Summary: At Liv and Robby’s wedding, you start to feel like you’ve lost the girl you used to be. Jack spends the night reminding you exactly who you still are.
Warnings: pregnancy, pregnant reader, established relationship, married reader and Jack, body insecurity during pregnancy, hormonal/emotional reader, swollen feet/ankles, pregnancy discomfort, baby kicking, wedding emotions, crying, emotional reassurance, possessive language, age gap relationship, suggestive content, heated kissing, public/semi-public intimacy, sneaking away during a wedding reception, locked office makeout, hand under dress, implied smut, Jack being extremely attracted to his pregnant wife, pregnancy pillow slander, soft dominance, “use your words,” husband duties, father duties, lots of tenderness, happy ending.
Author’s Note: Forearms/trouble time jump! This one is set at Robby and Liv’s wedding, with the reader eight months pregnant, emotional, uncomfortable, and trying very hard to be normal about being sober, swollen, wearing flats, and missing the red-top version of herself. Jack, naturally, notices everything. We’ve got maid of honor reader, best man Jack, Liv being radiant, Robby being absolutely gone, baby kicks during vows, foot rubs at the reception, a very emotional dance, a locked venue office, Penelope the pregnancy pillow causing problems, and Jack Abbot being devastatingly in love with his pregnant wife. This is soft, funny, a little spicy, and very much about being loved and wanted through every version of yourself.
Xoxo, Del
| Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | Pt. 5 | Pt. 6 | Pt. 7 | Pt. 8 | Pt. 9 | Pt. 10 |
The bridal suite was exactly the kind of room you would have destroyed five years ago.
Not literally.
Probably.
There were curling irons heating on the vanity, makeup bags split open across every available surface, champagne flutes sweating beside tubes of lipstick and bobby pins, and music playing from a speaker near the window. Someone had brought fruit. No one was eating it.
Liv stood in the middle of it all in a white satin robe while one of the bridesmaids fixed a curl near her temple.
She looked radiant.
That was annoying.
Beautiful, obviously. Bridal, definitely. But radiant in a way that made your throat keep trying to do something suspicious.
You sat in the velvet chair near the window with one hand braced beneath your stomach and the other wrapped around a glass of ice water.
Eight months pregnant.
Maid of honor.
In flats.
The dress was soft and formal, gathered carefully around your stomach in a way everyone had promised was flattering.
Everyone had used that word.
Flattering.
A dangerous word.
A word people used when they wanted to reassure you that you did not look as enormous as you felt.
The baby kicked hard beneath your ribs.
You looked down at your stomach. “Rude.”
Liv’s mom turned from the garment bag with both hands pressed to her chest. “Is the baby moving?”
You braced one hand beneath your stomach. “The baby is criticizing my posture.”
One of the bridesmaids laughed from the vanity.
Liv looked over her shoulder at you, eyes bright. “Already causing trouble?”
You glanced down again. “The baby comes by it honestly.”
Liv smiled so hard it almost undid you.
You looked back down at your water.
Water.
In a bridal suite.
While everyone else got champagne.
Once upon a time, you would have been barefoot beside Liv with a mimosa in one hand and your phone in the other, recording some terrible little video neither of you would ever post because both of you would be screaming the lyrics too loudly.
Once upon a time, you would have been the one dancing around the room, fixing Liv’s lipstick, stealing sips of champagne, making her laugh until someone threatened to take the curling iron away from both of you.
You would have been keeping up.
Instead, you were sitting down because standing too long made your lower back stage a formal protest, drinking ice water through a straw, and trying to decide if your ankles still counted as separate body parts.
You were happy.
That was the thing.
You were so happy for Liv that it hurt a little to look at her.
She was flushed and bright and nervous, glancing toward the garment bag every few minutes, as if the dress inside it might disappear if she did not keep checking. She looked like every good thing you had ever wanted for her had finally found somewhere to land.
You loved her.
You loved Robby for making her look like that.
You loved this day already, even with the flats and the water and the baby treating your ribs like a suggestion.
Liv caught your eye in the mirror. “What?”
You blinked. “Nothing.”
Liv’s smile turned suspicious. “No, that was a look.”
You shifted in the chair and immediately regretted it. “It was a normal look.”
Liv gathered the edges of her robe and crossed the room toward you. “Are you about to be nice to me?”
You sat up straighter. “No.”
Liv’s smile widened. “You are.”
You pointed your straw at her. “Don’t make it weird.”
Liv stopped in front of you. “It’s already weird. You’re soft.”
You looked down at your stomach. “I am swollen. There is a difference.”
Liv laughed, but her eyes went shiny.
You held out your hand before your own face could betray you.
Liv slipped her fingers through yours.
You squeezed once.
Then you looked her dead in the eye.
“I want you to know you are the only person who could get my pregnant ass into a formal gown,” you said.
Liv’s face crumpled immediately.
You pointed at her with your free hand. “No.”
Liv laughed wetly. “No what?”
You narrowed your eyes. “No crying. Your makeup is professionally applied.”
Liv squeezed your hand. “You can’t say something like that and then tell me not to cry.”
You lifted your chin. “I can do anything I want. I am carrying a child and wearing structured fabric.”
Liv pressed her lips together, trying and failing to hold back her smile.
You squeezed her hand again, gentler this time.
“I wouldn’t do this for anybody else,” you said.
Liv’s eyes filled.
Your throat tightened, but you forced a dramatic sigh before it could become anything too honest.
“So you’re welcome,” you added.
Liv laughed, and that made it safe.
That made it easier to breathe.
She bent carefully and hugged you around the shoulders, mindful of your stomach.
You closed your eyes for half a second.
Just half.
Liv’s voice softened against your hair. “I love you.”
You swallowed hard. “I love you too. Unfortunately.”
Liv laughed against your hair.
You let yourself hold her for one more second.
Then you pulled back and gave her a stern look.
“Now please step away from me before I become sincere enough to require medical intervention,” you said.
Liv wiped carefully beneath one eye. “You are impossible.”
You lifted one shoulder. “I am loyal.”
Liv smiled. “You are.”
You shifted in the chair. “And uncomfortable.”
Liv nodded. “Also true.”
The baby kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed one hand to the side of your stomach with a slow breath.
Liv’s smile softened. “You okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I think the kid is staging a protest.”
Liv’s brows pulled together. “Do you need anything?”
“I think I’m going to take a quick walk,” you said. “See if movement appeases them.”
One of the bridesmaids looked up from the vanity. “Do you want someone to go with you?”
You lifted your water glass. “No, thank you. This is a private negotiation between me and the tenant.”
Liv’s mouth twitched. “The tenant?”
You braced one hand beneath your stomach as the baby shifted again. “The tenant has been very active today.”
Liv glanced down at your stomach. “Maybe the baby is excited.”
You looked down too. “The baby is using my ribs as a footrest.”
Liv laughed, and the sound softened something in your chest.
You pushed yourself up from the chair carefully.
Very carefully.
With the kind of effort that made you feel about ninety years old and personally victimized by gravity.
Liv reached for you.
You held up one hand. “Do not assist me unless I ask. I still have some dignity.”
Liv froze, fighting a smile. “Okay.”
You made it upright and immediately regretted your confidence.
The baby shifted.
You looked down. “You are not helping.”
Liv pressed her lips together.
You pointed at her. “Do not laugh at me on your wedding day.”
Liv’s eyes widened innocently. “I would never.”
You gave her a look. “You absolutely would.”
Liv’s smile broke free. “I absolutely would.”
You grabbed your water from the vanity and took a careful step toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Liv watched you, still smiling, but there was something soft underneath it.
Too soft.
You looked away before it could land.
“I’m happy,” you said, because you needed her to know that much.
Liv’s eyes warmed. “I know.”
You nodded once.
That was all you could risk.
Then you slipped out into the hallway.
The quiet hit first.
Blessedly.
The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the music and laughter into something softer. The hallway was cooler, dimmer, decorated with framed prints and little gold sconces that made the venue look more expensive than it probably was.
You stood there for a second, one hand on your stomach and one wrapped around your water glass.
Then you exhaled.
“Okay,” you muttered.
The baby shifted.
You looked down. “Don’t start.”
You started down the hall slowly, because waddling was a word you refused to use for yourself even privately.
You preferred deliberate. Purposeful. Structurally cautious.
Halfway past a framed landscape painting, your lower back twinged.
You stopped and pressed one hand to the wall.
“Great,” you whispered. “Elegant.”
Jack’s voice came from the corner of the hallway. “You always did know how to make an entrance.”
Your eyes closed.
Of course.
Of course he would be there.
You turned your head.
Jack stood near the intersecting hall in his suit, one hand in his pocket, tie straight, jacket fitted across his shoulders in a way that felt personally offensive.
Best man.
Husband.
Problem.
His eyes found your face first.
Then moved down. Slowly. Not in surprise. Not in assessment.
In that way he looked at you sometimes, making the rest of the world feel badly lit by comparison.
You lifted your water glass between you. “No.”
Jack stopped a few feet away. “No?”
You pointed the glass at him. “No looking.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m looking.”
You gave him a flat look. “I can see that.”
Jack’s gaze moved over your face, soft and certain. “You’re beautiful.”
You sighed. “You are very predictable for a man who thinks he’s mysterious.”
Jack stepped closer. “Still true.”
You glanced down at your feet. “I am wearing flats.”
Jack’s gaze flicked down briefly. “I noticed.”
“My ankles have resigned,” you said.
Jack looked back at your face. “I noticed that too.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You are not supposed to notice that.”
“I notice everything about you,” Jack said.
The words were quiet.
Simple.
Horribly effective.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
You looked down at your stomach. “Your kid is making me emotional.”
Jack’s hand came to your stomach, warm through the formal fabric. “Our kid.”
You lifted your eyes to his. “Your kid when I’m emotionally unstable in a hallway.”
The baby kicked.
Immediately.
Jack’s whole face changed.
It always did.
Every time the baby moved under his hand, something in him went soft and helpless and almost young with wonder.
“Hi, kid,” Jack murmured.
Your chest squeezed.
You hated that too.
Loved it.
Hated it because you loved it.
You looked down at his hand. “Do not encourage them. They’re already making everything about themselves.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over the curve of your stomach. “Wonder where they get that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Choose your next words carefully.”
His mouth curved.
“There she is,” Jack said.
The words landed gently.
Too gently.
Your smile wobbled at the edges, and Jack saw it.
Of course he saw it.
His expression shifted. Not alarmed. Not pitying. Just aware.
“What is it?” Jack asked.
You looked toward the bridal suite door.
Behind it, Liv laughed at something, bright and breathless.
Your chest ached.
“Nothing,” you said.
Jack waited.
You looked back at him and tried for a smile. “I’m uncomfortable, sober, wearing supportive footwear, and currently being held hostage by formal fabric.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That all?”
You swallowed. No. No, it was not.
It was also the mirror.
And Liv’s champagne.
And the way you had pictured this morning years ago without ever imagining your body would feel so unfamiliar inside it.
It was wanting to be more for Liv.
It was feeling like less for yourself.
It was Jack looking at you like that and not knowing how to believe him.
But the ceremony was soon.
Liv was waiting.
The day was not yours to unravel inside.
So you lifted your chin. “For now.”
Jack heard the promise in it. Or the postponement.
His thumb brushed once over your stomach.
“Okay,” Jack said.
That almost made it worse. Not pushing. Not demanding.
Just understanding that you were holding something you did not have room to put down yet.
You exhaled. “You have best man duties.”
Jack nodded. “I do.”
You glanced pointedly down the hall. “You should be doing them.”
“I also have husband duties,” Jack said.
Your face warmed. “Jack.”
His hand stayed warm over your stomach. “And father duties.”
The baby kicked beneath his palm. Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
You looked down. “Do not encourage him.”
“Kid has good timing,” Jack said.
You looked back up at him. “The kid has your need to interrupt a moment.”
“Our kid,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened.
“Our kid,” you allowed.
Jack’s eyes softened. Then he leaned closer, his mouth near your ear.
“And between you and me, Trouble,” Jack murmured, “husband duties win every time.”
Your breath caught.
He kissed you before you could answer.
Soft. Private. Steady.
One hand still warm over your stomach, the other coming carefully to your jaw like he knew exactly how much of you needed holding.
For one stupid second, you forgot your ankles.
Forgot the dress. Forgot the water. Forgot every version of yourself you were afraid you had lost.
When Jack pulled back, his forehead hovered close to yours.
You swallowed. “That was a very irresponsible use of best man time.”
His mouth curved. “I’ll make it up to Robby.”
You smiled. “You won’t.”
“No,” Jack said. “Probably not.”
The hallway went quiet around you.
Then a burst of laughter came from inside the bridal suite, loud enough to break the moment before it could become too much.
You stepped back carefully. “I should go in.”
Jack nodded, but he did not move right away. His gaze stayed on your face.
“Later,” Jack said.
Your throat tightened.
You knew what he meant.
Later, when Liv and Robby were married. Later, when the pictures were done. Later, when you were not trying to protect your best friend’s joy from your own complicated heart.
Later, when you could say the thing.
You nodded once. “Later.”
Jack leaned in and kissed your forehead.
Then he stepped back and nodded toward the bridal suite.
“Go,” Jack said.
You pointed your water glass at him. “Go be the best man.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Yes, ma’am.”
You hated how much that still worked on you.
Even pregnant.
Especially pregnant.
You turned before he could see your face too clearly and made your careful way back toward the bridal suite.
Behind you, Jack did not move until you were safely through the door.
Of course he didn’t.
By the time the wedding coordinator lined everyone up outside the doors, you had peed twice, adjusted the dress four times, and accused the baby of attempting to unionize against you.
The baby responded by kicking you directly beneath the ribs.
