He rubs his hands together and lets out a nervous laugh, “Good day to start.” He collects the other man’s cash and pulls out your chair. He says your name and places his hand on your lower back. “She’ll take you to one of our offices and help you get set up.”
With a huff, you jerk away from Mike’s hand and motion for your neighbor to follow you. He’s eerily silent as he trails behind you. Opening up an empty office, you motion him inside, letting the door shut quietly behind him.
Situating yourself behind the desk, you pull out the new account paperwork. “Alright,” you hum to yourself, leafing through the papers.
“Is he always like that?”
Your eyes widen as you glance up. “Sorry?”
He leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and body stiff with tension. “Your boss. Is he always like that?”
You scoff and log in to the bank’s system. “If you mean domineering and a pain in my ass, then yes.” Somehow, his lips fall even flatter at your blunt admission. “It’s a new job,” you find yourself explaining for some reason. “Once the ‘fresh meat’ interest wears off, I’m sure he’ll back off.”
He hums but doesn’t offer you anything else. “Okay,” you draw the word out and slide him the papers. “First things first, need your name.”
He picks up the pen and scribbles it down, you tilt your head in curiosity. “Andrew,” you muse. His shoulders stiffen but he says nothing. “I thought Smurf only had four sons.” It’s an innocent enough inquiry, but from the glare he sends you, you’d think you’d told him you ran over his dog.
“Sorry,” you back off, sliding the papers back toward yourself. Your nails click against the keyboard, struggling to figure out the alien system as you try and finish this as quickly as possible.
“Three,” he suddenly announces.
You hum absentmindedly. “What was that?”
Andrew clears his throat and shifts slightly, but his stare remains strong. Practically burning into you. “She’s got three sons. Deran, Craig, and me. Baz and J aren’t hers.”
You glance over at him and your brows furrow at just how uncomfortable he looks at such a small admission. Further confirmation that you should probably stay as far away from the Codys as possible.
He clears his throat, shifting around again. “What about you?”
You count his money and cast your eyes briefly toward him. Each question he asks sounds like someone’s pulling teeth to force it out of him. He hasn’t looked away, not once, but you’re wondering if that’s just a different sort of stress tic. As if taking his eyes off you means leaving himself vulnerable.
“Nope,” you click your tongue and pass him more forms to sign. “All on my own.”
He straightens and lazily scribbles out his signature. “No family? Boyfriend? You moved into that big house on your own?”
Your fingers still on the keyboard as your shoulders stiffen. From anyone else it could just be a hopeful ploy to see if you’re single. But this is the same man whose mother practically kidnapped you last night and all of a sudden, he’s popping up at your place of work.
With a sly grin you don’t truly mean, you turn to him, arms crossed on the desk. He doesn’t falter, eyes never wavering. “Are you trying to ask me out, Andrew?”
For the first time, you get a true reaction out of him. He blinks rapidly, lips parting as he pulls back from you. “No,” he sounds incredulous and you can’t help but laugh.
“Relax, I’m messing with you. Because, honestly, you sound like I’m going to find you waiting at my house for me tonight.”
He settles and crosses his arms. “I am your neighbor.” If you could read anything about him at all, you might have recognized it as a joke. But it feels more like a threat to you. Stiffening, you draw back and place his money in a bag.
“I’ll just go deposit this for you.” You rush out of the room before he can say anything else.
Andrew turns and watches as you practically run down the hall. He sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t even wanted to do this. It's not like he was exactly eager to be back in banks again.
But Smurf and Baz got on his ass about checking out the new neighbor. Making sure she wasn’t a plant or going to cause any trouble. He’d watched you all morning up until now. From all he could tell you were on your own, working a boring nine-to-five, and there was absolutely nothing interesting about you.
You also seemed pretty smart, already aware of just how far you should be staying away from his family. Even more reason you’re not going to be causing any trouble for them. Hopefully, this meant Smurf would get off his back and his day wouldn’t have to revolve around some harassed bank teller.
The low murmur of conversation catches his attention and he turns back toward the glass door. Your manager has stopped you in the hall, hand cupping your elbow as he stands far too close.
You’re actively shrinking back, face curled with displeasure as Mike only gets closer. Pope’s lips curl slightly as he watches you jerk away. You rush down the hall, bag clutched tightly to your chest. Mike glowers until he turns to find Pope watching him.
With a lazy smile, he approaches your office and takes a seat behind the desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes eager as he watches Pope. “Is she treating you alright?”
“She’s fine,” he grits out.
Mike shrugs and gives him a smile like they’re sharing a secret. “No need to cover. We’ve gotten quite a few complaints about her already. There’s only really one reason we hired her, you know?”
Pope doesn’t feel like entertaining the conversation anymore. He wants Mike gone, he wants you gone. He wants to leave. But Smurf always knows when he’s lying and he doesn’t have the option of bullshitting his way out of this ridiculous errand.
“No, I don’t know,” he’s speaking through clenched teeth and, still, Mike is incapable of taking the hint.
“Well,” Mike clears his throat, trying to find a way around a harassment suit. “It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at, you know? Decor’s just meant to be attractive, doesn’t have to be smart.”
“Neither does the manager, apparently.” It takes a moment for the insult to settle. Mike’s wide eyes only further prove Pope’s point.
He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, “Right. Well, I’ll just let her finish up here.” Pope says nothing, just watches the old man as he walks out with his tail tucked. He can hear you bump into him in the hallway, Mike snaps at you, taking his frustration out on the first easy target.
Pope turns again and when Mike catches his eye he shoves past you and storms his way back to the front. You watch him go with an awed expression and shake your head. Pope hears you mutter, “Jackass,” as you make your way inside the office.
You settle into your chair with a loud huff. “Here are your checks. It’s just a few, you’ll receive the book in the mail.” He takes it wordlessly, eyes darting to your phone as it lights up on the desk.
🚫drunk texting shows on your screen for a split second before you offer him a sheepish smile and turn it off. “Sorry about that.”
“Who is it?” He’s being invasive, that’s the whole point, but he almost hopes you don’t tell him. If you’re the type to just spill so easily, it’s going to cause trouble for you in the future.
“A mistake,” you bite out, not meeting his eyes. Pope lets out a small sigh as you shove his papers haphazardly into a file. “There you go, Mr. Cody. Please let us know if there’s anything else you might need.”
Your smile is tight, sharp at the edges, your tone is practiced. The same voice you’d given the old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’re dismissing him and wordlessly making it clear that should he ever need anything you want nothing to do with it. Pope’s lips curl ever so slightly but they drop when he catches the surprise on your face at his expression.
He takes the folder from your hands and leaves the office without another word. Making his way through the lobby, he finds himself sitting in his truck, just watching. You never take a lunch break, not leaving your stall unless it’s to deposit money. Pope finds himself growing more and more irritated the longer he has to watch this.
You’re harmless, worth nothing to Smurf. Yet, every time he tries to get her to let this go, she insists he stays. The entire day is wasted on you. Finally, at 5:30, you make your way from the bank. You don’t wave goodbye to your coworkers, effectively ignored as they brush past you. You don’t even linger in the parking lot, just get started going down the sidewalk.
Pope’s brows furrow as he watches you go. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. You walk home. And it’s not like he can just trail beside you in his truck. Getting out, he follows after you, lingering behind just enough for you not to notice him.
He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling more like a pervert than ever before. J or Craig should be doing this shit, not him. This is so far below him it's infuriating. After tonight, Baz better get that stick out of his ass about you.
You pause and Pope ducks back. You dig around through your purse, letting out a soft curse as your head drops to hang between your shoulders. “Dammit.” Pope has no warning as you pivot around, eyes widening as they land on him.
“Oh,” you let out a shrill sound that might have been a laugh and take a large step back from him. “You. Again.” Your eyes dart over his form and he can see as fear settles on you. “I really want to think this is a coincidence.”
Pope’s prolonged silence probably isn’t helping anything. But he genuinely has no excuse that could explain this away. And he knows what he looks like, unblinking, odd, something women don’t want to see following them home.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone,” he finally settles on. The disturbed look on your face doesn’t abate, but you’re also not running.
“Clearly,” you snap. “I knew your family was weird,” you settle on the word carefully and Pope almost laughs. Weird doesn’t even come close to explaining the Codys. He’s not sure any one word could. “But this is a lot.”
Pope shrugs and takes a step closer to you. You don’t move, eyeing him warily. “Do you want a ride back?”
“Are you going to kill me?” He gives you a flat look and you deflate. “Fine. I accidentally left my keys in the bank anyway.” This time, when you walk it’s beside him. Though you keep your purse clutched tightly to your chest, shooting him a wary look every so often.
“Do you want to tell me why you were following me?”
Pope watches you and you don’t shrink away like he expects. You face him head-on, lips set in irritation. “Wanted to check out the new neighbor.” He knows you understand what he means. He’s not looking for a good time, he’s checking out that you’re not going to be a problem.
Finally, you break away from his stare. “I’m boring,” you mutter and he couldn’t agree more. When you reach the parking lot, he waits in the truck while you head back into the bank. He’s shocked you don’t try to make a run for it and, instead, beeline straight toward him.
“Thanks,” you tell him, almost sounding like you mean it. It’s concerning, how easy it was to get you in his car.
Pope doesn’t say anything and you keep quiet all the way back to your house. When you get out, you shoot him a wary look. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?”
“No,” he responds. Baz and Smurf should feel better after all this. You give him a curt nod and he watches as you rush into your house before backing into his own driveway. In the house, everyone's waiting at the table, a family meeting that he hadn’t been warned about.
“Hey, baby,” Smurf smiles and puts a plate of food in front of him as he sits. “You hungry?” He just nods, eyes boring across the table into Baz’s.
“Well?” He prods.
Pope shakes his head. “Harmless, like I said. Works a bank job and goes straight home. It’s just her.”
Baz’s brows lift as Smurf hovers behind him. “Bank job?” She asks, the question anything but innocent. Pope’s stomach turns as his grip tightens around his fork. He just fucked himself right into another week of stalking.