You pressed one hand to your stomach and exhaled through your nose. “Noted.”
The bridesmaid in front of you turned slightly. “Are you okay?”
You smiled at her. “Perfect. I’m glowing.”
Her eyes dropped to your stomach.
You gave her a look. “Do not fact-check me.”
She laughed softly and turned back around.
The music changed on the other side of the closed doors, and the little line of bridesmaids and groomsmen went still.
For one second, everything inside you softened.
Liv was behind you somewhere, hidden from the aisle, probably holding her bouquet too tightly and trying not to cry before she even saw Robby.
You hoped Robby cried first.
You hoped Liv saw it.
You hoped the whole room saw it, actually, because Robby had spent far too long pretending he was immune to her, and you wanted witnesses when that finally stopped being true.
The coordinator opened the doors.
Light spilled into the hall.
One by one, the bridesmaids and groomsmen started down the aisle.
Then it was your turn.
Jack was waiting for you.
He stood just inside the doors in his suit, one arm offered, his face composed in a way that would have fooled everyone else.
It did not fool you.
His eyes moved over your face first, then dropped briefly to your stomach, then back up again.
Checking.
Always checking.
You slipped your hand through the crook of his arm. “If I trip, save the baby first.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’ll save both of you.”
You looked up at him. “That was very husband of you.”
His eyes warmed. “I practice.”
The coordinator gestured toward the aisle.
You took one careful step. Then another.
The whole room turned toward you. Not really. Not fully.
They were waiting for Liv.
You knew that.
You knew no one was staring at your stomach or your flats or the way your hand tightened briefly on Jack’s arm when the baby shifted again.
But knowing something and feeling it were apparently two different departments, and yours were not communicating.
Jack’s hand came over yours where it rested on his sleeve. A small touch. Steady.
Hidden enough that no one else would notice.
You noticed.
You looked straight ahead. “I’m fine.”
Jack kept his voice low. “I know.”
You whispered, “You don’t have to do that.”
Jack’s voice remained low. “I know that too.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Then why are you doing it?”
His thumb moved once over your knuckles. “Husband duties.”
Your chest tightened.
You looked away before your face could do anything incriminating.
Jack walked you to the front, slow enough to make it look natural, steady enough that you did not have to think about every step. When you reached your place beside Liv’s empty spot, he released your arm with obvious reluctance.
You lifted your brows at him.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
Then he crossed to Robby’s side and took his place as best man.
Robby stood at the front with his hands folded in front of him, shoulders squared, expression controlled.
Then the music changed again.
Everyone stood.
Liv appeared at the end of the aisle.
And Robby was finished.
Completely.
His face did not crumple. Robby was too stubborn for that. But something in him opened, something private and helpless and so plainly hers that your throat closed around the breath you had meant to take.
“Oh,” you whispered.
The bridesmaid beside you glanced over. You pressed your lips together quickly.
Liv walked down the aisle, radiant and nervous, smiling as if she were trying to keep herself from running. Her eyes never left Robby.
Robby’s never left hers.
By the time Liv reached the front, your eyes were already burning.
Liv handed you her bouquet with shaking fingers.
You took it carefully, then leaned just close enough for only her to hear. “He’s gone.”
Liv’s smile trembled. “I know.”
You looked at Robby. His jaw shifted once.
You looked back at Liv and softened. “Good.”
Liv blinked fast, then turned toward him.
The officiant began speaking.
You tried to listen. You really did. You loved weddings. You loved vows. You loved romance and commitment and the dangerous optimism of two people deciding to be foolish together in front of witnesses.
You did not love being internally assaulted during them.
The baby kicked once. Hard.
Your fingers tightened around Liv’s bouquet.
Jack noticed immediately.
From across the aisle, his gaze snapped to your face.
You gave him a tiny smile.
The kind that said, do not move.
The kind that said, I am fine.
The kind that said, if you interrupt this ceremony because your kid has started kickboxing my ribs, I will never forgive you.
Jack’s brows drew together faintly.
You widened your eyes at him.
He stayed where he was.
The officiant smiled at Robby. “Robby, you may begin.”
Robby took Liv’s hands.
For one second, he looked like he might say something dry. Something small. Something safe.
Then he looked at her face and lost the ability to hide.
“Liv,” Robby said, his voice rougher than usual.
Liv’s chin wobbled.
Your own eyes filled immediately.
You hated everyone.
Robby swallowed once. “You are the loudest person I have ever met.”
A laugh moved through the guests. Liv laughed too, already crying.
Robby’s thumbs moved over her hands. “And somehow, you are also the safest.”
Your throat tightened hard.
The baby kicked again.
You nearly flinched. Nearly. Your hand shifted over your stomach before you could stop it, bouquet tucked awkwardly against your side.
Jack saw. Again. His whole body changed by half an inch, like instinct had tried to move him before discipline stopped it.
You gave him a look. He held your gaze.
You mouthed, Stay.
Jack’s jaw shifted. But he stayed.
Liv’s vows came next, and if Robby’s were a wound, Liv’s were a flood.
She cried. Obviously. She laughed at herself for crying. Obviously.
She made Robby laugh. Less obviously, but beautifully.
“You make quiet feel like somewhere I’m allowed to be,” Liv said, her voice trembling.
Robby looked wrecked.
Your chest hurt.
You forgot, for a few seconds, the ache in your feet and the pull in your back and the baby’s ongoing protest beneath your ribs.
You forgot yourself completely.
There was only Liv.
Your Liv.
Your best friend in white, standing across from the man who had learned how to hold all her noise without asking her to become smaller.
You smiled through the tears.
Then the baby kicked again, sharp enough that your breath caught.
Jack took one step. Tiny. Almost nothing.
Robby’s eyes flicked briefly toward him.
Jack stopped.
You stared at your husband across the aisle and gave the smallest shake of your head.
Jack looked deeply unhappy about obeying.
Good.
Let him suffer.
He was the reason you were in this condition in the first place.
Mostly.
Technically, if memory served, you had climbed on top of him in one of his old shirts and very little else.
Enthusiastically.
But that was beside the point.
The officiant pronounced them married a few minutes later.
Liv kissed Robby before she was technically told to.
The guests laughed and clapped.
Robby caught her by the waist like he had expected nothing else.
You cried immediately.
Not cute crying either. Actual tears. Ridiculous.
Pregnancy had made your face a public event.
Jack crossed to you as the music swelled and the wedding party began to move back down the aisle.
His hand found your elbow first, gentle and steady.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
You wiped quickly beneath one eye with the side of your hand. “No.”
His expression sharpened.
You sniffed and handed Liv’s bouquet back to her as she passed you, laughing and crying against Robby’s shoulder. “I’m happy.”
Jack’s face softened.
You looked up at him. “And the kid hates vows.”
His mouth curved, small and helpless. “The kid has opinions.”
You replied, “The kid has feet.”
Jack’s hand moved to your back as he guided you into step beside him. “Our kid.”
You sighed, leaning into him for half a second as the guests clapped around you. “Our kid when they stop aiming for my ribs.”
Jack bent his head closer to yours. “Still our kid.”
You looked up at him.
His eyes were warm. Devastatingly warm.
You pointed one finger at him as you walked. “Do not be tender while I’m trying to be mad at your offspring.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your temple so quickly no one else would catch it.
“Our offspring,” he murmured.
Your chest squeezed.
The baby kicked again.
You closed your eyes. “Traitor.”
Jack’s hand stayed steady at your back.
And somehow, impossibly, you made it all the way back down the aisle without crying harder.
Mostly.
By the time dinner ended, your feet had become a separate emotional event.
The ceremony had been beautiful. The pictures had been beautiful.
Liv and Robby were beautiful.
The entire day had been beautiful in a way that made people say things like perfect and magical and meant to be.
Your feet did not care.
Your feet were angry.
Your feet had unionized with your lower back, and both parties were threatening a formal strike.
You sat at the wedding party table with one hand resting on your stomach, your water glass sweating beside your plate, and your flats kicked off beneath the table like evidence of a crime.
The baby had finally settled.
Mostly.
You did not trust it.
Liv was across the room with Robby, laughing as someone pulled her toward the dance floor. Her dress moved around her in soft white waves, her hair already slipping out of its perfect pins, and her face was so bright you could have found her in the dark.
Your chest tightened.
God, she was happy.
You loved that.
You loved it so much it hurt.
Robby said something near Liv’s ear, and Liv tipped her head back, laughing.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Then your smile wobbled.
Just slightly.
You looked down at your water glass and took a sip.
A voice beside you said, “You look like you’re considering violence.”
You turned your head.
Jack stood beside your chair, suit jacket off now, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened at his throat.
Your husband. Best man. Problem.
You looked at his forearms for half a second too long.
His mouth curved faintly.
You lifted your gaze to his face. “I am considering several things.”
Jack’s eyes dropped briefly beneath the table. “Where are your shoes?”
You glanced down. “They abandoned me.”
Jack pulled out the chair beside you and sat. “That right?”
You nodded solemnly. “We had creative differences.”
Jack reached under the table and found one of your ankles. “Your feet hurt.”
You gave him a look. “That was not a question.”
“No,” Jack said.
You stiffened when he lifted your foot carefully into his lap. “Jack.”
His hand stayed warm around your ankle. “What?”
You looked around quickly. “We are in public.”
Jack settled your heel against his thigh. “I know.”
“You are the best man,” you said.
“I remember,” Jack said.
You lowered your voice. “You cannot just put my foot in your lap during the reception.”
Jack’s thumb pressed carefully into the arch of your foot. “Looks like I can.”
Your eyes nearly rolled back into your head.
You caught yourself just in time.
Barely.
Jack noticed.
His mouth curved. “That bad?”
You gripped the edge of your chair. “Do not sound pleased.”
“I’m not pleased that you’re hurting,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are pleased that you’re right.”
Jack’s thumb moved again, slower this time. “A little.”
You exhaled through your nose. “I hate you.”
His eyes warmed. “No, you don’t.”
You sank back into the chair. “No. I really don’t.”
Jack worked his thumb carefully along the sole of your foot, firm enough to help and gentle enough that your throat tightened for reasons that had very little to do with pain.
You looked toward the dance floor.
Liv was spinning under Robby’s arm now, her laugh carrying over the music.
Robby looked ridiculous.
Not because he was dancing badly.
He was actually better than you expected. He looked ridiculous because he was happy and trying not to show too much of it, which meant he was showing all of it.
You smiled. “Look at him.”
Jack glanced toward the dance floor. “He’s gone.”
You laughed softly. “Completely.”
Jack’s hand moved to your ankle, his fingers careful over the swelling. “She looks happy.”
You swallowed. “She is.”
“She deserves it,” Jack said.
You nodded. “She does.”
Your voice came out too soft.
Jack looked back at you.
You felt his attention before you saw it.
You kept your eyes on the dance floor.
Liv danced like joy had gotten into her bones. Hair loose. Face flushed. Robby’s hand steady at her waist. She was everything you had pictured for her and nothing like the version of the day you had imagined sharing with her.
Jack’s thumb paused against your ankle. “Trouble.”
You kept your eyes on Liv. “I’m happy.”
His voice stayed low. “I know.”
You looked at him quickly. “I am.”
Jack’s eyes stayed steady. “I know you are.”
You nodded, because you believed him.
Because he believed you. That helped. It also made the ache easier to feel.
You looked down at your stomach. “I just thought I’d be more fun today.”
Jack’s hand stilled. You immediately regretted saying it.
You reached for your water. “Forget I said that.”
“No,” Jack said.
You looked at him. “No?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
You huffed. “That is not how forgetting works.”
“I’m not forgetting it,” Jack said.
Your fingers tightened around the glass.
Across the room, the music changed into something louder, something you and Liv would have ruined five years ago with bad dancing and worse singing.
Your chest ached.
You looked back toward the dance floor. “I would’ve been out there with her.”
Jack watched your face.
You swallowed. “Before.”
His hand resumed moving slowly over your ankle. “Before?”
You gestured weakly at yourself. “Before this.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Careful. Still.
You looked down at the dress gathered around your stomach. “Before I was eight months pregnant and wearing flats and drinking water like a Victorian invalid.”
His mouth twitched.
You looked down at your lap. “Before I had to sit through half the reception with my feet up because standing for pictures made me feel like my spine was filing a complaint.”
Jack’s thumb pressed into the arch of your foot again.
You closed your eyes for a second. Then you opened them and looked toward Liv.
“I used to keep up with her,” you said.
Jack did not rush to answer.
You were grateful for that. You hated it a little too.
“I used to be the girl dancing with Liv until two in the morning,” you said. “The girl taking shots. The girl in tight jeans and that red top.”
Jack’s gaze moved over your face. You felt it like a touch.
You tried to smile. “The girl making bad choices.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You made several.”
You looked at him. “You were one of them.”
His eyes warmed. “Best one you ever made.”
Your laugh came out small.
Then it faded.
You looked down at the dress gathered around your stomach.
The fabric was beautiful. Soft. Formal. Expensive.
It still felt like too much proof that your body was not the one you remembered.
Your voice dropped. “I used to be Trouble.”
Jack went still. His hand stopped around your ankle.
You wished, immediately, that you could pull the words back. But they were there now. Sitting between you under the music.
Jack’s voice was low when he answered. “Sweetheart.”
You looked away.
“You think you’re not Trouble anymore?” Jack asked.
Your throat tightened.
You stared at your water glass. “I’m wearing flats.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your ankle. “You threatened formalwear twice before dinner.”
Your mouth trembled.
“You looked like you were about to argue with the baby during the vows,” Jack said.
You glanced at him. “The baby was kickboxing my ribs during vows.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You whispered traitor at a passing tray of champagne.”
“That was private,” you said.
“You sent me to Target at ten-thirty last week because ice cream wasn’t cutting it anymore and the kid wanted gelato,” Jack said.
You lifted your chin. “That was the kid.”
“The kid is brand-specific?” Jack asked.
You nodded. “The kid has standards.”
Jack’s eyes warmed.
“You named your pregnancy pillow and accused me of disrespecting her boundaries,” Jack said.
You gave him a warning look. “Penelope supports me.”
Jack’s expression flattened. “Penelope knows what she did.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Jack watched you with quiet satisfaction.
There. That look. Like he had found you. Like he had known exactly where to reach.
You shook your head, still smiling. “You are insane.”
“I can’t have sex with my wife without first completing an obstacle course,” Jack said.
Your face went hot. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “What?”
You glanced around the reception. “We are at Robby and Liv’s wedding.”
“I’m aware,” Jack said.
“You are talking about sex,” you said.
Jack’s thumb moved over the top of your foot. “With my wife.”
Your stomach flipped. Annoyingly. Wonderfully.
You looked away, but your smile stayed.
Jack’s hand moved from your ankle to the top of your foot, his thumb sweeping slowly over your skin.
“The red top didn’t make you Trouble,” Jack said.
Your smile faded.
You looked back at him.
“The tequila didn’t make you Trouble,” he said. “The dancing didn’t make you Trouble.”
Your throat tightened.
“You did,” Jack said.
The words landed so simply you almost did not know what to do with them.
Jack’s eyes held yours.
“You still do,” he said.
Your breath caught.
The music swelled around you. People laughed. Glasses clinked. Liv shouted something from the dance floor, bright and happy and alive.
You barely heard it.
Jack’s hand stayed warm around your foot. Steady. Yours.
“I know you love me,” you whispered.
Jack’s expression softened. “I do.”
You looked down at your stomach. “I know we’re married.”
His thumb moved once over your ankle. “We are.”
“I know you’re excited about the baby,” you said.
Jack glanced at your stomach, then back to your face. “I am.”
You looked up quickly. “I am too. I’m so excited.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You swallowed.
Your voice went smaller. “But sometimes I don’t feel like the woman you wanted.”
Jack’s face changed. Not with pity. With recognition.
“Trouble,” Jack said.
You shook your head once. “I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” Jack said.
You looked down at yourself. “My body is different.”
“I know,” Jack said.
“I’m different,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
Your eyes burned. “And I don’t feel sexy.”
Jack’s hand stilled.
For one second, he did not move.
Then his gaze moved over you. Slowly. Not polite. Not pitying.
Not soft in the way people looked at pregnant women when they meant glowing but also fragile.
This was different.
This was Jack looking at you like he had looked at you across a bar.
Across the cab of his truck.
Across your kitchen in his white button-down.
This was heat.
Quieter now. Deeper. No less real.
Your breath caught.
Jack leaned closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear him beneath the music. “You said you didn’t feel sexy.”
Your throat tightened.
His gaze moved over you, slow and unmistakable.
“That is not how I see you,” Jack said.
Your breath caught.
His hand closed around your ankle, warm and careful.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, rougher now, “I didn’t know I could want you more than I already did.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
The room seemed to tilt slightly around the edges.
Jack did not look away.
“You’re carrying our kid,” he said. “You’re sitting here in that dress, mad at your water, pretending you don’t want to cry because you miss the girl you think you used to be.”
Your chest ached.
His thumb moved over your skin.
“And I am looking at you,” Jack said, “trying to remember how I’m supposed to act normal in public.”
Your breath caught.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened. “You are still the woman I look for first in every room.”
A tear slipped before you could stop it. Jack reached up and caught it with his thumb.
You tried to laugh. “This is very rude of you.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I know.”
You blinked hard. “I’m already emotional.”
“I know that too,” Jack said.
“You’re making it worse,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Good.”
Your breath caught again. His thumb brushed once beneath your eye.
“You didn’t disappear,” Jack said.
Your throat closed.
“You changed,” he said. “That’s not the same thing.”
The words went straight through you. Clean. Necessary. Cruel in the way true things could be cruel when they touched the exact place you had been trying to protect.
You looked down at your stomach.
The baby shifted.
Jack’s hand moved there automatically, leaving your foot in his lap so he could rest his palm over the curve of you.
“Hi, kid,” Jack murmured.
You blinked hard. “The kid is ruining my moment.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “The kid is participating.”
You narrowed your eyes through the tears. “The kid is nosy.”
“The kid gets that from you,” Jack said.
You pointed at him. “Careful.”
“There she is,” Jack said.
You laughed, wet and small.
Jack’s hand tightened gently over your stomach.
Across the room, Liv waved at you from the dance floor. You lifted one hand weakly. Liv pointed at you.
You shook your head immediately.
Liv pointed harder.
You pointed at your stomach.
Liv mimed dancing anyway.
You stared at her.
Then Robby leaned down and said something in Liv’s ear.
Liv looked back at you, softened, and blew you a kiss instead.
Your eyes burned all over again.
Jack watched your face. “You want to dance with her.”
You swallowed. “I want to be able to.”
He looked toward the dance floor, then back at you. “Dance with me first.”
You gave him a look. “Jack.”
His hand moved back to your ankle. “One song.”
“I can barely stand,” you said.
“I’ll hold you,” Jack said.
Your chest tightened.
You tried again anyway. “I cannot dance.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You can sway aggressively.”
A surprised laugh slipped out of you.
He lifted your foot carefully from his lap and set it down, then reached for your flats under the table.
You watched him slide one onto your foot. Then the other.
Something about it made your throat tighten worse than the speech had.
Jack looked up. “Still okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He stood and offered you his hand. You stared at it. Then you looked at him.
“You know I’m going to complain the entire time,” you said.
Jack’s eyes warmed. “I’m counting on it.”
You took his hand.
He helped you stand slowly, one hand going immediately to your back, the other staying wrapped around yours like he knew exactly how much balance you had left and had no intention of making you spend any of it alone.
Your body protested. Your feet complained. The baby shifted.
You leaned into him as he guided you to the very edge of the dance floor.
The music moved around you.
Liv laughed somewhere nearby.
Robby’s voice followed, low and fond.
Jack swayed with you slowly, barely more than a shift of weight beneath the warm lights.
The old you would have danced differently.
The red top girl would have found Liv in the middle of the floor and pulled her close, laughing and bright and fearless.
But Jack’s hand was steady at your back.
Your stomach rested between you.
The baby moved once, softer now.
Jack’s mouth brushed your temple.
And when you opened your eyes, Liv was watching you from across the dance floor. She was crying. Of course she was. You shook your head at her. Liv smiled through it.
Then she mouthed, I love you.
Your throat tightened.
You mouthed back, Unfortunately.
Liv laughed.
Jack’s hand moved gently over your back. “You okay?”
You leaned into him. “No.”
His mouth brushed your hair. “Happy?”
You watched Liv turn back into Robby’s arms. Your chest ached.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Really happy.”
Jack held you a little closer.
And for the first time all day, you let yourself believe two things could be true at once.
You could miss the girl in the red top. You could still be her. You could be swollen, sober, emotional, wearing flats, carrying Jack’s kid, and still be the woman he wanted to take home.
Still Liv’s person. Still Jack’s wife. Still Trouble.
Jack’s hand stayed at your back as he guided you off the edge of the dance floor.
At first, you thought he was taking you back to the table.
Then he turned down the hallway.
You looked up at him. “Where are we going?”
Jack kept his pace slow enough for you. “Somewhere quiet.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspicious.”
His mouth curved faintly. “It’s not.”
You glanced back toward the reception hall. “That also sounds suspicious.”
Jack pushed open a door near the end of the hall with one hand. “In here.”
You stepped inside and immediately narrowed your eyes.
It was a small venue office, tucked away from the reception hall, with a narrow couch against one wall, a desk covered in vendor paperwork, and a stack of folded linens waiting in the corner.
You turned back to him. “Did you just put me in an office?”
Jack shut the door behind you and turned the lock. “I put you somewhere quiet.”
Your eyes dropped to his hand on the lock.
Then back to his face.
You lifted your brows. “Somewhere quiet with a lock?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Useful feature.”
“That sounds extremely suspicious,” you said.
“It’s a door,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. “It is a locked door.”
His hand found your waist. “You needed privacy.”
You glanced toward the desk, then back at him. “For crying or crimes?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Depends how you’re feeling.”
Your stomach flipped.
You crossed your arms carefully over the swell of your stomach. “I am too pregnant to be lured into a venue office.”
Jack stepped closer. “You weren’t lured.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You led me down a hallway and locked a door.”
His hand moved carefully over your stomach. “I gave you somewhere to sit.”
You looked pointedly at his hand. “You are doing more than that.”
Jack’s thumb moved once against the fabric of your dress. “Not yet.”
Your breath caught. He noticed. His eyes warmed.
You pointed at him. “You are a menace.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Sit down.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Bossy.”
“Pregnant,” Jack said.
You opened your mouth.
His hand spread carefully over your stomach. “My pregnant wife.”
You let him guide you to the narrow couch and sat with a relieved sigh you wished had sounded less dramatic.
Jack noticed anyway.
His mouth curved faintly. “That bad?”
You leaned your head back against the couch. “Do not ask questions you already know the answer to.”
He crossed to the desk, found a plastic cup beside a pitcher of water, and poured one for you.
You watched him bring it over. “You brought me to an office for water.”
Jack handed you the cup. “I brought you here because you looked like you were about to cry on the dance floor.”
Your fingers tightened around the cup.
His eyes stayed on yours. “And because I wanted you alone for five minutes.”
The air shifted. Softly. Dangerously.
You swallowed. “Jack.”
He stood in front of you, tie loose, sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed from a full day of wedding chaos and husband duties.
He looked infuriatingly good.
He looked like the man who had once backed you against his truck and made you forget how to act normal in public.
Your body remembered before you meant it to.
Jack saw that too.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
His voice went quieter. “Trouble.”
You set the cup on the small table beside the couch. “You should be careful.”
His mouth curved. “Should I?”
You nodded, even as your fingers found his loosened tie. “This is Robby and Liv’s wedding.”
Jack let you tug him closer. “I know where we are.”
Your breath caught as he braced one hand on the back of the couch beside your shoulder.
He bent slowly.
Slow enough to give you room. Slow enough to make you take it.
You lifted your face to his.
The kiss was supposed to be soft.
It was not.
It started careful, but the careful part only lasted until your fingers tightened around his tie and Jack made a rough sound against your mouth.
Then his hand was at your jaw. Then your hand was in his hair. Then he was kissing you like he had been waiting all day and had finally run out of patience.
You gasped against his mouth. “Jack.”
His lips moved to your jaw. “Yeah?”
Your eyes closed as his mouth found the place beneath your ear. “We are in an office.”
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Door locks.”
You shivered. “That is not the moral issue.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “It’s the practical one.”
A laugh broke out of you, breathless and helpless.
Jack kissed it from your mouth.
For a minute, maybe two, you forgot everything.
The dress. The swelling. The water. The way your feet hurt. The red top ghost.
There was only Jack’s mouth, and Jack’s hands and Jack looking at you like restraint was something he had personally outgrown.
Your fingers slid over his jaw. “This feels familiar.”
Jack paused with his mouth close to yours. “You sneaking off with me?”
Your breath shook. “You looking at me like you’re about to make a bad decision.”
His eyes darkened.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your cheek. “Wasn’t bad the first time.”
Your chest tightened.
The first time. The heat. The want. The reckless girl you used to be.
You tried to smile, but it came out smaller than you meant it to.
You whispered, “I used to be better at this.”
Jack went still. Not frozen. Not distant. Listening.
His voice dropped. “Better at what?”
You swallowed hard and looked down at his tie still twisted in your fingers. “Being the woman you sneak away with.”
The room went quiet.
Jack’s fingers found your chin. Gentle. Certain. He brought your face back to his.
“You are the woman I sneak away with,” Jack said.
Your eyes burned.
His gaze held yours. “You are the woman I take home.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb brushed your jaw. “You are the woman I want.”
The words moved through you slowly. Deeply.
Before you could answer, Jack kissed you again.
This time, it was not careful.
It was controlled.
There was a difference.
His hand slid over your hip, then down the outside of your thigh, gathering the fabric of your dress just enough for his fingers to find bare skin above your knee.
You inhaled sharply.
Jack stopped immediately. “Okay?”
You nodded.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Words.”
Your voice came out shaky. “Yes, Jack.”
His mouth found yours again.
His fingers skimmed higher, still careful, still maddening, and your head tipped back against the couch as heat unfurled low in your body.
The baby shifted.
You froze. Jack froze too.
For one ridiculous second, neither of you moved.
Then you looked down at your stomach. “Absolutely not.”
Jack huffed a quiet laugh against your neck.
You pointed at your stomach. “This is private.”
His shoulders shook once.
You looked back at him. “Do not laugh while seducing me in an office.”
Jack lifted his head, eyes warm and dark. “Hotel.”
Your pulse jumped. “What?”
His thumb moved once over your hip. “I’m taking you back to the hotel before I forget where we are.”
You stared at him. Then your gaze dropped to his mouth.
You tried to sound normal. “That seems responsible.”
Jack kissed you once more. Slow. Firm. A promise more than a finish.
Then he helped you stand, one hand steady at your back, the other smoothing your dress back into place like he had not just had his hand under it.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are very composed for a man committing crimes against my emotional stability.”
Jack unlocked the door and glanced into the hall. “Practice.”
You stepped carefully beside him. “I hate that answer.”
His hand found yours.
Jack’s eyes warmed. “No, you don’t.”
You leaned into his side as he guided you back toward the reception long enough to say goodbye. “No. I really don’t.”