“Could be useful,” Baz mutters. Smurf squeezes his shoulder and nods. Pope doesn’t need to hear the order to know what she wants from him.
For the first time in a week, you find yourself actually taking a lunch break. You rarely have the time for it and you know it’s a bad habit. You’re trying to break it, but with Mike always breathing down your neck, it’s difficult to do so.
Today, though, you’re settled in a sticky booth of the diner closest to the bank. Your nails drum against the table as you wait for your food. Your phone lights up once again, your ex calling you for the fifth time in an hour. The sudden influx of communication is making you wonder if his mom cut him off again.
The door’s bell jingles and you glance up, caught off guard as Andrew walks in. Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. It’s been a week since you’ve seen him. You figured after that night he tried to follow you home, that was it. Maybe this is just a coincidence, he doesn’t seem to be looking for you.
“Andrew!” Your mouth clamps shut as you curse yourself out. You’re not sure what possessed you to actively vie for his attention, but you’ve got it. He turns toward you, eyes narrowed as he glances at you warily. Maybe he really wasn’t looking for you.
Slowly, he strides toward your table, hands in his pockets as he looms over you. “Want to join me?” You offer.
He seems caught off guard by the invitation, but sits nonetheless. “Fancy seeing you here,” you joke, your laughter trailing off as he remains quiet. You clear your throat and go back to tearing up the paper from your straw. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Why?” The suspicion in his voice is jarring, but you really shouldn’t be surprised.
“Just trying to make conversation,” you toss your hands up and lean back in the booth. Silence permeates the air between you and you shift restlessly.
“I… don’t.” He finally answers, voice stilted. “First time.” You suck your teeth and nod, nails once again drumming against the table. Blessedly, the waitress walks over with your food. Her eyes settle on Andrew as she sets down your plate.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
He shakes his head, “Not hungry.” Your eyes narrow on him as the waitress walks away.
“Don't tell me that you’re still following me.”
“Smurf wants you to come over tonight.” He slips out of the booth and briefly turns to you. “I’ll drive you home.” It’s not a question, there’s no room for argument as he leaves the diner. Your head thunks against the booth’s seat, your appetite suddenly diminished.
True to his word, Andrew had driven you home. He didn’t walk you to your door or wait to make sure you got inside, but you could appreciate that you didn’t have to walk all the way home tonight.
Now, you stand in front of Smurf’s door with a bathing suit on and a fishnet cover-up that makes you feel slightly better about being half-naked around her sons. She opens the door, wearing a similar style bikini to the one you’d first met her in.
“Glad you could make it, sweetheart.” As if you had any choice. You only offer her a tense smile, following as she gestures you inside. “I know Baz wanted to talk to you,” she glances over her shoulder and you force yourself not to grimace.
“Really?” She hums and you both step out toward the pool. Sure enough, Baz is right at the door, pretending to just casually bump into you.
“Hey there, neighbor.” It’s disconcerting how quickly his hand makes itself comfortable on the small of your back. You shoot him a sharp look but he ignores you, urging you toward the bar at the other end of the pool.
Any other setting, any other man, you would shove him off and tell him to leave you alone. But you’re not stupid, you know that there’s something off about these people. However Andrew made all the money he deposited, it wasn’t through any honest means. There’s a gut feeling screaming at you to run away and it just makes you all the more terrified of what might happen should you piss them off.
“I’ve been meaning to check in on you,” Baz says, passing you a beer that you hold with no intention of drinking. Getting drunk around these sorts of people seems like an invitation for life long trauma. “How’re you settling in?”
“Fine,” you tell him, pretending to believe he actually gives a shit about your life and isn’t just pressing you for information. “It’s different from my last place, but it’s not bad.”
“No?” He smirks and some distant part of your brain recognizes that its meant to be charming, but it just makes your skin crawl. “We’re not keeping you up with these parties, are we?”
Yes, “No, I sleep like a rock.” His eyes widen, lips parting with interest, and you suddenly wish you hadn’t said anything at all.
“Really?” He muses, the interest in his tone absolutely nauseating. Luckily, someone calls his name from across the pool and he lets out a sharp breath. “One second, sweetheart, don’t move.” You can hear the underlying threat in his voice but you really could not care at this point. Ditching the beer, you grab a water and take a quick look around the pool.
Almost every lounge chair is filled with multiple people, some doing drugs, others grinding in a way that makes acid burn in your stomach. But there is one shadowed corner, a small perimeter around it like people are afraid to toe their way past. Andrew stands in that little bubble, arms crossed as he glares across the pool.
It takes you a moment to realize that it’s you he’s focused on. It doesn’t unsettle you the way Baz’s poor attempts at charm had. Instead, you find yourself gravitating toward him, hoping for some form of peace in this god-awful party. He straightens as you approach, watching you warily. Or maybe watching you normally. You’re still struggling to figure out the nuances of his glares.
“Mind if I join you?” He says nothing and you take it as an invitation.
“Thought you would be stuck by Baz,” he mutters. There’s something in his tone that has your brows peaking with interest, but you can’t quite decipher his meaning.
You shake your head, placing your glass on a nearby table as you move to stand slightly in front of him. “You know, I think I liked your approach a lot better than his.” He raises a brow and you snort. “I mean, I’d prefer you following me home than having to deal with whatever bullshit was coming out of his mouth.”
Andrew shrugs, but you swear you see his lips curl up slightly. “He comes on too strong.”
A man rams into you before you can respond. You let out a sharp gasp and trip forward. Andrew’s arms shoot up instantly, grabbing you before you can crash into him. The other man lets out a drunken apology as Andrew works to right you.
“Sorry,” you mutter, hands lingering on his chest a moment longer than they should. He’s firm, beefier than you had expected. The slight thrill that shoots through you is cause enough for concern. You already knew your taste in men was bad, but this might be a new low if a chest is what’s getting you hot and bothered now.
“You alright?” He asks and you nod, letting your hands slowly slip away from him. You reach over for your water, frowning at the slightly metallic taste it leaves coated on your tongue. “Hate these things,” he mutters and you’re sure he hadn’t meant for you to hear that.
“Yeah,” you scoff. “So do I. I bet it’s worse for you, though, being at your house and all. You don’t really have any choice but to be here.”
The look he gives you now isn’t assessing or the same blank stare. He seems intrigued, if that’s the right word for it. “Used to have my own place,” he tells you. “They sold it while I was away.”
Your brows furrow and he watches as you work to connect the dots. Away? You think, but then you take in the sort of people you’re surrounded by and only one destination comes to mind. But you’re not about to outright ask the man if he’s been to prison.
You’ll just google it later.
“Damn, that’s brutal,” you mutter. Taking another sip of your water, you find the metallic taste has only grown worse. Sticking your tongue out slightly, you shake your head as you drop it back on the table.
“Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, eyes darting between you and the drink.
“Water just tastes off,” you tell him, shrugging.
His eyes narrow and he begins to reach for it when there’s a loud screech. You jump, whipping around to find a pile-up of bodies, each of them throwing punches as the sound of flesh breaking bone echoes through the party. “Hold on,” he tells you, rushing forward.
You’re not as compelled to leave like you were with Baz. No, you think you might even like to sit down. Your eyes droop as your head begins to grow heavy. Sinking onto a lounge chair you fight off the sudden urge for sleep, confusion fogging your brain as the world around you spins.
“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing weakly at your brow. This doesn’t feel right. It’s like you’re floating outside of your body, just barely managing enough control to keep you upright.
“Hey,” Andrew’s voice materializes in front of you. He’s back quicker than you thought he would be. Or maybe time’s just passing by while you’re slowing down. The thought makes an odd-sounding giggle slip past your lips.
Andrew’s face appears before yours as he kneels down, rough hands cupping your cheeks and jerking your head up. You whine at the roughness while his eyes dart across your face. “How much have you had to drink?”
You feel like he knows, he’s been watching you this whole time, after all. Still, you manage to slur out your answer in a slightly comprehensible sentence. “Just the water,” your voice sounds like you're underwater.
Andrew’s thumbs tug at the skin below your eyes, trying to gauge the size of your pupils, the sudden bloodshot look about them. “Fuck,” he hisses and you try to move back, worried it’s you he’s mad at. His grip is firm, though, his hands insistent as he throws your arm over his shoulder and drags you to your feet.
“Come on,” he grits out, carrying the majority of your weight as your feet trip over each other.
“Andrew,” his name comes out wrong, garbled and barely comprehensible. But he manages to understand you, humming in answer as he pulls you through the house. “I feel weird,” you whisper, breath becoming harder to find.
“Yeah, I know you do.” A man whistles as Andrew carries you past, slapping him on the back like he’s just won a prize. Andrew stops and you wonder, briefly, if he’s going to drop you so he can fight the guy. But the other man just goes running off, recognizing his mistake in time.
He keeps going, pushing through the bodies until the cold night air is biting at your cheeks and he’s walking up your driveway. He’s gentler than you expected as he props you against your front door.
“Keys,” he demands, hands gripping your waist so you don’t topple straight into the bushes.
You shake your head, the movement making you painfully nauseous. “Didn’t lock it,” you reach for the handle, palm slipping across it uselessly.
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing further as he clicks his tongue at you. “Always lock it,” he snaps, tugging you back into his side as he pushes the door open. “What if it wasn’t me walking in here?”
Your eyes narrow, vision blurring. Despite whatever you were slipped, you manage just enough cognitive functioning for an attitude. “How,” you slur, “are you any better than someone else?”
Andrew pauses at that, hesitating at the base of your stairs as you wait for an answer. He stares into your drooping eyes and only huffs before practically carrying you to your bedroom. It’s gentle, the way he sets you down, back pushed against the pillows so you don’t just flop back. But it only takes the brief second he steps away for your eyes to close completely and your body to go limp against your mattress. By the time he returns with a change of clothes, you’re already out.
It’s the sun that wakes you up. Normally, you remember to close your curtains before you pass out. But they’re wide open this morning, blinds pulled up, sun beaming down on you like it’s shaming you.
“Damn,” you drag yourself up, head throbbing as you try to remember what exactly happened last night. You know you went over to the pool, Baz had creeped you out. Briefly, you think you might have spoken to Andrew but that’s where it gets fuzzy.