By the time Jack got you back to the hotel room, the heat from the stolen office had settled into something heavier.
You were still tired. Deeply tired. Your feet hurt. Your back ached. The baby had apparently accepted the end of the reception with only mild resentment.
But Jack’s hand at your back felt like a promise he had not finished keeping.
He opened the door with one hand, your overnight bag slung over his shoulder and the giant U-shaped pregnancy pillow tucked under his other arm.
He looked very handsome.
And deeply offended.
You saw his eyes move to the pillow as he stepped inside.
Then you watched him glare at it. Actually glare.
You stepped into the room behind him. “Do not start with her.”
Jack set the overnight bag near the dresser. “I didn’t say anything.”
You pointed at his face. “You looked.”
Jack placed the pillow on the bed with unnecessary precision. “She knows what she did.”
You rolled your eyes and shut the door behind you. “Penelope supports me.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on the pillow. “Penelope takes up more mattress than I do.”
You crossed your arms carefully over the swell of your stomach. “She has a job.”
Jack turned toward you. “She has an agenda.”
You lifted your chin. “She keeps my hips aligned.”
His eyes moved over you. “She keeps me from my wife.”
Your face warmed despite the exhaustion. “You are ridiculous.”
His expression softened. “I know.”
That was somehow worse.
You looked away first and reached awkwardly for the zipper at the side of your dress. “Please help me get out of this before I become one with the fabric.”
Jack crossed the room immediately.
His hands came to your waist, careful and familiar, and he turned you gently so your back was to him.
The room went quiet.
Not silent.
The air conditioner hummed softly near the window. A car passed on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, a door shut with a muted click.
Jack found the zipper.
His fingers brushed the back of your dress.
You closed your eyes.
Jack’s voice softened behind you. “Still okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The zipper lowered slowly. Too slowly.
You tried to laugh. “You know this is not supposed to be seductive. I am trying to escape.”
Jack’s hand stilled at the middle of your back. Then his mouth came close to your ear.
Jack’s voice dropped. “I’m aware.”
Your breath caught.
You looked over your shoulder. “And?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “And I’ve been waiting all night to get you out of this dress.”
Your breath caught. Annoying. So annoying. You were eight months pregnant, swollen, exhausted, emotionally fragile, and apparently still very easy.
Jack finished lowering the zipper, then eased the dress down your shoulders. The fabric loosened around you in a soft rush, slipping over your stomach and down your hips until he helped you step out of it.
You stood in front of him in your practical maternity set, one hand settling automatically over your stomach.
You looked down at yourself and gave a weak laugh. “And there goes the glamour.”
Jack did not laugh.
You looked up.
He was staring at you. Not politely. Not sweetly. Not like he was trying to be kind. He was staring at you like restraint had followed him all the way from the venue and finally run out in the middle of the hotel room.
Your stomach tightened.
You said his name quietly. “Jack.”
His eyes lifted to your face. “What?”
You swallowed. “Don’t look at me like you’re trying to be nice.”
His expression changed. Heat moved through his face, slow and unmistakable.
Jack stepped closer. “I’m not trying to be nice.”
Your breath caught.
His hand moved to your stomach. The baby shifted beneath his palm.
Jack bent his head toward the curve of you. “Hi, kid.”
Your eyes burned because that still did something to you every time.
Then Jack looked back at you, and the softness did not leave.
Neither did the heat.
Jack’s thumb brushed the side of your stomach. “You said you didn’t feel like the woman I wanted.”
Your throat tightened.
You whispered, “I didn’t say you didn’t want me.”
Jack’s fingers found your chin. Gentle. Certain.
He brought your face back to his.
His eyes stayed on yours. “No. You said you didn’t feel like her.”
Your breath shook.
Jack’s gaze moved over you again, lingering in a way that made your pulse jump.
“You are,” he said.
Your hand curled in the front of his shirt.
His voice dropped lower. “And you are still the woman I have been trying not to put my hands on all day.”
You breathed his name. “Jack.”
His thumb brushed your jaw.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I didn’t know there was more.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s eyes moved over you. “There is.”
You pulled him closer.
Jack kissed you like the office had only been the warning.
Like the dance floor had only been the beginning.
Like every careful look, every hand at your back, every quiet check-in had been leading here.
You felt tired. You felt huge. You felt wanted.
That was the part that broke you a little.
Jack kissed your jaw, then your neck, then the bare slope of your shoulder. His hands stayed careful over every place that hurt and entirely unapologetic everywhere else.
Your breath caught.
Jack paused against your skin. “Still okay?”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “Yes, Jack.”
His mouth brushed your shoulder again. “Good.”
You leaned into him, and his arm came around your back immediately, steadying you before you had to ask.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
There was only his mouth at your skin.
Your fingers in his loosened tie.
His palm warm over your stomach.
The quiet certainty that he wanted you exactly like this.
Jack’s hand moved to your hip. “Bed.”
Your pulse jumped. You glanced past him. Penelope sat on the mattress in all her U-shaped smugness.
You pointed weakly at the pillow. “She’s watching.”
Jack turned his head. His expression flattened.
He addressed the pillow directly. “Penelope.”
You laughed, exhausted and shaky and warm all the way through. “Be nice.”
Jack looked back at you, eyes dark. “I’ll be nice to you.”
Your breath caught.
He kissed you before you could answer. Slow. Firm. A promise more than a question.
Then Jack helped you toward the bed, one hand steady at your back, the other already reaching for Penelope with the grim focus of a man preparing to negotiate with an enemy nation.
You watched him move the pillow aside. “You’re being very brave.”
Jack gave Penelope one final look. “I’m adapting.”
“You’re glaring,” you said.
His gaze stayed on the pillow. “She knows why.”
You smiled.
Then Jack turned back to you.
The smile faded from your face for an entirely different reason.
His eyes moved over you again. Slowly. Warm. Hungry. Yours.
Jack stepped between your knees and touched your cheek. “Still Trouble.”
Your chest tightened.
You reached for him. “Still tired.”
His mouth brushed yours. “I know.”
You looked up at him. “Still want me?”
Jack went very still.
Then his hand slid to the back of your neck, careful and certain, and his mouth hovered over yours.
His voice was low when he answered. “Always.”
That was the last clear thing either of you said for a while.
And Jack Abbot made sure you knew exactly how much he wanted you.
A little drabble of Jack Abbot x You. No CW. might or might not turn this into a full fic
“Jack Elliot Abbot!” Robby stops dead in his tracks walking to the sliding glass doors, turning sharply toward the night shift attending who is ready to start his shift “Why there are a wedding rsvp and a maternity leave application in my inbox from you?”
“Right, brother… it’s just a small ceremony at the church nearby” Jack shrugged innocently as if he is answering Robby’s question “we picked it so everyone could come after handoff.”
Robby’s eyebrows almost shot up to his hairline and his hand holding his phone is shaking. Dana is genuinely concerned he would have a heart attack right in his own department. He almost shouted through his clenched teeth “I’m asking why there’s a wedding invitation with two of my night shift attendings’ names on it and I don’t even know they’ve dated?”
Jack now pouts sheepishly, feeling all eyes inside the ER is staring at the back of his head “we um…forgot to tell you about that”
“I will go check on my patients first” Witnessing the entire fallout at the other end of the room as the other name on that rsvp, you gently whisper to yourself while reaching for the tablet under the dead gaze of Perla and Princess
Description: Sammy realizes that he’s lost you. He knows that if he doesn’t change, you’ll be gone forever.
Warnings: sammy bryant x reader, follows the plot of southland (as close as possible), heavy angst, some fluff, brief mention of smut, no use of y/n, mentions of depression, mention of divorce, mentions of kidnapping, mention of murder, mentions of suicidal thoughts, pregnancy MDNI 18+
Word Count: 2.4k
read part 1 here ;)
Sammy was regrettably angry when he found your note–angry with himself, angry with you, he was even angry with Nate. It felt like his life was crumbling to pieces around him.
It was a week before he saw your note, he had gone home within that time, but was too focused on packing clothes to head back to Nate’s house to take care of the long list of household duties. He wasn’t surprised to not see you, truthfully he always went home when you’d be at work–purposefully trying to avoid you and any conflict you would bring to his attention.
It wasn’t until he went to grab a pen from the junk drawer to write down someone’s number that he saw your note on the kitchen counter.
He looked at the note in confusion, seeing it was addressed to him and begin to read it.
That when it set in, the signs were all there. The missing clothes, your makeup and lotions all gone from your vanity, your toothbrush from the bathroom counter. He was just too caught up within himself to notice.
Everything felt unreal, as if he was in a nightmare. Although, he had been shutting you out it wasn’t because of you, shit was all fucked up in his life and he felt like he couldn’t navigate it.
So, like a coward he didn’t run after you like he should have. Instead, he continued droning along until Mariella broke the news that she was moving back with her parents.
That was like the straw that broke the camel’s back. Everything in his life was gone.
That night he went and found the man who killed Nate and was inches away from pulling the trigger and shooting him dead. To him it made sense. An eye for an eye. But he couldn’t do it.
He kept thinking of you, your face imprinted in his brain. He thought of the first time he met you, seeing you across the room at his best friends house party snorting at the “frat bro” who failed his keg stand with beer spewing from his nose. He knew then by your loud cackle that he was drawn to you, and despite every bone in his body telling him to wait for you to come to him, he marched up to you and made a fool of himself in trying to be suave and introduce himself to you.
He was anything but suave but something about his warm hazel eyes and his bright crooked smile reeled you in.
He then flashed back to your wedding day, watching you walk down the aisle, all he could focus on was you. You were a vision in white, so joyful and delighted to finally become his happy little wife.
It was impossible for him not to shed a tear at your beauty. He was beyond lucky to be tied to you, for the rest of his life.
The last image of you flitted in his brain was the last time he saw you. You were so worked up, so desperate for him to care. He could see the tears welling in your eyes threatening to spill over. It made him sick to be the one to cause that.
He had to see you, he had to make things right.
He lowered the gun and ordered the man to not move, he drove all night from the desert to find you. The only place you would seek solace would be at your sister’s, she always was willing to take you in when you were feeling down.
When he got to your sister’s house, he knocked and knocked until someone came to the door. Your sister had always liked Sammy, but in this moment he knew he was definitely on her shit list.
“What Samuel?” The venom was practically dripping from your sister’s lips as she spoke.
“I need to see her” he panted, the run to the front door plus the nerves of knowing you were near was affecting his nerves.
“Not a chance in hell. I finally got her to stop crying, there’s no way you’re gonna come in and make her cry again.”
Sammy shook his head ashamedly, “I know, I-I fucked up but I…I wanna make things right. I love her with all my heart and I can’t believe that I’ve hurt her. Just please…let me see her” Sammy looked at your sister, eyes wide in desperation, but all she did was shake her head.
“Not this time Sammy…go home. I’ll tell her you stopped by.” Although, your sister hated his guts the moment you told her why you left, she still saw him like a brother and was willing to get you to give him a chance.
When she told you, you wanted so badly to call him, drive home, do anything to have him back, but your brain couldn’t help but think back to all the times you tried to comfort him or improve your relationship with him and were met with resistance.
So, you didn’t reach out to him. You left the relationship and you were bound to keep it that way.
He knew the best choice for himself wasn’t to continue to bother you, but to allow you to heal from the pain and for him to get better not only mentally, but physically as well, and reach out to you when the emotions were less high.
With Nate gone, he could no longer work as a gang unit detective, the idea of another person sitting at Nate’s death had sickened him, he chose to become a patrol man again. He always had plans of going back, but only once you both had started your family.
A month had ticked by without you and it was now his second week back when he was served the divorce papers, he knew what the stranger was delivering and accepted them without a fuss. He hoped and prayed that you wouldn’t but ultimately wasn’t surprised by your choice. He tried to shuffle the envelope away quickly, trying to avoid the questioning eyes of his new partner.
What would he say? “I was a shit husband and pushed my wife to divorce” or “I placed anyone and everything above her to the point that she couldn’t take it anymore”. He felt embarrassed, not because he was served so publicly but because he couldn’t get his head out of his ass to see the cracks forming in your relationship.
The papers were a wake up call to him that he needed to act now or he would lose you forever.
That night he finished his shift, you clouded his brain throughout every bit of it. He drove to your sister’s house, throwing aside any traffic rules to get there as quickly as possible. When he got to the door, he rang and rang the doorbell, calling out your name until your sister answered until your sister came to the door.
She opened the door with narrow eyes and her teeth bared, her body language mirrored a lioness ready to pounce on him in order to protect her younger sister.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I need to see her please” Sammy begins yelling your name trying to get you to come to the door.
“Shut up, you’re gonna wake my neighbors” she seethed through her clenched teeth.
“It’s okay,” you say quietly from behind your sister. Both eyes found you fidgeting nervously behind her. “I’ll talk to him”
Your sister turned and gave you a warm hug before walking back into the living room. You walked the door, shutting it closed then sat with Sammy on her front steps.
Sammy desperately yearned to pull you in his embrace and pepper kisses all over your body, his hands were tense at his sides trying to resist the urge.
Instead he sat next to you, chest tight with words that were threatening to spill from his lips.
“I’m here now…say what you need to say Sammy”
He took a deep breath then spoke, “I’m so so so so so sorry…I know that saying it doesn’t take away from your pain and it doesn’t take back what I did but I needed to tell you that.”
He looked at your stoic face and continued, “I fucked up and I wasn’t there for you when you needed me but I promise to kiss the ground you walk on, to worship you, and treat you how you deserve if you take me back…only if you’ll have me.”
Your inner turmoil was going wild, you so badly wanted to jump into his arms and forgive him, but you couldn’t forget the lonely nights that you had experienced because of him.
“Sammy, I d-“
Sammy knelt down in front of your gripping the hands in your lap desperately. Tears were now escaping from his eyes, “Baby please, all I want is you. I need you! I’ve been so miserable without you because all I could think about was you.” That entire month away from you his thoughts were plagued by you and kept replaying the same manta over and over again.
You loved him through it all. You loved him when he was still figuring shit out, you loved him when he got his shit together, you loved him when he was fucked up, you loved him when he was depressed, you loved him when he didn’t love himself and he thought he was the one who was supposed to die that night.
“Just please come home, I’ll make this right baby I promise. Please” he begged.
You sat quiet, your teary eyes never left his as he spoke. He was slowly but surely winning you over, you never wanted to leave him in the first place. You planned a future and children with this man, so how could you not take the opportunity to have him back.
“Okay…I’ll come home.” He seared forward to hug and squeeze you but was stopped by your outstretched hand on his chest. “This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook…if you ever do something like this again, I swear on my life Sammy…”
He wraps his hands around the nape of your neck bringing your forehead to rest against his. “Sweetheart, I promise I will never let this happen again.” He then wrapped you tightly in his arms , soaking in your warmth and the smell of your perfume.
You felt at peace knowing you were finally back with the man you loved, you felt like you got your husband back rather than the shell of him that stood before you just months ago. You had the man that loved you dearly and was so excited to be your best friend, your husband, and the father to your children back in your life.
A year and a half after you sign the motion to dismiss the divorce and go back to you and Sammy’s home, your wedding ring was back on your finger and you and him were in a better place than you ever had before. Sammy had chosen to go to therapy and continue to become a better man, and you felt as if you were working through your own issues too.
You finally didn’t feel you had to walk on egg shells and worry whether Sammy would revert back to his previous actions, you were now confident that Sammy meant what he said that day.
He showed you every day, by spoiling you with gifts upon gifts, to giving you all of his time and attention, to spending hours between your legs worshipping your body.
The latter leading you to an all too familiar position. You sat on the edge of your toilet seat, heart pumping with anxiety and fear of this test may say. This time you did the test alone, as Sammy was at work and you knew that you didn’t want to get his hopes up in case things came to the same conclusion as before.
The timer buzzed alerting you to look at the plastic test.
You took one last deep breath, then flipped it over. Positive. You nearly dropped the floor as tears wept from your eyes, but you used the counter as your crutch.
You allowed yourself to cry for a while longer, before hurriedly composing yourself as best as you could. You had two hours before Sammy would get home and you wanted to prepare the surprise for him.
You went to the store and bought a few baby clothes along with a stuffed bunny to place in a box for Sammy to open. You then put all of the items that you bought along the test inside of it.
You had just gotten everything put inside and placed when you heard his car pull into the garage. The car door closed and then he walked in, “Sweetie? I’m home…you wouldn’t believe how annoying Sher-“
He stood at the top of the steps staring at your anxious figure on the couch, “Baby? Is everything okay?” His mind instantly darted to the worst scenario; you leaving again.
But you smiled back at him, seeing his active mind race, “C’mere baby”, you patted the spot next to you. He sat next to you, still nervous about the situation.
You move a medium sized brown box from behind your back and place it into his lap, “Open it!” you urge. Your eyes move back and forth between his and the box, mouth still smiling wide. Seeing you so happy eased his nerves, and so he did as you asked.
He opened the box and with a quirked brow looked at the contents inside. It only took a moment for everything to click before his eyes shot you yours, “You’re pregnant?!”
You giggled and nodded, happy tears pooling in both of your eyes.
He sprung up from his spot on couch and nearly tackled you on the couch in a strong bear hug. His body racked with tears as squeezed you tighter, “Oh my god sweetheart.” He pulled back just a tad to look into your eyes, “I’m gonna be a dad! An-and you’re gonna be a mom!” His head found sanctum in the crook fo your neck. “You’re gonna be the best mama I already know it…gonna be so good to our baby.”
You knew Sammy would be happy, but still a piece of you worried. But now as the man you loved is sitting here crying over getting to become a dad, there’s no peace of you that is worried. You know that you both are finally at peace once more.
a/n: WOW! thank you so much for all of the love with sidelines it was much appreciated! i truly hope you enjoy this fic just as much as the first! please comment like or reblog if you did! if you have a prompt feel free to inbox me or send me an ask 💋
Pairing: Dr. jack Abbot x female!reader
Warnings: baby fever, domestic, lactose intolerance, bloating, thoughts of pregnancy, future family talk.
Summary: a joke and a quiet moment change the way Jack sees the future with you.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
Jack stood leaning against the doorframe. "I told you," He said. "The sign on the counter only said milk. You swore up and down it was oat milk."
"It tasted like oat milk!" you protested, though your voice lacked any real bite. You were standing in front of the mirror, hands gently resting on the sides of your stomach.
Because you were lactose intolerant, your digestive system had reacted almost instantly. Your lower stomach was visibly swollen and round, tight against the waistband of your sweatpants, puffing out to a degree that was ridiculously uncomfortable.
You turned slightly to the side, examining the rounded curve in the glass. Despite the mild cramping, the sheer visual of it was hilarious. You cupped the bottom of your bloated belly with both hands, arching your lower back just a fraction.
"Look at this," you said, catching his eye in the mirror. You patted your stomach gently. "It looks like I’m three months pregnant. Or maybe four."
Jack let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You’re going to be miserable in about twenty minutes if you don't take your medicine."
"No, seriously," you giggled, smoothing your shirt down over the bulge to accentuate the shape even more. "I could walk into the hospital tomorrow, demand light duty, and no one would question it. 'Doctor Abbot, look what you've done.'"
Jack chuckled again, but as his eyes stayed on you.You kept looking in the mirror, laughing softly to yourself as you stroked the bump.
But in the quiet that followed, you noticed Jack hadn't moved.
You watched his expression shift.
The teasing grin faded into something intensely focused. His gaze remained fixed on your hands resting over your rounded stomach. His eyes softened, a faint crease forming between his brows as his gaze traced the line of your waist, the way your hands fit over the curve, and the maternal picture you unwittingly painted in the bathroom.
There was a palpable gravity in his gaze; a quiet warmth that had nothing to do with bloating.
For a second, he was looking at a glimpse of a potential future, staring at the image of you carrying a life that was half his.
The joke died on your lips.
You froze slightly, your hands still resting on your waist, meeting his gaze in the glass. The air in the room felt suddenly thick.
Jack seemed to realize he’d been caught staring. He blinked but he didn't look away, nor did he try to make another joke to brush it off. Instead, he took a step forward.
He reached out, his hands gently replacing yours over your stomach.
"Jack?" you whispered.
"It suits you," he said softly.
His voice was quiet, stripped of any pretense. He met your eyes in the mirror, his chest pressed against your back, his hands resting over your stomach.
"Jack, it’s just a dairy baby," you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips, though your chest felt tight.
"I know," Jack smiled. "But... still."
He leaned down, resting his chin on your shoulder. He stared at the two of you in the reflection for a long moment, letting the quiet thought linger between you both without needing to put it into words.
After a moment, he squeezed your waist gently and kissed the side of your neck.
"I'm going to get your medicine." he murmured softly as he straightened up. He left the bathroom and you stood by the mirror a moment longer with your heart still beating a little faster than before.
Later, the heating pad was warm against your lower stomach, but it wasn't the physical discomfort keeping you awake.
Jack had his arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest so your head rested in the crook of his shoulder. His breathing was slow, his hand gently resting over yours where it lay on top of the heating pad.
Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was the reflection in the bathroom mirror; the stillness in Jack’s face, the unguarded softness in his eyes, and the way his hands had felt when he placed them over yours.
You shifted in his embrace, turning your head to look at him.
"Jack?" you whispered.
He stirred and his arm tightened around you. "Hmm? You in pain? Do you need more water?"
"No, no… I.. I need to ask you something." you said softly. You hesitated, tracing a thumb over the back of his hand.
Jack opened his eyes, blinking against the dark as he picked up on the slight hesitation in your voice. "What's on your mind, beautiful?"
You took a breath, the question tumbling out before you could lose your nerve.
"Back in the bathroom... when I made that stupid joke," you began. "You got this... look on your face. You stared at me like... I don't know..." You looked down at your hands joined over your stomach before looking back up at him. "Have you been thinking about it? About... being a father? Like... making a little us?"
He looked at you, his expression searching, surprised by your directness but completely unbothered by it.
"Is that... what kept you awake?" he asked softly.
"Maybe..." you admitted, your cheeks warming a little. "You just looked so... serious for a second. It made me wonder."
Jack stared up at the ceiling for a second, organizing his thoughts, before bringing his gaze back to you.
"Honestly?" Jack said. "Yeah. I have."
Your heart gave a small flutter.
"For a long time, I didn't allow myself to think beyond the next shift, or the next patient. As if I only needed to be in the present... But with you…"
He paused, shifting so he was propped up slightly on one elbow, looking down into your eyes.
"With you, I start thinking about what comes next," Jack whispered. "And when I saw you standing there in front of the mirror earlier... even with you making jokes about oat milk... I couldn't help it. I pictured what it would actually be like. You, holding a baby that has your eyes. Or my bad habits. A little piece of both of us running around, driving us crazy."
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
"I think about it more than I probably let on," he admitted softly. "I want that with you. When the time is right. When we're ready. And only if you want it, too."
A happy warmth bloomed in your chest. You smiled, reaching up to cup the side of his face.
"A little us," you repeated quietly, sweetly, nodding.
"Yes, a little us," Jack confirmed with a smile, kissing your lips. You kissed him back, your hand not leaving the side of his face.
"I love you," you whispered against his lips.
"I love you, beautiful." He said before settling back down onto the pillow, pulling you tightly against his chest. "Go to sleep before we start picking out names."
You laughed quietly, closing your eyes as his arms wrapped around you, feeling completely warm and loved as you finally drifted off to sleep together.
As soon as you whisper to him in bed late one night that you’re ready to start trying for a baby he’s on you. A big smile decorating his lips as he moves to hover over you, “Really?” He asks, brushing hair out of your face. You smile, grabbing his wrists and nodding.
He’s ducking down instantly, connecting your lips with his as a big hand snakes down your body to tug off your panties. You hum softly into his mouth, hands tangling in his curls.
Once both your clothes are off his breath is shaky as rubs the tip of cock against your sopping wet cunt, his eyes squeezing shut from being able to finally feel you raw.
“Give me a baby Sammy.” You whisper against his mouth and he falls apart. Pushing in so deep you can feel him up against your cervix. “M’ gonna give you plenty, don’t worry darlin’.” He grunts, head falling to your neck as your nails scratch down his back.
His breath is hot, his lips are quivering against your skin as he thrusts into you. Squeezing around him, hands clamping around his shoulder “Come on sammy, fill me up.” You whisper into his hair.
You can feel him nod into your neck, soft whimpers floating from his lips as his hips speed up. He spills into you right as you come, a solid grunt against your skin before heavy breath fans over it.
After a while he pulls out and rolls off of you, laying beside you while facing you.
“You okay?” He asks softly, tucking some hair behind your ear. You nod, smiling. “I’m perfect.”
I been thinking about this. What if reader is nervous about Andrew or Sammy finding them ugly during birth. Andrew or Sammy takes great offense to that and proceed to worship reader.
i think pope would be so offended by this
you were only a few days away from giving birth, everything in your body so swollen and hurting. the bed had become your safe place, most days spent just laying on your back as pope waited on your every beck and call. you were only moving from bed for the bare minimum, a shower and the bathroom. your showers had become more of a struggle, the huge bump of your stomach making it difficult to move around with ease. the steam curled around you in the bathroom as you stepped out of the shower with a sigh, struggling to reach your towel before wrapping it around yourself. you had waddled your way back into your bedroom, pope laid on the bed watching some documentary on the tv. "you smell good," he hummed as he watched you walk by, digging through your dresser for some clean pajamas. all you could do was hum in response, pope now moving to sit at the edge of the bed.
his eyebrows furrowed as he watched you begin to make your way back to the bathroom, quickly jumping up to grab your arm. "where are you going?" he mumbled, eyebrow raised slightly. this was something that he started to notice more regularly lately. you hated changing in front of him. you never wanted him to see you naked. "i'm just going to change i will be right back," you spoke confused, holding your pajamas up a little to show him. he pulled you back into the bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed to make you stand between his legs. "you can change right here," he mumbled, leaning forward to gently press a kiss to your stomach that was hidden under your towel. your cheeks immediately began to burn, tears welling up with tears. "what if you are grossed out by me?" you spoke, chewing hard on your bottom lip to try and fight the sob that was threatening to escape.
he knew your hormones were all out of sorts, that you had been more insecure than ever. did you actually think he would be grossed out by you though? "what are you talking about?" he grunted, his eyebrows knitting together tightly as he stared up at you. he jumped slightly at the sob that left your mouth, immediately rising to his feet to pull you into his chest. "i am swollen everywhere! i look disgusting!" you cried loudly, his hand rubbing your back immediately as he shushed you. "when i give birth it's going to be so much worse! you're never going to look at me the same," you continued to sob, your hands still holding the towel tightly to your body. he immediately pulled you back a little, his hands coming to cup your face gently to force you to look at him.
"why would you say that?" he huffed, his face filled with frustration and a slight sadness. you couldn't help but hiccup as you cried in his hands, the tears continuing to fall. "because, it's gross. my body is gross," a loud sob left your lips again, shoulders shaking a little as you cried. he immediately pulled you back to his chest, rubbing your head gently. "don't talk like that. you are not gross. you look so beautiful, sweetheart. you're carrying our child, that is not gross," he kept mumbling over and over against your head, pressing kisses to the crown of it. your body immediately began to calm a little from his words and touch, soft sniffles leaving your nose. "promise?" you mumbled against his chest, slowly pulling back to look up at him. he had the warmest smile on his face as he looked down at you, pressing his lips to yours briefly.