Glancing up, you would scream if your throat didn’t hurt so much. Andrew sits in the chair by your dresser. His eyes are boring right into you, no malice behind the look, just careful consideration.
You clutch your chest, heart racing under your palm. “Whoo,” you breathe out, giving him an awkward smile. “Give a girl some warning next time,” you attempt to tease but your croaking voice impedes you.
Looking down, you find yourself in one of your sleeping shirts and different underwear. Bile rises in your throat as your mind races to remember even one thing that got you in bed.
“I didn’t look,” he tells you, finally getting to his feet. “But you kept complaining about wanting to change.” He walks toward you, brows set in concern as he takes you in.
Any other man and you probably wouldn’t believe him. You’re not even sure how he could have gotten you out of that suit without a little flash of skin. But you don’t really mind, better him than anyone else in that family. He seems to be the only one who understands the concept of morals.
“What happened?” You ask, grimacing as a pain akin to an ice pick digs its way through your temple.
Hesitantly, as if you might shout at him to get away, he perches at the end of your bed. His hands rest near you, he’s probably waiting for you to keel over.
“Think someone slipped you something,” he mutters, head tilting as his eyes trace over your pained expression. No shit. “I don’t know what it was, wanted to make sure you didn’t asphyxiate in your sleep.”
You look at him, frowning, and he nods toward something by your nightstand. You find a bucket by your feet, filled with what seems to be fresh vomit. “Oh god,” you groan, body crumpling under the weight of your mortification.
“I’m so sorry.” The thought of him having to stay up all night taking care of you makes you feel even worse than you do now. But beneath the shame and embarrassment, there is the smallest semblance of appreciation. Most guys would dump you at home and leave, Andrew’s practically a stranger and he took better care of you than your ex ever did.
“Why are you apologizing?” Blunt, like always, he gives you a sharp look. “It’s not your fault.”
“Feels like it,” you grumble. Hesitantly, you get to your feet, weak knees buckling slightly beneath you. Andrew stands, hand outstretched as you pick up the bucket and hobble toward your bathroom. “I should know better than to just leave my drink unattended like that.”
Andrew scoffs as you struggle to dump and clean the bucket. “Maybe people should just know better than to slip you something,” he mutters. He comes up beside you, taking the bucket from your hands and washing it out for you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning against your bathroom counter as another wave of nausea builds up in your stomach. “You know, I’ve been roofied before,” his head whips up and you offer a wry grin. “Don’t remember it feeling like this.”
You think it’s the casualness of your statement that catches him so off guard. But mickied drinks had practically been a rite of passage at your university. Doesn’t make it good, but it softens the sharp edge of disappointment in humanity when you grow so used to it.
You let out a low groan and clamp your hand over your mouth, absolutely refusing to throw up in front of him. Again. Andrew drops the bucket in your tub and takes quick steps toward you. His hands wrap around your waist, head ducking to see the off-colored pallor of your skin.
“I think you should lie back down.”
Shaking your head, you let out another whine of discomfort. “I can’t,” you object. “I’ll be late to work.” Glancing at your nightstand’s clock, your stomach plummets. “Dammit, later than I already am.”
Andrew’s brows furrow and he shakes his head incredulously. “You’re not going in.”
“If only it were that simple,” you let out a low laugh. As reluctant as you are, you push his hands away, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “Mike already wants to fire me, I can’t give him any more ammo.”
His eyes narrow and he backs off. For a second, you think he’s actually going to listen. Then his hands are wrapping around your biceps and you’re letting out a surprised gasp. “Andrew!” You object, absolutely too weak to fight him as he wrestles you back toward your bed.
“I can’t,” you snap, futilely pushing at his arms. He says nothing, just lifts you up and plants you stubbornly on the mattress.
“Stay here,” he tells you, finger in your face like you’re a misbehaving dog.
You slap his hand away with a glare. “I’m going to miss the bus, Andrew. I can’t just stay home.”
He crosses his arms, completely silent as he stares down at you. For some reason, you can feel guilt bubbling in your gut and shrink back into your pillows. There’s also a shameful heat brewing between your legs at how easily he manhandled you back to bed. How firm he is in making sure you’re okay.
After years of nothing but men who wanted to be coddled and taken care of, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone’s concern.
You like it a little too much.
“Stay,” is all he says as he walks out of your room, door shut firmly behind him. Your eyes narrow and you debate, for a moment, simply ignoring him and going to work.
You think being on the receiving end of his frustration might be even more interesting than this side of him. But some ridiculous part of you wants to listen, to do what he says so you might finally get something wriggled from that cold exterior of his.
With a dramatic huff, you toss yourself on your pillows. Prepared to stew for the rest of the day, you’re completely caught off guard by the sudden wave of exhaustion coming over you. Sighing, you promise to just let your eyes rest for a few minutes.
You’re out like a light in thirty seconds.
When you wake up it’s already four and you know there is no hope of making it to work. It’s not like you’re eager to deal with irritated clients all day while nursing the effects of getting drugged. But you are truly worried Mike is going to hold this over your head.
With nothing better to do, you take a shower and change your sheets to get rid of the smell of mistakes and vomit. As you’re transferring your comforter to the dryer, you hear the distinct click of your front door opening and closing.
Your hands freeze on your wet sheets while your body goes stiff.
Slowly, you creep out of the laundry room and tilt your head down the stairs. Plastic crinkles in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing as dishes are retrieved. Despite the fact that you should be terrified, at the very least be grabbing some sort of weapon, you find yourself walking down the stairs without a care in the world. Subconsciously, you know who it is, and you should be afraid of him but you can’t find it in you.
“Hi,” you say dumbly, watching as Andrew dumps what looks like wonton soup into a bowl for you.
His head lifts and he lets out a huff. “You need to start locking your door.”
You shrug, taking a seat at your island and watching him move through your kitchen like he’s been here before. “How would you have gotten in?”
Andrew’s shoulders tense as he sets your bowl in front of you, slamming it harder than necessary. “Lock your door,” he warns. Rolling your eyes, you take the spoon he offers you and frown. He balls up the take-out bag, trashing it, and you realize he hasn’t brought anything for himself.
With a sigh, you hop out of your seat and grab another bowl. He watches as you split the soup between the two of you with a displeased look. “I’m not hungry,” he tells you.
“I don’t care,” you reply offhandedly, sliding him a bowl like you didn’t google him and figure out he was in jail for three years for armed robbery. Sentenced to six, apparently, but got out early on good behavior. At the very least, it wasn’t for murder.
Andrew glares down at the bowl, arms crossed and your tentative smile falls. “Please,” you implore, “I don’t like eating alone.”
He takes it, though you know he doesn’t want to. “I got it for you.”
You shrug, taking your seat once more. “Why did you, anyway?” You don’t usually look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard to believe that a reformed felon is just going around fetching his neighbors' soup.
Andrew wraps his hand around the spoon, but doesn’t make any move to eat. Your head tilts as you take in the scars along his knuckles, spots where the skin has split and healed over one too many times. It should just push you further from him but you find yourself more enticed. After all, why would a man like him have any interest in taking care of you?
“You don’t eat,” his voice is low, the words a shameful secret he wasn’t ready to admit.
Your brows furrow as you process what he said. Glancing over at him, a wry smile finds its way to your lips at the little splotch of color you spot on his cheeks. “Are you still watching me?” You laugh off a sentiment that should have you calling his parole officer.
Andrew rubs the back of his neck, gaze pointed down at the soup. “Not really,” he says awkwardly, not even believing himself.
Giving him a break, you go back to eating. “Well, you’re right. I was probably just going to eat some saltines and call it a night.” The huff he lets out shocks a laugh out of you. Slowly, Andrew picks the spoon up and starts to eat. You’ll count it as progress to thawing him out.
At 8:30, you’re already running late to catch the bus. Tugging on your heels, you let out an aggrieved sigh as someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you double-check the time and throw open the door.
Andrew stands there, scowl disapproving as you give him a small smile. “Did you even check who was at the door?”
You consider lying but the way his eyes narrow into slits swats the idea away. “No.” You grab your bag and usher him back as you close the door. “What’s up?”
“I’m giving you a ride,” it’s all he says. Blunt, concise, not even an offer. Heat flushes through you as he takes your keys from your hand and pointedly locks your door. You almost wish he would scold you again.
His hand hovers over the small of your back as he guides you to his truck. You fight back a shudder at the warmth he emanates while he’s not even touching you.
You’re slightly taken aback when Andrew opens up the truck door for you, even offering you a hand up when your heel slips. The brush of his calloused hand against yours is enough to send warmth flooding your body, an ache settling between your legs.
As he rounds the front of his truck, you resist banging your head against the dashboard. You only just got out of a bad relationship a few months ago. You should not be so fucking eager to jump some man’s bones. Especially not when that man is a known felon and his family is probably full of them.
Andrew gets in and you jolt up, forcing your back straight and a strained smile on your face. The last few times you were in his truck, you had been more worried about what he was going to do with you to pay attention to the interior. But as you look around now, you’re taken aback by how clean it is. It’s practically spotless, not a speck of dust on the dashboard or even an abandoned bag of chips on the floorboard. It could be new, but you’re certain that Andrew just knows how to take care of his things.
Is it completely wrong that it only makes you hotter for him?
The drive is quiet, as it has been the last few times you’ve been with him. You’re surprised when you turn the radio on and he doesn’t object. You were starting to wonder if he’s quiet just because he prefers the silence or if it’s because he doesn’t know anything else anymore.
He was in prison, you’re certain he was probably thrown in solitary a few times. You can imagine silence became a habit rather than comfort.
When he parks and gets out of the truck, you’re just surprised enough to allow him time to make it to your side and open the door for you. The sudden surge of gentlemanly conduct is odd, to say the least, but you won’t pretend it doesn’t endear him to you further.
You wonder if this is how men in the 1800s felt when they saw a flash of ankle as you slip your hand into Andrew’s again and practically salivate at the feeling. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly. He only nods, not stepping back, letting your hand rest in his. But you grow worried about your palm being clammy and pull back before he can feel it.