"of course i promise. let me help you change," he spoke softly once he had pulled back, moving to sit back down. he could see the way you hesitated to drop the towel, your cheeks immediately burning with insecurity. "so beautiful," he groaned a little, his hands immediately moving to rub at your hips as he pressed kisses all over your belly. you couldn't help the little smile that formed on your lips from his praises. he took his sweet time dressing you, kissing every inch of your body and whispering sweet praises against your skin.
summary: The entire hospital fears Brendon Park. Except you. You can steal his coffee, order him around, tease him all day, and tell him he’s being an ass. Nobody understands why he listens until they discover you met him before — back when he was struggling, unknown, and not yet “Park the Shark.” 9.9k
The scent of hospital-grade disinfectants and stale dark roast coffee was the same in Pittsburgh as it was in New York, but the air here felt heavier, thick with the damp heat of an impending late-spring thunderstorm.
You adjusted the collar of your black scrubs, checking your reflection in the small, slightly warped mirror of the staff locker room.
Undeniably, the move had been a shock to your system. A week ago, you had packed your entire life into a single U-Haul, leaving behind a brownstone in Brooklyn, a prestigious fellowship, and a man who had successfully managed to hollow out your chest over the course of three years.
“You’re just never there, babe,” Richard had said, his voice dripping with that smooth, corporate condescension you had somehow mistaken for maturity when you first met him.
He had been standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows of your downtown apartment, not even looking at you. “I need someone who actually shows up for dinner, not someone who prioritizes a bunch of strangers over her own relationship. Look at you. You’re undeniably beautiful, you’re brilliant, you have the whole world handing you whatever you want—but you’re empty. Your job is your real partner. I’m just the guy holding the ring until you realize you don’t have room in your life for a real man.”
That last sentence had been the final, brutal blow—the one that made you slide the engagement ring off your finger, drop it onto the marble kitchen island, and tell him to get the hell out. You weren’t going to let a man who wanted a trophy wife make you feel guilty for saving lives. So, you chose yourself. You chose your career. You chose Pittsburgh.
The memory still tasted like ash, but as you tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, you reminded yourself of who you actually were. You were young, you were an incredibly talented Emergency Medicine attending, and despite Richard’s parting attempts to dismantle your self-esteem, the appreciative glances you’d received in the hospital corridors over the last seven days proved you hadn’t lost an ounce of your charm or your looks.
You were talented, you were charismatic, and you were finally free.
Pushing through the double doors into the main hub of the Emergency Department, you were immediately greeted by the low, constant hum of the pit.
"Morning, superstar," called out Dr. Robby, the Chief of the ED. He was a salt-pepper haired genial man whose eyes always held a paternal warmth. He was leaning against the central tracking board, a tablet balanced on his forearm. "How's the transition treating you? No one’s driven you back to the turnpike yet?"
"Not yet, Chief," you said with an easy, radiant smile that made a passing intern nearly trip over an IV pole. "The pace is good. The staff is sharp. I think I'm actually starting to figure out which elevator leads to the cafeteria without ending up in the morgue."
"That's a victory in week one," Dr. Frank Langdon chimed in, stepping up to the desk. Langdon was a senior resident, highly excellent, effortlessly charming, and currently sporting a grin that suggested he’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think of an excuse to talk to you. "If you ever need a personal guided tour of the city's better culinary establishments, Doc, my schedule is surprisingly flexible for an R4."
"I appreciate the offer, Dr. Langdon," you replied, your tone perfectly balanced between warm collegiality and a gentle, unmistakable boundary. "But I think I'll stick to learning the hospital grid before I venture out into the wild."
Langdon gave a good-natured shrug, his eyes lingering on your smile for just a beat too long before he walked away. He wasn't the first.
Over the past week, a steady stream of eligible bachelors from cardiology, neurology, and general surgery had suddenly found reasons to consult or simply wander down to the ED, all of them eager to introduce themselves to the gorgeous new attending everyone was talking about. You had politely, flawlessly deflected every single dinner invitation. Your heart was under construction, and frankly, you didn't have the bandwidth for more corporate slickness.
"Don't let them hound you," a gravelly voice said from behind the terminal. Dr. Abbot, the night shift attending who was currently finishing up his hand-off notes, looked up with a tired but deeply kind smile. "They're like seagulls when a new ship docks. You've been a breath of fresh air around here, truly. The night shift reports have been immaculate since you took over the swing."
"Thanks, Abbot. Get some sleep. You look like you're walking in a dream."
"More like a nightmare, but I'm heading out now. Good luck today," Abbot said, gathering his things with a grateful nod.
You walked over to the main nurse's station, where Dana Evans, the legendary charge nurse of the PTMC trauma bays, was currently terrorizing a supply representative over a late shipment of rapid infusers. Dana was tough, deeply competent, sarcastic to a fault, and fiercely protective of her clinical space.
She slammed the phone down, took one look at you, and her fierce expression softened into a wry smirk. "Look at you, still looking like a shampoo commercial after five consecutive shifts. What's your secret, Doc? Genetic superiority or just high-quality concealer?"
"Good moisturizer and a complete lack of a personal life, Dana," you joked, leaning against the counter.
"Well, keep that shield up. The vultures are circling," Dana said, gesturing subtly toward a group of internal medicine residents pretending to study a chart nearby. "They aren't used to an attending who can run a level-one trauma without breaking a sweat or looking like they slept in a ditch. Speaking of which, you've got Trinity Santos on your team today. Keep her on a leash."
Right on cue, R2 Trinity Santos marched up to the desk, her jaw set, her eyes burning with the fierce, highly competitive ambition she was already famous for. She was sharp-tongued and possessed a brash confidence that bordered on terrifying for the medical students.
"Hey, Doc," Trinity said, dropping a clipboard onto the counter. "Bay 3 is prepped for the chest tube evaluation. I've already reviewed the films from last night. I can perform the exchange myself, no supervision required."
Before you could answer, R3 Melissa King drifted over. Melissa was empathetic and highly intelligent, possessing an incredible emotional perceptiveness, but she was also humanly, beautifully awkward. She was clutching a cup of tea like a security blanket. "Um, actually, Dr. Santos, the patient in Bay 3 specifically asked for a female doctor who 'doesn't shout at them,' so maybe... maybe we let the attending take the lead? Not that you shout! You just... speak with high velocity."
Trinity rolled her eyes. "It's efficiency, King. If the patient wants a lifestyle chat, they can call a therapist. We need the bed."
"Let's compromise," you said, your calm, cool voice instantly cutting through the resident bickering. "Trinity, you'll perform the procedure, but I will be in the room, and you will speak to the patient at a volume that doesn't suggest an air raid. Melissa, I want you on the ultrasound for the subsequent cardiac window checks. Deal?"
Both residents nodded—Trinity with a tight, respectful click of her jaw, and Melissa with a sigh of relief.
Just then, Dennis Whitaker, an R1 who perpetually looked like he was being hunted by an apex predator, stumbled toward the desk, nearly dropping a handful of specimen tubes. "Uh, Doc? MS4 Victoria Javadi is in the hallway... she's trying to explain the entire coagulation cascade to a patient with a minor laceration, and the patient is crying because they think they have leukemia now."
You let out a soft laugh, rubbing the bridge of your nose. Victoria Javadi was a brilliant medical student, but her social skills were still in the embryonic stage. "Dennis, breathe. Go tell Victoria that the cascade is beautiful, but the patient just needs three standard sutures and a lollipop. Then take over the closure for her."
"Yes, ma'am! Thank you, ma'am!" Dennis scrambled away like a startled rabbit.
Dana Evans shook her head, an amused grin on her face. "You're a saint, Doc. Seriously. If this were the upper floors, they'd have eaten those kids alive by now. Especially if they wandered into the penthouse."
"The penthouse?" you asked, charting a quick note on the computer.
"Ortho," Trinity Santos answered, her voice dropping into a tone that was unusually reverent for her. "Specifically, the Chief of Ortho. Dr. Park. They call him 'The Shark.' He’s a total machine. Aggressive confidence, complete clinical dominance, and if an intern breathes out of rhythm in his OR, he bans them for a month. He’s completely terrifying."
You frowned slightly. Park? The name was common enough, but a strange, distant memory twitched in the back of your mind. No. It couldn't be. The only Park you knew from medical school was someone who couldn't even look a Starbucks barista in the eye without stuttering, let alone terrify an entire Level 1 trauma center.
"He doesn't have emotions," Melissa King added with a slight shudder. "I saw him look at a shattered femur last week like it was a fun puzzle, and when the resident missed a bone fragment on the pre-op, he just stared at them until they started sweating through their scrubs. Literally. He’s like an apex predator."
You smiled slightly, shaking your head at the hospital lore. Every major trauma center had one—the legendary, unyielding surgeon who ruled their department with an iron fist.
"Well, let's hope the Shark stays in his deep water today. We have enough to deal with down here."
The peace didn't last. Forty minutes later, the red courtesy phone at the trauma desk began its shrill, rhythmic wail. Dana picked it up on the first ring, her sharp eyes scanning the room as her expression instantly shifted into high-alert mode.
"Copy that. ETA three minutes. Give us both bays," Dana barked, slamming the receiver down. She looked directly at you. "Multi-vehicle collision on I-376. Inbound are two criticals. First up is a twenty-four-year-old male, unrestrained driver, ejected from the vehicle. Unstable vitals, massive pelvic disruption, obvious open deformities to the lower extremities. Second is a passenger, entrapped for thirty minutes, severe crush injuries."
"Alright, let's move!" you commanded, your voice carrying that effortless, magnetic authority that instantly pulled the chaotic ED into a tight, synchronized orbit. "Trinity, you're with me in Bay 1. Dennis, get the rapid infuser spiked. Melissa, I want you on airway with Dr. Garcia from Trauma Surgery. Victoria!" you called out to the medical student who had just appeared. "Stand back, observe, and do not recite textbooks unless I ask you to. Let's go!"
The doors to the ambulance bay flew open with a violent crash, the sound of rain and roaring sirens flooding the room. The paramedics rolled in, their faces grim, their forearms strained as they kept manual pressure on a mountain of bloody gauze.
"Patient is responsive only to deep pain!" the medic yelled over the din. "Systolic's been hovering in the low seventies. We got two lines of wide-open normal saline going. He’s got an obvious unstable pelvic binder on, but his left leg is practically pointing backward!"
"On my count, over to the trauma gurney," you ordered, stepping into the slot at the head of the bed. "One, two, three, shift!"
The patient was transferred in a flurry of movement. The smell of copper, road rash, and damp earth filled Bay 1.
"Trinity, check breath sounds. Dennis, get those lines hooked up to the blood products now!" your voice was a cool, steady anchor amidst the storm. You ran your hands expertly over the patient's abdomen and pelvis, feeling the terrifying, unhinged crepitus of a shattered pelvic ring. "He's bleeding out into his retroperitoneum. We need an immediate pelvic binder tight, and call the blood bank for a massive transfusion protocol."
Dr. Yolanda Garcia, the attending trauma surgeon, strode into the bay, her eyes taking in the scene in half a second. "He's got a rigid abdomen, Doc. We might need to ex-lap him right here if we can't stabilize this pressure."
"It's the pelvis, Yolanda," you argued, your hands steady as you secured the mechanical binder, pulling it taut until the lock clicked. "Look at the left lower extremity. The femoral artery is compromised from a massive orthopedic distortion. We need an immediate ortho consult for external fixation and vascular exploration. Dana! Who's the on-call ortho attending?"
"It's the Shark's service today," Dana said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "Paging him now."
"Tell him to get his ass down here in thirty seconds or he's going to be operating on a corpse!" Trinity Santos yelled, her competitive adrenaline spiking as she tried to maintain an airway window.
"Watch the tone, Santos," you said mildly, not looking up as you began an ultrasound of the patient's heart. "But she's right, Dana. Make it a stat page."
The minutes stretched like taffy. The patient's blood pressure ticked up slightly with the first two units of O-negative, but the left leg was cold, pulseless, and pale—a ticking clock of ischemia.
"Where the hell is Ortho?" Garcia muttered, her hands hovering over her surgical tray.
Suddenly, the automatic doors of the trauma bay didn't just open; they seemed to part out of sheer deference. A tall, broad-shouldered man in dark green scrubs and a black surgical cap strode into the room. His presence was immediate, an oppressive wave of absolute focus and aggressive confidence that caused Dennis to instinctively step backward into a corner.
He didn't look at anyone's face. He walked straight to the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the mangled left leg of the patient.
"What do we have?" his voice was deep, gravelly, and entirely devoid of warmth. It was a voice designed to cut through noise and command absolute obedience.
"Multi-vehicle MVC, severe pelvic ring disruption, open left femur fracture with absent distal pulses," Trinity Santos rattled off, her voice actually trembling slightly as she stood before the legendary surgeon. "We’ve placed a binder, but the limb is ischemic."
The tall surgeon reached down, his large, powerful hands moving with an terrifyingly precise efficiency as he evaluated the injury. "The binder is decent, but the traction is wrong. Who placed this?"
"I did," you said, stepping around the side of the bed to face him directly.
Dr. Brendon Park looked up from the injury, his sharp, dark eyes locking onto yours for the very first time.
The entire trauma bay seemed to lose its oxygen.
The man standing before you was a towering specimen of clinical perfection. His shoulders were broad enough to fill the doorway, his jawline sharp, his posture commanding and unyielding. He was the epitome of a brilliant, intimidating Chief of Orthopedic Surgery.
But as you stared into those familiar, dark eyes, the hospital room completely vanished.