Andrew glances at your hand and you swear you almost see disappointment on his face. “Um,” you clear your throat. “My lunch break is at one. Do you have any plans?”
You’re not the type to make the first move. You learned a while ago that if you’re the one who has to start the relationship, you’re going to be the only one participating in it. But something about Andrew gives you a boost of assurance you’ve never experienced before.
His eyes meet yours, lips in a flat line as you struggle to read the intricacies of his expression. “Can’t. Family meeting,” he explains vaguely. Your eyes widen as mortification draws the color from your skin.
“Right, right,” you clear your throat and back away from him, suddenly desperate to get inside the bank and have Mike yelling at you. “Well, uh, thanks for the ride.” He nods and you’re quick to rush into the bank, your lonely stall calling for you as you try and toss Andrew Cody from your mind.
Pope watches you go, he almost laughs at how quickly you run off. He probably should have clarified that he would like to have lunch with you, he wasn’t outright rejecting you. But, he figures he can just explain that to you when he picks you up after work today.
His phone buzzes and he rolls his eyes as Baz’s name invades his messages.
Get some info about the security switch-off from her
We don’t want to wait much longer but you’re taking a while here Pope
Pope considers responding when another message comes through.
Don’t forget to act like a human, don’t want you scaring her off too early
With a discontent huff, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and climbs back into his truck. He can just barely make you out through the bank's window. That old man from the other day is right back at the front of your line. You’re not great at hiding how you’re feeling and Pope almost laughs at the way your lips are curled up in disgust. He debates going in there and getting rid of him for you, but it would seem suspicious.
You already caught him watching you once. He needs you to think this is something else. Something more intimate. It's the best way to get your guard down, to get the information that Baz and Smurf want so this job can be over and done with.
So that you can be over and done with.
You’re getting used to the sight of Andrew’s car and what should scare you only serves to further excite you. As you wave goodbye to the security guard, John, you see Andrew get out and wait for you on the passenger side.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to start getting used to this,” you warn him as you walk up.
He only shrugs, holding open the door for you, offering you a hand. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” his tone sounds like admonishment.
You almost ask him about his day when he gets in, but he beats you to the punch. “Did you eat today?”
You purse your lips and shake your head, receiving a barely-there scowl in return. “Mike had me work through lunch to make up for my no-show yesterday.” In response, Andrew doesn’t take the left turn back to your neighborhood, he goes right instead.
Narrowing your eyes, you stare at him suspiciously. “Kidnapping me?”
He only shakes his head, shooting you what you desperately want to be a playful glare. “Feeding you,” he clarifies. “Would’ve gone to lunch with you if Baz hadn’t been up my ass.” He mutters it under his breath, quiet in a way you know you’re not meant to hear.
“What did he want?” You find yourself asking, curiosity winning out over survival instincts.
Andrew stiffens, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the wheel as he shrugs. “Nothing important,” he dismisses, tone closed off in a way you know means the conversation is over.
Something tightens in your chest, the first real warning of threat you’ve felt around him. You dismiss it as nerves and shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Where are we heading?” You ask, attempting to gauge what his intention is here.
It’s pretty simple, a quiet, intimate restaurant and you know he means it as a date. Somewhere loud, however, slightly crowded and better for beer with buddies than going out with a woman, you know he’s just being strangely friendly.
“Here,” he nods and your stomach plummets as you watch him pull into Larry’s parking lot. A pub you’d grown acquainted with quite intimately when you were still with Colin. The same place he always liked to ditch you to get drunk with his buddies. The atmosphere inside dashes any hope of Andrew caring about you outside of your general welfare.
With a disappointed sigh, you help yourself out of the truck before Andrew can. He scowls and you ignore him, trying to tamp down any sharp jabs. It’s not his fault that he got your hopes up. That he got you all hot and bothered after showing you that half-decent men still do exist.
Andrew trails slightly behind you as you walk inside. “Oh,” the host’s eyes light up and you offer a brief smile. “I haven't seen you in forever.” Robby rounds the stand to give you a side hug that you barely return.
In a second, Andrew’s at your side, gaze darting between the two of you suspiciously. Robby pulls back with an awkward chuckle and grabs menus for both of you. “Come on,” he nods. You shoot Andrew an odd look but he doesn’t offer any explanation as Robby seats you both.
The second you’re seated, the atmosphere floods over your table. Loud, drunken conversations fill the air, five different sports commentary blasts on the TV. It’s so much that you nearly jump out of your seat and just book it home. Your fingers clench around the menu as you force yourself to stay seated and just remain calm.
Andrew grimaces as he looks around, seemingly regretting his choice. “Have you not been here before?” You ask.
He glances back at you and shakes his head. You’re honestly shocked he actually heard you. “I’m assuming you have.”
You nod and prop your head on your hand. “My ex used to drag me here all the time.” Andrew’s knuckles whiten as his grip goes deathly tight around his menu. With a low breath, he sets the menu down and his features soften into something you can’t place.
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” he tells you. Your eyes narrow and a little bit of hope blooms inside of you.
“Can I be honest with you?” He nods, leaning further over the table so he can actually hear you. You don’t have to, but you find yourself inching closer until your noses are nearly touching. You can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks and it only provokes you.
“I thought this was going to be a date.” Andrew pulls away slightly and you bite back a laugh at the first real emotion you’ve wrenched from him. He’s flustered, clearly, but he also seems incredibly caught off guard.
“You did?” You let out a low hum and nod, slowly sinking back into your seat. “Did you want it to be a date?” He asks, hesitant and completely unsure of himself.
There’s a slight crack to his voice, vulnerability shining through in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” you huff out a laugh. “I wanted it to be a date.” Slipping out of the booth, you hold out your hand to him.
His eyes dart between you and your open palm before he, very slowly, places his calloused hand in yours. “What are you doing?” You roll your eyes and tug him out of the booth. You know that if he wanted to, he could have just planted his feet and stayed where he was. But he lets you drag him out of the restaurant, hand squeezing yours slightly as you head back to the truck.
“I’ll make us dinner,” you tell him. “Then we can have a proper date.” You stop, lingering by the passenger door. His eyes are boring into yours and you swallow, some of your bravado slipping away. “That is, if that’s what you want?”
When his lips curl up, the first real sign of any semblance to a smile you’ve gotten, you know you have your answer.
It becomes a habit. Andrew picks you up, drops you off, sometimes he brings you lunch or you just see him at the end of the day when he drives you back home. Most of the time, he stays. Coming inside and helping you make dinner since your last attempt ended with you somehow managing to burn spaghetti.
It’s been innocent, a kiss on the cheek, or you reaching across the console to hold his hand while he drives. The majority of the time, you initiate the touch and he just reciprocates. You worry sometimes that you’re projecting your own desires onto him, not taking into account what he might want.
But he hasn’t objected, hasn’t ever pulled his hand away or told you to stop. You hope that means he doesn’t mind how affectionate you can be when you really care about someone.
You’re completely unaware of just how much the small kindnesses mean to him. Unaware that when he’s around you, he’s not Pope or a Cody, he’s just Andrew. He almost feels normal around you, like he’s just some regular guy who got lucky when he asked the pretty bank teller out.
Every time you touch him, kiss his cheek, and are just willingly in his presence without being intimidated, he thinks that he might be worth something. The feeling never lasts long, fading every time he goes back to his own house. It’s completely wrenched away by Baz or Smurf demanding updates, seeing if he’s gotten any decent information out of you.
He has, not that he’s told them yet. You let it slip that there was a transport coming through on Thursday, lots of cash that Mike will probably want to take a dive in. And then, when he’d come in to bring you lunch, you complained that the security guard was late. Let it slip that there’s a ten-minute gap every day at one when they switch shifts.
It’s enough for Smurf and Baz. He could tell them all of this and they’d relent, tell him to ditch you. Make sure you’re oblivious as he ghosts you and they take what they want. But he doesn’t want that. He wants to keep standing next to you and making dinner. To pick you up and drop you off like you’re actually something real that he has to look forward to.
Andrew pulls into your driveway, the routine becoming more familiar to him than when he goes into his actual home. As always, he opens the door for you, takes your hand and leads you up the steps of your porch. He likes to linger on nights like tonight when he can’t come in. Baz and Smurf want him home tonight and he knows they’re not going to be giving him any leeway.
But he’s almost tempted to say screw it when you turn toward him, eyes shining under your porch light, expression earnest as you smile up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
It’s completely innocent, your question, something you’ve asked a hundred times before. That doesn’t abate the ache in his jeans and that tight feeling in his chest every time you look at him like this. Like he’s actually someone you want around and aren’t just using.
Not like he’s using you.
A hot flush of shame shoots through him and he shakes his head. “I can’t tonight.” Your lips turn down in disappointment and he wants to take it back immediately, but he forces his mouth shut.
“Alright,” you take his hands in yours and lean up toward him. He expects the usual kiss on the cheek, even looks forward to it. What he doesn’t expect is your lips brushing against his, arms winding around his neck as you pull back with a smile like you didn’t just stun him into silence.
His eyes narrow and when you let that breathy little laugh of yours slip out, he loses any semblance of self-control. Not that he had much to begin with.
Your shocked gasp against his mouth is enough for him to trace his tongue along the seam of your lips. And when you practically moan, body sinking against his, he can’t help himself. His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you up against your front door and slotting his thigh between yours.
Something warm stabs through him, slightly unpleasant and completely unfamiliar. It’s a feeling he only ever experiences around you and it never stops being overwhelming. Never stops drowning out any thoughts except ones that revolve around you, how you feel, how you make him feel.
You pull back, laughing when he chases your lips. “Andrew,” there’s a low purr in your voice when you say his name, has his hands tightening around your waist. When you ask, “Would you like to come inside?” He doesn’t say no, just opens the door, lifting you into his arms and not stopping until you’re breathless and smiling up at him on your bed.
He doesn’t make it home until after he’s dropped you off the next morning. He’d ignored all the missed calls last night, shutting off his phone so he could enjoy the feeling of your arms around him. It was surreal, waking up beside someone who his mother hadn’t paid off or he’d gotten drunk with and didn’t remember her name.
You’d held him in a way no one ever has before and it only made that piercing pain of guilt thicken in his chest. It’s practically suffocating as he steps inside, finds Smurf waiting for him with crossed arms and an expectant look.
“You didn’t come home last night, baby.” She says, watching as he brushes past her and grabs water from the fridge. He needs something to do with his hands, anything to not look up at her and see that she knows what he’s done. His hands flex, twisting the bottle cap around as the plastic creaks beneath his grip.
“Have fun with the neighbor?” She asks, tone innocent as she begins plating up the breakfast he’d missed. He doesn’t tell her that you already fed him, had taken care of him without expecting anything in return.
Again, Andrew stays silent, he’s already given too much away just by coming home late. “If I didn't know any better, baby, I’d say you actually like her.” She drops the plate in front of him, crossing her arms as she leans against the island. “But I know my baby boy, don’t I?”
It’s an effort not to jerk away as she drags her hand across his shoulders, smiling at him. “You’re taking too long, hun. I had to stop Baz from going over there last night, just getting the information he wanted and getting rid of the girl.”
Andrew’s hands tighten around the bottle, water seeping from the top. White hot rage flashes through him and he imagines the bottle is Baz’s neck for a moment. Smurf laughs, already knowing what he’s thinking.
“I’m not going to be able to control him much longer.” She could, she just doesn’t want to. “I’d hate for anything to happen to that sweet girl.” Her tone is laced with venom and Andrew’s head drops, knuckles white as he grips the counter. “Do you have what I need, baby?”
It’s because he cares about you so much that he tells her what he’s learned. He knows her words are never empty threats. Baz will hurt you, she will hurt you, if he doesn’t give them what he wants. He knows he’s trying to protect you, but that doesn’t lessen the weight of guilt.
It’s almost one, right around the time Andrew usually stops by if he’s decided to bring you lunch that day. You figure, after last night, he probably will visit. The thought sends a thrill up your spine that makes you giddy.
You really hadn’t intended for last night to go in the direction it did, but you weren’t complaining. And he hadn’t been either. Still warmed by the memories of the night, you check your watch.
The second hand ticks and it’s exactly one. John gets up, heading to the back to take his break while Nathan will take his time coming back from his lunch. The paperwork from yesterday’s delivery has finally been completed and you stand up from your stall, getting ready to pass it off to Sheila so she can look it over.
At exactly 1:01, the doors to the bank burst open and three masked men rush in. “Everybody down!” It’s shock, you think, that’s why you’re standing frozen. Why you’re not just doing what the big men with even larger guns say.
Then, he’s pulling the trigger, bullets embedding themself into the ceiling as the chandelier creaks dangerously above you all. Finally, your system shocks itself back to life and you’re dropping to the floor. Your fingers itch to press the emergency button beneath your stall, but one of the men has already found his way behind the divider.
“You!” He points at you and your heart beats an erratic rhythm against your ribs. He stomps over, grabbing your arm and wrenching you to your feet. A strangled noise slips through your lips, your coworkers cower as they watch you with misty eyes.
The tallest of all of them keeps his guns pointed at those on the ground. Then the shortest man comes running over, trailing behind you and the one holding you. He drags you to the vault and shoves you into the metal door.
Your palms sting as you catch yourself and it takes every iota of survival instinct you have not to give him a nasty glare. “You know the drill,” and he chuckles, the noise muffled beneath his hood. As if this is all one big joke.
Your fingers tremble over the lock pad as you shake your head. You try and step back but there’s a firm hand, almost familiar, easing you forward again. Your gaze shoots to the short one and he nods at the vault. “We’re not gonna hurt you if you just let us in. There doesn’t have to be any trouble.”
His voice is off, as if he’s purposely speaking strangely. Maybe it’s a way for them to mask their identity further. All it does now is serve to unsettle you even worse.
Then, there’s a cold plunge in your body, everything going still when you feel something dull and metal pressing into your side.
“Or,” the other one drawls. “I shoot you right here and we just go get one of your friends to open this for us.” The short one’s hand tightens around your shoulder and you grimace. He releases you instantly.
“Come on,” that sleazy voice is almost familiar to you. But maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. “I’ve seen you take the money in here, sweetheart. I know you know how to get in.”
Your breath stutters, terror wraps tight around your throat and blocks any further air. “You’ve been watching me,” you whisper, already reaching forward to punch in the code. The taller one hums with delight, gun easing as you slip your key from your blazer’s pocket. It doesn’t take long for the vault door to pop open.
The shorter man grabs the handle before you can, letting out a low groan as he tugs the heavy door open further. “Alright, come on,” the other one’s got his hands on you again. Your skin feels like it's going to rip under his tight grip, but you don’t say a word, just follow obediently behind him.
This all feels wrong. Like this is someone else’s life and you’ve just accidentally walked into it. You have poor luck, sure, but not this bad. This can’t be real, you swear to yourself. And it’s all you repeat as they open their bags, forcing you to stuff them full as you empty the safety deposit boxes.
They call the other one in the vault but there’s a dull buzzing in your ears and you barely hear what they say at all. The only thing you can truly focus on is the gun still pointed at your chest. “Alright,” he shoulders his bags and you can almost feel him grinning at you.
“On your knees, sweetheart.” Your stomach twists, bile racing up your throat as cold panic wraps around you.
“Hey!” The short one barks, but the other man just holds up his hand.
“Come on,” he urges, lifting his gun and leveling it with your face. Slowly, you drop to your knees the dull thud of cement is a welcome shock to your body. He kneels in front of you but you refuse to meet his eyes through the holes of his mask. You just bite your lip, stare boring into the ground beneath you and pray you wake up from one long nightmare.
“Let’s go, man!” Sirens begin to sound closer and you would be relieved if this man wasn’t still in front of you.
He doesn’t listen to his partner, just tips your chin up with the end of his gun. “You say a goddamn word about any of this, I will find you and I will hurt you, sweetheart.”
What could you possibly say?
Finally, you lift your head, meeting sharp blue eyes. Something stutters in your chest, mind racing to shove down the sudden familiarity you see in this man’s gaze. Slowly, you nod and he finally backs off, racing through the vault door. The shorter man lingers a second longer but when you don’t move he follows after his partner.
It isn’t until you hear the police rush into the bank that you finally collapse against the ground. Pained sobs wrack your body as you struggle to breathe deeply enough to get your heart rate under control.
Your name flashes on Andrew’s screen and Baz sends him a sharp look. “Don’t want to look suspicious now, do we?”
Andrew rips his mask off and glares at Baz. “If you’d stuck to the fucking plan, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Craig glances between them both, looking at them like he doesn’t feel like breaking up a fight today.
Baz glares and pushes off the wall of the semi-trailer they’d hid themselves in. “Maybe if you hadn’t done that reassuring bullshit, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her.”
Rage surges through Andrew’s body, your ringtone going off over and over again as he and Baz stare at one another. “You wanted to,” Andrew grits out. “I got you the info you wanted, did what you asked, but you still wanted to hurt her.”
Baz sees the way Andrew takes a step forward and knows this is a fight he won’t win. Again, he nods to Andrew’s phone. “Answer the fucking call, Pope.”
If it weren’t you, if it were anyone else calling, Andrew would have just drilled Baz into the fucking ground. But he’s right, this will look suspicious if he just keeps ignoring your calls. Besides, after the shit Baz pulled, you’re probably terrified.
With one last glare at Baz, he picks up the phone, turning his back to the other men. “Hey, what’s going on?”
Your voice is tight and panicked on the other end, tone clogged like you’ve been crying. It just makes that ache in his chest burn worse and he hates himself a little bit more. For letting you get wrapped up in this. For ever pretending like he wasn’t going to get selfishly attached to you.
“Andrew! The bank was just-” you suck in a sharp breath and his anger only intensifies as your voice cracks. “Can you come get me, please? I need you.”
This is what he’s wanted this whole time. For Smurf and Baz to be appeased. For you to need him so badly you don’t have the choice of leaving. So why does he feel so shitty? “I’m pretty far away, it’ll take me a little bit.”
You blubber, another sob drowning out your voice. “Okay,” you finally whisper and Andrew hangs up, knowing he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve those small moments of kindness you’d gifted him, where he’d felt like a person again. Not some attack dog or errand boy. You made him feel real and he’d just held you at gunpoint.
By the time he picks up his truck and drives back to the bank, you’re gone. He wanted to ask the people still there if they’d seen you leave. But he doesn’t need the cops seeing his face right after a freshly robbed bank.
His chest is tight with panic as he peels out of the lot. You hadn’t called him that long ago. Thirty minutes, maybe. If he’s lucky, one of your coworkers offered you a ride and you just didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He knows he’s never lucky, though. He thought he had been with you and he’s already tainted this fragile thing you had between each other.
The dread that’s been brewing since you called is only worsened when he pulls into your driveway and sees you waiting on your front steps. He barely manages to get the truck in park before he jumps out.
You don’t twitch, don’t move an inch as he runs toward you. And that aching, festering feeling that burns inside him, it’s telling him a truth he’s not ready to admit. This is it. You’re too smart not to know what happened. And Baz was too much of a dumbass to just keep quiet and stay distant.
This is what he wanted, Andrew is sure, to get you away from him so Smurf has her dog back.
“Hey,” his hands cup your cheeks and a little piece of him finds hope when you don’t push him away. “What happened? You weren’t at the bank.”
Finally, you lift your gaze to meet his. The color of your eyes is dulled, face flat in an infuriating way he can’t read. “I didn’t want to wait. Walked home.” Andrew’s eyes dip to the heels resting beside your feet, the red backs of your ankles.
“Why?” He already knows why, but that doesn’t stop his hands from drifting down your legs, trying to soothe away the ache he knows has settled in your calves.
You let him just kneel before you for a little while. He can’t find the courage to meet your eye, hands just moving over your soft skin because he knows that this is it. Subconsciously, he can recognize that this sudden emptiness in your eyes isn’t because of what happened today. It's because of who was there. You’re keeping yourself hidden from him and he wonders if this is how you always feel around him.