You weren't looking at "The Shark."
You were looking at Brendon. Your Brendon.
The lanky, socially awkward, intensely brilliant boy from medical school who used to trip over his own shoelaces and hide in the back row of anatomy lectures. The boy whose shoulders used to slouch because he hadn't yet figured out how to carry the weight of his own genius. The boy whose lips had tasted like cheap beer and desperate, beautiful promises under a starry Ohio sky seven years ago.
Brendon froze. The absolute, unshakeable confidence that defined his entire reputation cracked in a fraction of a second. His wide, expressive eyes dilated, his lips parting slightly as a sudden, breathless shock washed over his features.
He whispered your name, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of its gravelly, intimidating edge. He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost, his hands hovering mid-air above the patient's leg.
"Brendon," you breathed, your cool, professional composure momentarily slipping as a wave of intense, buried yearning slammed into your chest.
For three long seconds, the busiest trauma bay in Pittsburgh was completely silent. The nurses, the residents, and the trauma surgeon stared at the two of you in absolute, slack-jawed bewilderment. The terrifying "Shark" was looking at the new ED attending like a man who had just found water in the middle of a desert, and you were looking at him with a vulnerability that none of them had ever witnessed from the unflappable new doctor.
"Uh..." Dennis Whitaker squeaked from the corner, breaking the spell.
Brendon blinked, his wall of clinical steel instantly slamming back into place, though his eyes remained fiercely, desperately anchored to yours. He cleared his throat, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath.
"Right," he said, his voice deep again, but there was a subtle tremor in it that only someone who knew him inside out could detect. "The leg needs immediate reduction and an ex-fix in the OR. If we don't restore perfusion in ten minutes, he loses the limb. Is she stable for transport, Doctor?"
He called you Doctor. The professionalism was a shield, but his eyes were pleading with you.
"Vitals are holding after the second unit," you replied, your voice snapping back into its signature, charismatic rhythm, though your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "He's all yours, Dr. Park. Take him."
"Santos, Whitaker, with me," Brendon commanded, turning on his heel. "We're going straight to OR 4. Move!"
The residents scrambled to unlock the gurney, flying out of the room behind him.
As Brendon reached the threshold of the door, he stopped for a second, turning his head just enough to catch your eye one last time before disappearing into the corridor.
Dana Evans stepped up beside you, her eyes wide as she looked from the doorway back to you. "What the hell was that?"
You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for seven years, leaning against the central desk. "That... was an old friend."
By the time your shift wound down to its final hour, the storm outside had broken, a steady, rhythmic rain drumming against the frosted glass of the emergency department.
The adrenaline of the trauma had faded, leaving behind a profound, aching hollow in your chest that you hadn't felt since you left medical school.
You sat in the quiet doctors' lounge, a lukewarm cup of terrible coffee cradled between your hands, your mind entirely hijacked by the past.
You had met him during your second year of medical school at Ohio State.
You had been one of the "cool girls" in your class—undeniably brilliant, managing to effortlessly ace your pathology exams while still maintaining a vibrant social life, going out to bars, and living your early twenties to the absolute fullest. You had a status to uphold. You were charming, pretty, and effortlessly popular.
Then came the infamous mid-semester house party.
You had gone because you desperately needed to unwind, to forget the crushing weight of textbooks and clinical rotations for just a few hours. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and loud music.
And that’s where you first saw him.
Brendon had been dragged there by his roommate, he was sitting in the corner of a crowded kitchen, looking completely miserable, wearing an oversized gray hoodie that practically swallowed his lanky, six-foot-two frame. He was fumbling with a red solo cup, staring intensely at the floor, praying to whatever deity was listening that no one would try to talk to him. He was painfully shy, socially awkward, and completely out of his depth.
You had found him absolutely adorable.
Later in the night, a rowdy group of drunken surgery track students forced everyone into a circle for a classic, juvenile game of "Seven Minutes in Heaven." The beer bottle spun on the carpet, slowly losing speed, until the neck pointed straight at you.
The crowd cheered. You smiled, tossing your hair back, ready for whoever it was.
Then, they spun the bottle for the guy.
It landed on Brendon.
The room erupted into groans and laughter. Brendon looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were bright red. He clumsily stood up, his long limbs awkwardly adjusting as he was pushed into the small, dark coat closet under the stairs with you.
“Good luck, babe, he might faint if you touch him!” your friend had yelled.
The door clicked shut, plunging both of you into darkness, save for the faint sliver of light beneath the door.
"Um... hi," Brendon had squeaked, his voice cracking slightly. He pressed his back firmly against the wall of the closet, as far away from you as physically possible.
"Hi," you had laughed softly, stepping closer to him. The scent of his clean laundry and nervous sweat filled the small space. "You know," you said, your tone light, cool, and teasing, "you don't look like you're in heaven, Brendon. You look like you're on death row."
"I... I don't really do parties," he stammered, staring at the ceiling. "And I... I really don't think we should do this."
You blinked, surprised. "Do what? Kiss?"
"Yeah," Brendon muttered, his face burning hot even in the dark. "I mean, you're... you're you. You're popular, and you're really pretty, and everyone knows you. And I’m... I’ve only ever kissed my high school girlfriend, okay? Once. And it was bad. I'll just embarrass myself. So... we don't have to. Let’s just stay on opposite sides of the closet.”
You had been surprised. Most guys in med school were arrogant, overflowing with unearned ego. You had found his honesty incredibly endearing. You actually wanted to kiss him. You had wanted to see what those nervous lips felt like.
But you respected his boundaries, and more importantly, you had a reputation to uphold. If you walked out of that closet and told everyone that the awkward, lanky guy had rejected kissing the coolest girl in the class, your ego would never recover.
"Alright," you had said, a mischievous spark igniting in your chest. "We won't kiss. But we have to make them think we did. Otherwise, they'll never let us live it down."
Brendon looked relieved. "How do we do that?"
"Mess up your hair," you commanded smoothly. You reached up, your fingers running through his thick, messy dark hair, intentionally rumpling it. Brendon went entirely rigid, his breath hitching as your fingers brushed his scalp. You grabbed the lapels of his oversized hoodie, shaking them, making a rustling noise, while you loudly sighed and threw your back against the closet wall, making a soft thud. You even let out a breathless, fake moan that made Brendon exhale a strangled, terrified gasp.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, his face burning in the dark.
“Shh, they’re listening,” you giggled.
"Perfect," you smirked. "But listen, Park. I'm saving your reputation out there, and I'm protecting my own. So, you owe me. Big time."
Brendon blinked in confusion. "A debt?"
"A debt of absolute servitude," you had declared dramatically. "From now on, you buy my late night coffee. You are going to be my personal driver when it rains. And you are going to be my mandatory study buddy, because I know you're secretly a genius who makes perfect flashcards. Deal?”
Brendon had stared at you through the dark, a slow, incredibly endearing smile finally breaking across his face. "Okay. Deal."
That silly party game had been the catalyst for the most beautiful, chaotic friendship of your life.
Brendon had kept his word with terrifying precision. He became your shadow, your defender, and your personal assistant. The hospital staff at your school clinic used to laugh watching the two of you. You would sit at the library tables, completely exhausted, and bark orders at him like a spoiled queen, and he would just grin and fulfill them.
“Park! I need a venti iced caramel macchiato with exactly two pumps of vanilla, and if it’s warm, I’m giving you the most complicated cases on our next quiz,” you’d yell across the student lounge. And twenty minutes later, he’d return, breathless, holding the perfect cup.
“Park, my car is making a noise like a dying cat. I need a ride to my 4:00 AM shift,” you’d text him at midnight. And at 3:45 AM, his beat-up Honda Civic would be idling outside your apartment, the heater already blasting because he knew you hated the cold.
The peak of your comedic tyranny had occurred during your internal medicine rotation. You had unexpectedly started your period during a twelve-hour shift, and the hospital supply closet was completely bare of anything useful. You had called him in a panic.
“Brendon. I need you to go to the pharmacy right now. Get me a box of Tampax Pearl. Regular absorbency. Do not get the generic brand, or I will end our friendship.”
An hour later, Brendon had sneaked into the back of the ward, his face bright red, holding a brown paper bag like it contained active explosives. He had handed it to you, coughing nervously. “I... I didn't know what absorbency meant, so I bought one of every box they had. The cashier looked at me like I was a pervert.” You had laughed so hard you almost cried, pulling him into a fierce hug right there in the hallway.
But slowly, beautifully, the surface-level banter had faded into something deeper. You began to see the brilliant mind beneath his awkward exterior. He was the only one who understood the crushing, suffocating anxiety of trying to be perfect in a field that demanded infallibility. You would sit on the floor of his messy apartment, surrounded by open textbooks, talking until the sun came up—not about medicine, but about your fears, your childhoods, the things that kept you awake at night.
He became your anchor.
Slowly, under your warmth and confidence, Brendon began to bloom. His lanky frame filled out as he started lifting weights to handle the physical demands of orthopedic surgery interest. He grew taller, his shoulders broader, his confidence slowly blooming under your constant, fierce encouragement. You had built him up. You had told him every single day that he was going to be the greatest surgeon this country had ever seen.
And then, during the final week before graduation, the tension had finally snapped.
You had been sitting on the hood of his car, looking out over the city lights. He had turned to you, his new, broad frame towering over you, his eyes burning with a confidence he had stolen directly from your belief in him. He had reached out, his large hands cupping your face, and he had kissed you.
It wasn't the awkward kiss of a boy. It was a kiss full of 2 years of unsaid words, full of desperation, yearning, and promises that tore at your soul. You had clung to him, your cheeks wet with tears, knowing that you had fell completely, deeply in love with him, and he was completely, utterly devoted to you.
But medical school is a meat grinder. By your final year, the pressure reached a boiling point. You were placed in different clinical rotations at entirely different hospitals across the city. You were working eighty-hour weeks, collapsing into sleep the moment you got home. The coffee dates stopped. The late-night study sessions vanished.
The final, crushing blow came on Match Day. You opened your envelope to find you had matched into an ultra-competitive emergency medicine residency in New York. Brendon opened his to find he had matched into an elite orthopedic surgery residency in California.
The distance, the exhaustion, the terrifying reality of residency loomed over you both. And on that rainy day at the airport, unable to face the agony of a long-distance relationship while drowning in intern year, you had mutually, heartbreakingly let each other go.
You remembered the tear-stained cheeks. The hugs that felt like they were trying to fuse your ribs together. And the kisses—god, the kisses—that were full of promises you both desperately wanted to keep, but ultimately couldn't. “We’ll find each other,” he had whispered into your hair. “I’ll come find you, baby.”
And then, life happened. Years passed. You met your douchebag ex-fiancé.
And Brendon became the "Shark."
The doors to the doctors' lounge flew open, shattering your reverie.
Dennis sinks against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Oh my god. I thought he was going to murder me for leaving the drill bits.”
"He's a psycho," Trinity Santos huffs, straightening her lab coat defensively. "He thinks he owns this entire hospital just because he’s a prodigy. Did you see the way he looked at everyone? He’s completely heartless."
You stand there, quietly hooking your stethoscope around your neck, a brilliant, knowing smirk playing on your lips.
Heartless? If only they knew.
Over the next few weeks, a massive, utterly baffling phenomenon takes over the halls of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
The entire hospital fears Dr. Brendon Park. The nurses warn new interns not to look him directly in the eye. The residents tremble when his pager number flashes on their screens. He is an unstoppable, ruthless force of surgical perfection.
Except when it comes to you.
It starts on a chaotic Tuesday morning. The ED is overflowing, and Brendon has been down in the bays for three hours helping reduce a complex posterior hip dislocation. He is standing at the central nursing station, looking absolutely exhausted but radiating pure, unadulterated venom as he berates Zach Torres, the senior Cardiology resident.
"If your department can't clear this patient for the OR within the next ten minutes, Torres, I will personally wheel him up myself and write the clearance under your name," Brendon growls, his broad chest looming over the senior resident. "Don't waste my time with unnecessary echoes."
Zach, usually highly excellent and charismatic, is sweating through his white coat. "Dr. Park, we just need to ensure—"
Suddenly, you stroll up to the desk, looking radiant and completely relaxed. Without saying a word, you reach out, snatch the tall, steaming cup of artisanal dark roast coffee right out of Brendon’s hand, and take a long, satisfied sip.
The entire nursing station goes dead silent. Dana Evans stops typing, her jaw literally dropping. Victoria Javadi, who was standing nearby carrying charts, gasps softly, grabbing Dennis Whitaker’s arm in sheer terror. They are all waiting for the "Shark" to turn around and rip your head off.
Instead, Brendon stops mid-sentence. He slowly turns his head to look down at you.
The terrifying, icy glare completely evaporates, replaced by an expression of pure, exasperated fondness that none of the staff has ever witnessed.
"You're drinking my coffee," Brendon says, his voice dropping from a roar to a quiet, familiar rumble. "Again."
"You order too much espresso, Park. It’s making you cranky," you say smoothly, handing him back the half-empty cup. You reach out, your hand casually pressing against his broad chest, physically pushing the feared Chief of Orthopedic Surgery back half a step. "And stop bullying the cardiologists. Zach is doing his job. You’re being an ass."
Zach Torres stares at you like you are a goddess descended from the heavens.
Brendon sighs, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips threatening to turn into a smile. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking less like a ruthless surgeon and more like a tired boy. "He's taking too long."
"Go sit down in your office and rest for twenty minutes before your next case," you order him playfully, tapping your clipboard against his arm. "Doctor’s orders. Move it, or I'll make you buy me tampons again."
Brendon’s ears turn a violent shade of pink. He clears his throat, glances at the stunned residents, and mutters, "Fine. Ten minutes."