“Andrew,” you whisper and his hands tighten around your leg. “Look at me,” your voice is so disarmingly soft and he knows it's a trap, but he obeys because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I’m going to ask this once,” you tell him, hand lifting to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, soaking it up greedily as your thumb smooths over the planes of his face. “Were you there today?”
It’s like everything goes cold. Your hand stops moving, grip tightening around his jaw as your eyes flatten into something sharp. His heart skips a beat once before he’s sucking in a sharp breath. He can’t lie to you, he doesn’t want to, but he can’t hurt his family and outright admit his guilt.
Silence lingers between you before you’re ripping your hand away and he’s trying to chase after your warmth. Your legs kick out, gently getting rid of his hands as you finally stand. Andrew follows, palms outstretched, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with himself when you’re right there and he isn’t allowed to hold you.
“Oh,” you whisper and there’s a grin on your face that’s cold and slightly panicked. “I fucking knew it. I knew it and I still gave you a chance!”
Andrew shakes his head, but you just wave him off, not interested in anything he might have to say to you. “I was nothing but a mark to you, right? An easy way to get access to the vault, to figure out the quickest way in and out. Jesus, I just handed it to you, I actually fell for your bullshit.”
“No,” Andrew objects, following you as you climb up your stairs. “It wasn’t bullshit, none of it was.”
You whip around on him, eyes glassy as you stare at him with something that looks painfully like hatred. “You got what you wanted, Pope,” you hiss the name out and it breaks something inside of him. “Tell Baz he doesn’t have to worry, I won’t be calling the cops. I don’t want anything to do with you people anymore. Got it? Stay the hell away from me.”
Andrew tries to follow you, but you slam the door in his face. He lingers there longer than he should, eyes boring into the wood like you might change your mind and open it. But he heard the lock click a while ago and he knows you meant every word. He can’t blame you, shouldn’t blame you. Honestly, not calling the cops is more than he ever could have asked of you.
But logic doesn’t abate the anger, the sharp, barbed pain inside his chest. You hadn’t given him a chance to explain. You didn’t believe how much you meant to him and he had tried to show you constantly. You just tossed it all aside like it meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.
Andrew knows that.
It meant something. It meant everything to him and he can’t just let you pretend it never happened.
The bed dips behind you and you grumble tiredly, flipping over as you try to yank the blankets up to your chin. There’s a weight on them, though, pulling them down and away from you. Ever so slowly, the fogginess of sleep begins to fade and your brain shocks itself awake.
There is someone on the bed behind you.
Trying not to breathe too loudly, you lift your head and peer over your shoulder. You aren’t surprised when you recognize Andrew’s hunched form, the moonlight from your open window giving a good enough view.
With a loud huff, you flip on your lamp and leap out of bed. His shoulders jump but he doesn’t turn to face you. “What the fuck do you not get about staying away from me?” You snap. Your anger only grows when he remains silent.
“Fucker,” you mutter under your breath, rounding your bed so you can see his face. Your feet still, anger abating for a moment as you take in the redness along his cheeks. As if he’s been crying. But you’ve never seen Andrew cry before, you weren’t even sure he was capable of it.
At his prolonged silence, something wedges itself into your chest, apprehension and nervousness. He’s quiet but this isn’t normal. Baz’s threat from earlier rings in your head as you slowly approach him. Andrew doesn’t meet your eye until you drop to your knees in front of him.
Bloodshot and weary, you know he really has been crying. It tugs on something in you. That soft, weak part of yourself that’s so used to caring for other people, you can hardly resist the urge now. Your hands lift and cup his cheeks, brows furrowing as you take in the devastation on his face.
“Andrew…” You trail off, speechless as he nuzzles into your hand, eyes falling shut. “What’s wrong?”
It takes a long while for him to speak, but you just wait, dread building with every second. Passively, you smooth your hands over his cheeks, attempting to keep him calm. The last thing you need is Andrew snapping and you being the nearest target.
“She’s doing it again,” he finally whispers, hands coming up to trap your own.
Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you ask, “Doing what, honey?”
He shudders at the pet name, melting further into you until he’s nearly on the floor with you. “Smurf, what she did with Cath…” He shakes his head and you can feel it, the slight buildup before someone begins to cry. Slowly, you creep forward, arms winding around his neck as you pull him into your embrace.
Andrew clings to you instantly, head buried in your shoulder as you drag your fingers through his curls. You hope he can’t feel how your heart is racing against your ribs, that he can’t sense just how scared you are right now.
You’re not scared of him, not really. But you know what Smurf is capable of. You know how deep mothers like that can embed themselves in their son’s head. It’s her that’s terrifying to you. “Who’s Cath, sweetheart?”
He shudders again, arm winding tight around your waist. “I loved her,” he whispers the admission into your skin and it feels like something no one was ever meant to hear. “Smurf, she told me Cath talked to the cops, I,” he cuts himself off and you feel your breath catch in your chest. “I hurt her,” he finally settles on. But that’s not the whole truth. You can feel it, can hear it in how his voice cracks.
He killed her.
You jerk back, jumping to your feet. Andrew lets out a low noise, eyes cloudy and cheeks ruddy. He stares up at you, hurt by how quickly you pulled away from him. “Andrew,” it’s a Herculean effort to keep your voice steady. “Is that why you’re here? Did Smurf send you to hurt me?”
His eyes drop to the floor, posture slipping under the weight of shame. “Yes,” he finally whispers.
This time you can’t stop the way your voice cracks. “Are you going to?”
Andrew’s head whips up, eyes wide as he stares up at you. “No,” his voice breaks around the word. You step forward as his hands reach out, wrapping around your hips and tugging you closer to him. “No, I’m not,” he insists and you really want to believe him.
He sees it, the fear in your eyes. In the one person he never wants to see looking at him like that. “You don’t believe me,” he mutters, head falling forward as his forehead rests against the softness of your stomach.
Your hands go to his back, scratching through his hair and trying to use your touch to ground him. “I believe you, Andrew. I just,” you hesitate, eyes darting around the room like you might be able to find an escape. “I don’t know why you’re here if you’re not going to listen to her.”
He sucks in a deep breath, face nuzzling into the softness you provide before he pulls back. You startle as he stands, eyes wide as he keeps his grip on your hips and tugs you even closer. His eyes lose the softness of sorrow, narrow into something harsher.
“You can’t stay here. Smurf expects you gone and if you’re not, she’s just gonna send Baz.” You tense under his grip and his thumbs draw circles into your skin, as if that would calm you after threat of death.
Andrew reaches into his back pocket and you watch as he pulls out a large envelope. He passes it off to you, slightly reluctant to release it as you take it from him. You move away from him, dumping the contents on the bed. An ID, a passport, and a thick stack of cash sit in front of you.
“Got you a new license plate, too. I already put it on.” He stands beside you, eyes boring into the side of your head. You can hardly breathe, let alone try and muster up a response. Tentatively, his hand lands on your back, the touch is enough to have you jolting back.
“Andrew, what is this?” You know. You know what it is, no part of you wants to admit, though.
“You have to go,” he whispers your name and you shake your head, body going numb. “Yes,” he insists. “It’s that or Smurf sends someone else to deal with you.”
“And,” you stutter slightly, scrubbing your hands down your face. Not only were you held at gunpoint today by your boyfriend, and then broke up with him. Now, he’s standing here telling you his mother wants you dead.
Death or change your identity.
This is why you had sworn to yourself no more mama’s boys. Now look where you are.
“Are you coming?” You ask, noticing that the only identification there is for you. Andrew pulls back and your heart drops. “Tell me you’re joking,” you snap.
That sad look in his eyes is all the confirmation you need. Swallowing down tears, you try to turn from him. His hands snap up, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his eye. “I can’t just leave,” his tone is desperate, eyes imploring you to understand. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”
“Fine,” you whisper, reality settling like a stone in your gut. “If I’m doing this right, then I guess this is it.” His brows furrow and you let out a shaky exhale. “Goodbye, Andrew,” you tell him, pushing up to press a light kiss on his cheek.
Despite the fact that it’s his mother getting rid of you, his fault you got wrapped up in this, he can’t let you go. You try to back away but his grip is firm as he drags you back and presses his lips to yours.
It’s the sort of desperate, dramatic kiss you thought you would only ever experience through movies. Tears are hot as they race down your cheeks, salty as they drip between your lips and you find yourself melting into him. He’s not kissing you like he’s saying goodbye. He’s kissing you as if he holds you close enough, this might not happen.
It’s you who pulls back, chest too tight to continue without taking a breath. Your forehead rests against his, hands sliding down to cover the ones on your cheeks. He lets out a small noise that rips through your chest as you finally pull him away from you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, incapable of looking at the passport on the bed, the new name you’ll be stuck with while you get away from the Codys. He tries to keep his hand in yours but you force yourself to break away, to put enough space between you so you can breathe again.
Without a word, you go into your closet to grab a suitcase. When you return, Andrew’s already gone. Another sob rips through your chest, but you force yourself through it, swallowing roughly as you start packing your life away.
You wait. It’s stupid, you know. Just a few hours ago, you were shouting at Andrew to stay out of your life, to forget you so you could forget him. But now, you’re sitting in your car, forehead resting on your steering wheel.
He told you he wouldn’t leave. That he couldn’t. And you know why. He feels obligated to his family, feels like their burdens are his to carry, even if they aren’t. He’d taken the fall for Baz once, and now he was doing it all over again.
Sitting up, your head thumps against the headrest as you suck in a sharp breath. You drag your hand down your cheeks, forcing away any remaining tears. You can’t wait for him forever. Smurf probably already thinks you’re dead. You know she’s got connections, like any good leader would, it wouldn't take her long to catch up to you. You have to leave now, while you still have the advantage of night.
“Alright,” you click your garage opener and finally force yourself to turn the ignition in your car. The car that Andrew had fixed for you, even if he still insisted on giving you rides after. The thought sends a stabbing pain in your stomach that you force yourself to ignore.
The headlights flick on, illuminating your driveway, and you bite your tongue to tamp down a scream. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off and for you to realize that the man standing in front of you is Andrew. Brows furrowed, you watch as he walks up to your car and tugs open the passenger door.
You’re left speechless when he just stares straight ahead, not looking at you once. “I need to make sure you get settled safely,” he tells you. You nod dumbly, trying not to let the relief on your face show so plainly. “Just for a few days,” he warns, trying to keep the hope in your eyes dimmed.
You both end up in Nevada. First, Andrew says just a few more days while he tries to help you find a place to stay. He tells you that when Cath happened, he’d gone AWOL for a while. Smurf wouldn’t go looking for him anytime soon. You hadn’t said anything to that, just shown him another listing for an apartment you could barely afford.
Days turn into two weeks as he gets some cash for you so he knows that you’re going to be able to settle in comfortably. You don’t ask where he gets the money from and he doesn’t offer you any sort of explanation.
Conveniently, the very night he swears he’s going to leave, the apartment below you gets broken into. It’s not hard to call up the waterworks, to blubber and cry in his arms about how scared you are. He promises you a few more days, just until you feel better.
By then, you’re getting better at catching his family’s calls before he does. Dismissing the notifications and deleting the messages trying to figure out where he is. With less distractions, he starts to forget just how many days he’s promised to stay.
Then it gets easy. You distract him simply by caring for him. Holding him at night and making him feel human rather than an animal. His days blur into weeks until it’s been two months and he’s got clothes in your new closet.
“How was your day?” You ask as he walks into the apartment. He’s got the shirt of a local HVAC company on. Just something on the side he picked up for some extra cash, he told you. But he’s been asking for more hours and suddenly it’s almost like he’s got a full-time job.
“Hot,” he grumbles, cheeks flushed from the sun. You turn the heat down on the stove and finally turn to face him. You open your arms and he falls into them like he’s been trained to do it. Maybe he has, maybe you’ve both been conditioned to shower each other in as much affection as you can.
“Wanna take a shower?” You ask, running your hands through his curls and smiling at how his body sinks into yours.
He lifts his head and a smile that’s almost become frequent shows in his eyes. “Alone?”
You snort and reach over to turn the stove off completely. “Don’t blame me if your meal gets cold.”
There’s no warning as he hefts you up, you let out a short squeal, hands tightening around his shirt as he carries you up the stairs. “Got my meal right here.”
“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes, but there's a grin so big on your face that your cheeks hurt.
You’d once sworn off man-children, mama’s boys who were too reliant on their mothers to be emotionally stable. But Andrew was never so bad, he just needed Smurf’s leash cut so he could finally breathe. He’s fully reformed, you think, as he shuts the bathroom door and helps you strip out of your clothes.
Andrew deserves something good in his life. He deserves to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions attached to your affection. And you don’t deserve to be alone because of what his family did to you.
So, by god, you’re keeping him.
𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them 💿
Summary: You’re in love with Andrew, but a part of you keeps whispering that it won’t last because people always leave.
Warnings: (MDNI 18+) established relationship, language, pet names, comfort, domesticity, technically inappropriate relationship (he’s technically your landlord, and youre the tenant in one of the family buildings), independent / prideful reader, insecurity, emotional argument, emotional baggage, mentions of family dysfunction (reader probably has smidge daddy issues), mentions of cheating (shitty men in general) reader is afraid of accepting love, andrew just wanting to take care of you (emotionally and financially), he’s perfect
A/N: I feel like I mostly read (or write) fics where Andrew is the one needing reassurance. What if, this time, it’s the reader who needs it? GIFs found HERE (bless you @wesandresons for all the pope content you produce for the AK fandom.
Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
You pulled into the Andrew's beach house and killed the engine, your shoulders immediately relaxing as you stepped out. It had been a long day, you had completed a shift at the hotel followed by your evening class—and all you wanted was to decompress.
You had recently returned to school after being out for years, making you noticeably older than your peers. Financial constraints had prevented you from attending college when you were younger, so a few years back you earned your associate degree at community college before transferring to San Diego State University. Now in your final year, you were on the verge of completing your degree. Balancing school with work, you attended night classes while employed as a hotel concierge—a position you'd built up to after starting as a housekeeper. Your goal was to transition into hotel management, and your Hospitality and Tourism degree was the key to getting there.
Andrew was already at the door, and your heart did that little flip it always did when you saw him. He jogged down to meet you, that easy smile spreading across his face.
"Hey, you," he said softly, already reaching for your passenger door before you could even close yours. He grabbed your backpack from the seat, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. You turned to face him, and he leaned in, his hand finding the small of your back as he kissed you. It was the kind of kiss that made the exhaustion melt away, at least for a moment.
"Come on," he murmured against your lips, "let's get you inside."
You grabbed the insulated bag from the back seat (leftovers from the hotel restaurant, good stuff that your manager had let you take) and followed him up to the apartment. It was 8:30 PM, and you were starving.
"I brought dinner," you said, holding up the bag as he unlocked the door. You kicked off your work shoes by the door, sighing with relief as your feet finally touched the cool hardwood. Your hotel uniform (crisp navy with the logo embroidered on the chest) felt heavy after twelve hours of wear. You unclipped your name tag and set it on the small table by the entrance, already moving toward the kitchen.
"I'll just heat this up real quick," you said, walking towards his kitchen and pulling out a container of the special from tonight's service. Your stomach was growling loud enough that Andrew probably heard it.
"Baby, no." His voice was gentle but firm, and you felt his hand wrap around your wrist before you could open the microwave. "You've been on your feet all day."
You turned to protest, but he was already shaking his head in that familiar and determined way that meant he had made a decision. You learned not to argue with him when he got like this, not out of fear, but because underneath all that rigid control was someone who couldn't rest until you were comfortable.
"Come on," he said, tugging you toward the couch. "Sit down."
You settled onto the cushions with a grateful sigh, your body already beginning to unwind.
"Can we eat here? On the couch?" you asked, biting your lip. Your feet were throbbing, your lower back ached, and the thought of sitting upright at the dining room table felt like asking you to run a marathon.
Andrew didn’t say anything for a moment. Eating on the couch was chaos. It was crumbs and disorder and everything that made him uncomfortable. You could practically see the internal calculation happening…the war between what he wanted (order, structure, and the dining room table being where meals belonged) and what you needed.
But he leaned down and kissed your forehead, surprising you, pressing his lips there for a long moment before pulling back. "Sure," he murmured, and walked back to the kitchen.
"Would you like some water?" he asked.
"Can I get a beer?" you called after him. It was Friday, and you rarely drank, so Andrew could tell that you were using this as a celebratory drink. A small reward for surviving another week.
"Of course," he grunted.
He heated the containers, found plates, and within minutes, he returned with the grilled chicken and roasted vegetables arranged on a plate, setting it down on place mats. A cold beer sat beside your plate, condensation already beading on the glass.
"There," he said, settling beside you on the couch, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. "Better?"
You leaned your head on his shoulder, already reaching for the fork. "Much better."
"You need to eat more consistently. Your energy levels have been inconsistent this week."
"I know," you said, already chewing.
He watched you eat, the fork moving mechanically from plate to mouth. You were wiped out, and he could see it in the slight tremor of your hand, the way you had to keep your head up consciously. It was the same exhaustion he'd noticed creeping in over the past few weeks, that tired look that appeared around your eyes by Wednesday and didn't fade until Sunday afternoon.
Too much, he thought, It's too much.
He understood the logic of it. School was important. It was currently your number 1 priority. And your job provided financial stability, the practical means to exist in this expensive fucking city. He respected that. He understood that. But understanding and accepting were two different things. And, right now, watching you struggle to keep your eyes open while you worked through dinner, Andrew couldn't reconcile the equation. You were working full-time and carrying a full course load… the math of it didn't work. You were dividing yourself into pieces small enough that none of them could function properly. If it were up to him, you wouldn't be working at all. You'd be in school, focused entirely on that. You'd have time to sleep, to eat properly, to exist without this constant strain pulling you apart at the seams.
"Baby, I've been thinking," Andrew said quietly, his thumb tracing circles on your shoulder. "For next semester, why don't you take your classes during the day?"
You frowned. "But...then I wouldn't be able to work."
"That's fine." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "You could move in. Since you refuse to let me pay for your tuition, then let me take the stress of rent, utilities, food, and everything else off your plate."
"No." The word came out as a growl, and you pulled away from him, setting your fork down with more force than necessary. Andrew knew this would be difficult because you were extremely prideful. But that didn't make it easier to watch you reject the obvious solution.
"Why?" he asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he genuinely couldn't understand the logic of your refusal.
You stood, moving away from the couch. "Andrew, I can't let you do that."
"The rent is only going to go up," he said, following you with his eyes. "The increase is about to be announced."
You turned to face him, and he saw the flash of understanding across your features. You lived in one of the family buildings owned by him and his brothers, so you were his tenant (and he was your landlord), which meant that your relationship was technically a conflict of interest. But it had never mattered to him… because the first time he helped you haul your groceries up the stairs to your apartment—he knew he was a fucking goner. Six months later, here you both were.
One word and your rent could disappear. He had offered once, but you had respectfully declined. So instead, he accepted the checks and hated himself for it. He'd stare at the numbers, at your signature in the corner, and it made him feel like he was taking from you.
"That's not the point," you said.
"Then what is the point?" Andrew stood now. "Explain it to me, because from where I'm standing, you're working yourself into the ground for no reason."
"I don't want to be dependent on you, Andrew. I can't—I won't—let myself become that person. The person who relies on someone else."
"That's not what this is."
"Isn't it?" you rolled your eyes. "If I move in, if you pay for everything, what happens when—" you stopped, but it was too late.
"When what?" Andrew's voice had gone dangerously quiet.
"What if we break up?" you whispered anxiously, fingers twisting together.
For a moment, there was absolute silence. Andrew stared at you, and you watched his expression shift… and watched something dark and sharp flicker across his features. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled in a way that was somehow more frightening than if he'd shouted.
"Why the fuck are we breaking up?"
"We're not, I just—"
"No." He stepped closer. "It sounds like it’s not a hypothetical for you. You're already planning for it. You're already assuming it's inevitable."
"That's not what I’m saying.”
"Isn't it?" His voice mirrored yours from moments before, but there was an edge to it now, something rigid and unyielding. "You're sitting here, exhausting yourself to the point of collapse, because you're so determined to maintain some kind of independence that you won't even consider the possibility that I might want to take care of you. That I might need to take care of you."
He could provide for you. He wanted to provide for you. That was what he was supposed to do. A real man took care of what mattered to him. It was that fucking simple.
"It’s not right," you said, your voice rising. "I don’t deserve it."
"What do you mean it’s not right?" Andrew pressed his lips thin. "Stop being too proud to let me help you!”
"It's not about pride!" The words erupted from you before you even realized you were speaking. "My dad walked out on us. My dad, Andrew. One day, he decided my mom, my sister, and I weren’t worth it anymore, and he just—he left. My most recent ex dumped me purely because his brother didn't like me. And my sister? Her husband promised her forever, and then she caught him with a fucking 21-year-old."
Your voice shattered mid-sentence, fear bleeding through every word. "My best friend had to move in with me last year because her ex literally changed the locks on her when the asshole broke up with her. She had nowhere else to go. And my colleague—God, my fucking colleague is still waiting for this mediocre married guy to leave his wife. He keeps telling her 'soon, soon.' But it's never going to happen. He's never going to choose her. So please, forgive me if I don't just... trust that you're going to want this forever, because people don't. People change their minds. People leave."
Andrew stood there, utterly still, and his dark hazel eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on unbearable. The realization hit him like a bullet to the chest. He could feel it, the slow spread of cold fury radiating from his gut, working its way through his veins until it sat behind his eyes, hot and sharp. Your father didn't just leave. He didn't just walk out, close a door, and disappear. He carved a wound into you so deep that years later, you were still bleeding from it. And every man who came after (your shitty ex, your sister's husband, your friend's ex, your colleague's married lover), they were pressing their thumbs into that wound and twisting it.
He didn’t look away from you, just took a breath, slow and deliberate, and let the thought settle into his bones:
If I ever meet your father, I'm going to kill him.
It wasn’t fantasy. It wasn’t an exaggeration born of the moment. It was a cold, crystalline certainty that lodged itself in his chest like a blade he had already decided to pull. He pictured it: some man, probably middle-aged, probably with a face that didn’t look like cruelty. Probably someone who would shake Andrew's hand and not know that he was shaking hands with the man who would fucking end him. And Andrew would look him in the eyes, the same eyes he passed down to you, and he'd think, This is the man who taught you that love is temporary. This is the man who made you believe you're not worth staying for.
He'd kill him slowly. Not sloppy, though, because Andrew wasn’t sloppy. But slow enough that the man would understand what was happening, understand that this was recompense for every night you probably spent wondering what was wrong with you, and thinking that people change their minds, and people leave.
"Come here," he said quietly.
"No." You wrapped your arms around yourself. "I can't do this right now."
"Yes, you can." He closed the distance between you, his hands gentle as they found your shoulders. "Look at me."
You didn't want to, but you did. His eyes were intense, focused entirely on you.
"I love you," he said, and he meant it. He meant it with every filthy, blood-soaked, stubborn part of him. "Not for right now. Not for the next year or the next 5 years. For forever. Do you understand me?"
You shook your head, tears spilling over your cheeks now.
"I don't know how to believe that, sometimes," you whispered.
Andrew's hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away your tears. "What do you want me to do? What do you need me to do to prove this to you?" He wanted to promise you something he had never promised anyone. He didn’t know what the words would be yet, but he felt them clawing up from his chest, desperate to be said.
"I don't know. I don't—"
"Do you want me to bring out the ring I bought last month?" he asked quietly. "Because I will. Right now. I'll go get it."
"What?" you gasped.
"You heard me," he said, looking at you like you're the only thing in this world that matters. "I was planning to wait. But if that's what you need to hear, I'll do it now. I'll ask you right now."
"Andrew, we—we haven't even been together a year yet," you said, shock overriding the fear for a moment.
"I know." He stepped back slightly, his hand still on your face. "But I also know that I love you. And I know that I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't promise that," you said, but your voice was smaller now, less certain.
"I can, and I am." He looked at you with such intensity that it was hard to hold his gaze. "I'm promising it to you right now. Forever. That's what I want. That's what I'm choosing."
You stood there, tears streaming down your face, wanting so desperately to believe him. Wanting to let yourself fall into this, into him. But then you looked up (really looked) and suddenly in that awful, unmoving certainty, you felt it: he meant every word.
"If you're my soon-to-be fiancé," you sniffled, "then... then I guess it's okay if we live together."
Andrew's expression softened into something almost like relief. "Yeah?"
"Yes," you whispered. “I love you, Andrew.”
And you did. They were words that were exchanged fairly quickly in your relationship. Probably a month in. But neither of you seemed to care that it was fast. It had felt like it made the most sense in the world. He pulled you against him, and you buried your face in his chest.
"There's something else," he said, his voice rumbling against your ear. "If you're my soon-to-be fiancée, you're going to tell work that you’re taking a leave of absence until you graduate. Not a reduction in hours—a full leave."
You pulled back to look at him, confused. "Andrew, what? I can't just—"
"You can, and you will." His voice was firm, brooking no argument.
"But the money—"
“I'm handling it." He cupped your face, his dark eyes intense and unwavering. "You don't get to argue with me on this. Not anymore. You're going to focus on school. You're going to let me do this. You're going to let me love you, and that means taking care of you. Your future, your education, everything.
"Andrew—"
"There is no negotiation here," he said, and there was something almost dangerous in his certainty. You wanted to argue. You wanted to protect yourself, to keep that wall up. But looking at him with that absolute conviction in his eyes, and the obsessive need to ensure your security, you found yourself nodding instead.
"Okay," you murmured.
"I'm not going to promise you that every day is going to be easy," he muttered, "because it won't be. But I'm going to promise you this—" His thumb stilled on your skin. "I'm never going to make you wonder how I feel about you."
He kissed you then, slow and deep, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, forever was possible.
SYNOPSIS: After 4 months of night shifts, and an accidental bonding with the widowed attending, fleeting days out after extensive shifts and feelings that grow into an unnamed relationship with a man who refuses to acknowledge anything - you finally switch back to day shifts. Now, it becomes harder to find where you stand in the life of the night attending, and whether or not there really was anything at all.
𖦹°⋆ next to a chapter means it includes a written part!
TAGLIST CLOSED
CHAPTERS:
╰┈➤ background info & extra context!
⋆˚࿔ CH.1 GOONETTE RETURNS
⋆˚࿔ CH.2 MOMMYS SICK, BABY
⋆˚࿔ CH.3 DOUBLE STANDARDS 𖦹°⋆
⋆˚࿔ CH.4 HOLD YOUR HEAD
⋆˚࿔ CH.5 AIRING OUT
⋆˚࿔ CH.6 yikes…. 𖦹°⋆
⋆˚࿔ CH.7 THE MORNING AFTER (LOSING ALL YOUR FRIENDS)
⋆˚࿔ CH.8 NEVER LOOKING BACK!!
⋆˚࿔ CH.9 ALWAYS COMES TOO LATE…
⋆˚࿔ CH.10 JACK ABBOT IS OVER PARTY
⋆˚࿔ CH.11 TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, BREAK MY HEART
⋆˚࿔ CH.12 RUMOUR HAS IT
⋆˚࿔ CH.13 GOONETTE RETURNS (AGAIN!)
CONTENT WARNINGS BELOW THE CUT!
Content warning throughout: hurt/comfort in last chapters, implied neurodivergent! reader (can be read by people with neurodivergence as it’s not major or a plot line :) , mentions of mental health issues, miscommunication (?), reader is an anxious mess, author trying to be funny & overuse of reaction pics 😣, jack lowk an ass for a bit, probably OOC (i tried my best but this is my first time doing any writing for the public!)
i tried not to use any ships! i know some people get put off fics bc they don’t like ships within it . There is also mentions of Mohabbot in earlier chapters FOR THE PLOT!!!
A/N: Hii! iim actually shitting myself bc i have crippling RSD and im terrified somebody’s gonna dookie on my ass for this - lowk have no idea how writers do tag lists or masterlists or anything because im slow so gimme a sec 🥹 Im also currently doing my A levels (yes im aware jack abbot is like 30 years older than me i do NOT gaf) & working so pls be patient with me if i get slow — i have 4 chapters planned atm. im not really a dedicated soul & this may get forgotten and unfinished. peer pressure me and send me aggressive DMS and i’ll comply!
my mouth hasn’t shut up about you, since you kissed it. the idea that you might kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn’t stopped thinking about you since well, before any kiss.
summary following your six month leave, you’re back at ptmc ready to continue your residency. you tell yourself you’re fine. the weight is manageable. the rush of the hospital should keep your thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. for a while that mindset will work, but there will be times, fleeting, where you remember why you left, and will have trouble remembering why you’re back. he won’t make it any easier, and he’s not going to let you leave again, and maybe you aren’t ready to leave either. he’s already figured you out, and he’s tightening his grasp on you, ready to hold you steady in the palm of his hand.
warnings fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, conservative usage of y/n, suggestive language, slight angst, sexual references, mostly fluff, reader’s nickname is gerbil (explained later), the author tries to be funny 😔 age gap (29/50), mentions of grief and loss, estranged parent(s), reader often misses social cues. (will include chapter specific warnings) past emery x reader (if you squint) unhappy ending
a/n came across this tweet, after a night of binging the pitt, and here we are now.
MASTERLIST
01. day one 11. day fifty-one
02. day four 12. day fifty-eight
03. day eleven 13. day sixty-four
04. day twenty 14. day sixty-nine
05. day thirty 15. day seventy-five
06. day thirty-one 16. day seventy-six
07. day (nth) 17. day eighty-two
08. day (null) 18. day ninety-three
09. day forty-one 19. day one-hundred
10. day fifty 20. epilogue
EXTRAS
prelude (written)
epilogue outtakes (smau)
pepperstories. @pepperstories - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