He turns and walks away toward the elevator, completely submissive to your command.
Langdon blinks, utterly bewildered. "What... what just happened? Did you just hypnotize the Shark?"
You laugh, taking another sip of your own water. "No, Frank. He just needs a Snickers bar and a nap."
Dana Evans leans over the counter, staring at you with intense, analytical eyes. "Doc... what kind of voodoo magic do you possess? Nobody talks to Park like that. Nobody. Last month a general surgery attending tried to tell him he was being an ass, and Park almost threw him into a linen cart."
"We just have a history, Dana," you say with a wink, walking away to check on a patient.
But it doesn't stop there. The teasing and the dynamic between you two becomes the primary source of entertainment and gossip for the entire medical center.
A week later, you are up in the main OR tracking a trauma patient. Brendon is in OR 3, finishing up a grueling, six-hour spinal reconstruction. He is furious because the equipment tech brought the wrong size pedicle screws, and his booming voice can be heard echoing through the sterile hallway, terrifying the scrub nurses.
You walk straight into the scrub room, pop the door open with your elbow, and look inside. "Park! Shut up!"
The entire OR freezes.
"You're vibrating at a frequency that's giving me a headache from across the hall," you call out, completely unfazed by the sterile environment. "Use the alternative screws and stop throwing a tantrum. You're a big boy."
Brendon looks up through his surgical loupes. The entire room holds its breath, expecting him to banish you from the surgical floor. Instead, he just lets out a heavy breath, his broad shoulders dropping. "The alternative screws have a wider thread pitch, Doc."
"Then adjust your torque and stop crying about it," you reply cheerfully. "I’ll see you at hand-offs."
"Unbelievable," Brendon mutters under his breath, but the anger completely leaves his voice. He looks at his scrub nurse, his tone entirely calm now. "Let's get the alternative tray, please."
The staff is utterly flabbergasted.
Later that evening, the Pittlings are sitting in the cafeteria, desperately trying to deconstruct the mystery.
"I'm telling you, she must have dirt on him," Trinity insists, stabbing a fork into her salad with fierce competitiveness. "She probably knows about a malpractice suit, or she caught him doing something illegal. There is no logical reason why a brutal chief of surgery lets a newly transferred ED attending push him around like a puppy."
"No, it's not dirt," King says softly, her highly perceptive nature taking over. She smiles, staring into her soup. "Did you see his face when she took his coffee? He didn't look mad at all. He looked... happy. Like he was finally breathing. I think they knew each other before. Like, way before."
"Before?" Victoria asks. "Like... before residency? Back when he was a nobody? But Dr. Park was never a nobody, he's a prodigy!"
"Everyone was unknown once, Victoria," Melissa points out wisely.
The bubble popped on a chaotic Friday night.
The weather had turned violent, a severe thunderstorm rolling over Pittsburgh, causing a massive pile-up on the Fort Duquesne Bridge. The ED was under siege. Every single trauma bay was full, the air thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and the sharp tang of antiseptic.
You were in Bay 2, dealing with a twenty-two-year-old female patient who had been crushed in the driver’s seat of her compact car. Her status was critical, deteriorating by the second.
“Vitals are dropping!” Victoria called out, her voice tight with panic. “BP is 60 over 30! Heart rate is spiking to 160! She’s slipping into profound hemorrhagic shock!”
You were standing at the patient’s side, your mind racing through the differentials. She had massive internal bleeding, but her abdomen was firm, and her pelvic X-ray showed a severe, unstable "open-book" pelvic fracture. The blood was pooling in her retroperitoneal space.
“We need to bind this pelvis, now!” you shouted over the noise. “Dennis, get the binder!”
“We’re out of binders!” Dennis yelled back, his voice cracking as he rummaged through the supply cart. “The previous traumas took the last ones from central supply, they’re fabricating more now!”
“Fuck!” you cursed. The patient’s monitor began to beep erratically.
“She’s going into PEA!” Trinity Santos called out, her hand flying to the patient’s carotid artery. “No pulse! Starting compressions!”
You looked at the monitor, then at the patient’s pale face. You were out of options. The blood transfusion wasn't keeping up. The pelvis was wide open, acting like a massive, bleeding cavern that was draining her life force. If you didn't close that pelvic ring immediately, she would die on this table within two minutes. You couldn't wait for surgery. You couldn't wait for a binder.
A reckless, insane, completely unorthodox idea flared in your mind. It was a technique you had read about once in a military medicine journal—a desperate, high-risk field maneuver used in combat zones when standard equipment was unavailable. It was highly reckless, completely unauthorized by hospital protocol, and could permanently damage the patient’s internal organs or nerves if done wrong.
But it was the only chance she had.
“Trinity, stop compressions,” you commanded, your voice turning to absolute ice.
“What? Doc, we need to keep perfusion—”
“STOP. COMPRESSIONS!” you roared, a rare flash of raw, commanding power echoing through the bay. Trinity instantly froze, pulling her hands away.
You stepped onto the step-stool at the side of the bed. You looked down at the patient’s fractured, unstable hips. Without a binder, you had to use manual, extreme counter-traction and internal fixation using whatever you had.
You grabbed a heavy, thick cotton hospital sheet from the bottom shelf. You quickly threaded it under the patient’s lower back, aligning it with the greater trochanters.
“Dennis, grab that end of the sheet,” you ordered. “When I say go, I want you to pull with everything you have. We are going to manually crush this pelvic ring back together using the sheet, and then I am going to lock it down using a surgical clamp from the chest tray.”
“Doctor, that’s... that’s completely non-standard!” Mel stammered, her eyes wide with terror. “The sheer force could transect the femoral nerve if the bone fragments shift wrong! It’s too dangerous!”
“She’s already dead!” you snapped. “Pull, Dennis! Go!”
You and Dennis pulled the sheet with brutal, immense physical force, twisting the heavy fabric against each other, forcing the patient’s shattered pelvic bones to slam back together by sheer tension. You felt the sickening crunch of bone shifting beneath the flesh.
The patient’s body jolted. Holding the immense tension of the sheet with one white-knuckled hand, you reached for a massive, heavy-duty Kocher forceps from the emergency thoracotomy tray and clamped the twisted sheet tightly against the patient’s skin, locking the makeshift binder under extreme, crushing pressure.
“Resume compressions!” you shouted.
Trinity jumped back on the chest. Within three cycles, the monitor beeped.
A rhythm emerged. Weak, thready, but stable.
“Pulses are back,” Victoria breathed, looking at you like you were either a god or a lunatic. “BP is... 90 over 50. It’s holding.”
You stepped down from the stool, your hands shaking from the sheer physical exertion, your scrubs soaked in sweat. You had done it. The reckless, insane technique had closed the space and stopped the catastrophic bleeding. You had saved her life.
The automatic doors slammed open.
Brendon strode into the bay, flanked by two orthopedic residents. He had received the page for an unstable pelvic fracture and had rushed down from the OR. He took one look at the patient, then his eyes dropped to the makeshift sheet-and-clamp setup crushed around her hips.
He froze. His face went entirely pale, then flushed into a deep, terrifying crimson. The "Shark" didn't just return; he exploded.
“What the hell is this?” Brendon’s voice thundered, vibrating the glass walls of the trauma bay. The residents shrank back.
“It’s a makeshift binder, Dr. Park,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, though the adrenaline was still pumping through your system. “We were out of standard binders, she lost pulses from hemorrhagic shock, and I had to close the ring.”
“With a sheet and a chest clamp?” Brendon marched up to the bed, his eyes flashing with a raw, furious brilliance. He looked at you, his voice dripping with venomous, professional outrage. “Are you completely out of your mind? Do you have any idea what you just did? You could have severed her internal iliac artery! You could have shredded her sacral plexus! You took a blind, reckless gamble with a patient’s life!”
The room went dead silent. The residents didn't dare breathe. It was the first time the hospital had ever seen the Shark turn his teeth on you.
“She was in PEA, Brendon!” you shot back, using his name, your own temper flaring. “She was dead! I didn't have time to wait for your department to fabricate a piece of plastic! It worked. Her vitals are holding.”
“It was luck!” Brendon snarled, stepping into your personal space, his imposing height towering over you, his eyes cold and hard as flint. “It was a reckless, arrogant, cowboys-and-indians piece of medicine that violates every standard of care in this institute. You didn't save her; you got lucky that you didn't paralyze her. Get out of my way. Move.”
He shoved past you, his movements aggressive and sharp as he immediately began to assess the damage, barking orders to his residents to get her to the OR for a proper external fixator.
You stood there, your heart pounding against your ribs. The insult stung—not just because he criticized your medicine, but because he had done it in front of the entire department, stripping away the mutual respect you had built over the last few weeks. He looked at you like you were a liability. An incompetent child.
“Fine,” you said, your voice dropping into a cold, lethal whisper that cut through his shouting. “She’s your patient now, Chief.”
You turned on your heel and walked out of the trauma bay, your face a mask of absolute, icy calm, leaving a stunned, silent room behind you.
The fallout was immediate and devastating.
The playful, legendary dynamic between the ED’s star attending and the Chief of Ortho vanished overnight. In its place was a terrifying, suffocating ice age that gripped the entire hospital.
For three weeks, there were no more stolen coffees. There were no more playful shoves at the scrub sink. There were no more private smiles or late-night laughs.
When Brendon came down to the ED for a consult, the atmosphere turned to absolute glass. You handled hand-offs with an icy, flawless professionalism that was completely devoid of emotion.
“Patient in Bed 4 has a displaced bimalleolar fracture,” you would say, your voice flat, your eyes fixed strictly on the computer monitor, never looking at his face. “Films are on the system. Ortho is consulted.”
“Understood,” Brendon would reply, his voice deep, hollow, and equally cold. He would take the chart, his eyes lingering on you for a desperate, painful second, hoping for a spark, a glance, anything. But you gave him nothing. You were a wall of ice.
The hospital staff was miserable.
“I hate this,” Dennis Whitaker whimpered in the breakroom, putting his head in his hands. “When they were flirting, the hospital was safe. Now? Dr. Park looked at my cast yesterday and told me a toddler with a crayon could have done a better job. He’s meaner than he’s ever been.”
“She isn't doing well either,” Dana Evans sighed, leaning against the counter. “She’s quiet. She’s brilliant as always, but that light she brought with her? It’s dimmed. They’re both miserable, stubborn idiots.”
You were miserable. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fury in his eyes in that trauma bay. The words “reckless, arrogant gamble” burned in your chest. You had thought he, of all people, would understand. He knew how you operated; he knew you would never do something unless it was the absolute last resort. But he had judged you. He had put his professional arrogance above the reality of the situation.
And worse, it felt like your ex-fiancé all over again—someone telling you that your passion, your instinct, your identity as a doctor was flawed, dangerous, or empty.
You threw yourself into your work, pulling extra shifts, running yourself ragged just to keep your mind from thinking about the giant, dark-eyed surgeon who occupied the upper floors.
It was a rainy Thursday night, nearly four weeks after the argument. The storm outside was a mirror of the mood inside the hospital.
You just visited a pediatric patient on one of the top floors of the hospital. You had promised the kid that you’d visit her after her CRPP. Your shift had just ended, and you were thoroughly exhausted. Your feet ached, your eyes burned, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed in Shadyside and sleep for a week.
You walked toward the main elevator bank in the central pavilion, waiting for the car to arrive. The bell chimed. The doors slid open.
You stepped inside. You reached out to press the button for the ground floor, but stopped.
Sitting in the corner of the elevator, leaning heavily against the handrail with his eyes closed, was Brendon. He looked absolutely destroyed. His scrubs were wrinkled, dark bags hung under his eyes, and his broad shoulders were slumped in a state of profound, total physical exhaustion.
You froze. Your first instinct was to step back out, to wait for the next car. But before you could move, the automatic doors slid shut behind you.
The elevator began its smooth, silent descent from the twelfth floor.
You stood near the control panel, your back rigid, your eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator as it changed. 11... 10... 9...
The silence inside the small metal box was heavy, suffocating, and charged with four weeks of unspoken agony. You could hear his breathing—slow, deep, and tired.
8...
Suddenly, the elevator gave a violent, sharp lurch.
A loud, mechanical screech echoed from the shaft above. The lights flickered violently once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the car into absolute darkness. A second later, the emergency red backup lights kicked in, casting a dim, crimson glow over the small space.
The elevator ground to a dead halt.
You blinked, gripping your bag tighter. You reached out and pressed the emergency call button. Nothing happened. The system was completely dead.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Just perfect.”
From the back of the car, you heard a long, heavy sigh. Brendon shifted his weight, his large frame moving through the red light. He looked up at the digital indicator.
The indicator was stuck on a single digit.
7.
The irony hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Floor 7.
Seven years ago, you were trapped in a dark closet for seven minutes. And now, seven years later, you were trapped in a dark elevator on the seventh floor with the exact same man.
Neither of you spoke for a long minute. The red light painted the space in a surreal, intimate warmth, cutting off the rest of the hospital, the rest of the world. There were no residents here. No nurses. No watchful eyes. Just the two of you.
“Are you okay?” Brendon’s voice broke the silence. It wasn't the voice of the Shark. It wasn't the voice of the angry Chief of Ortho. It was soft, hesitant, and carrying a deep, raw ache that made your chest tighten.
“I’m fine,” you said coldly, keeping your eyes fixed on the closed doors. “Just tired. I’d like to go home.”
“Baby... please.”
The use of the old nickname sent a violent tremor through your defenses. You closed your eyes, fighting the urge to turn around.
“Don’t call me that, Dr. Park,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. “I think you made your thoughts on my identity quite clear four weeks ago.”
Hear a rustle of movement behind you. Brendon stood up. He walked across the small car, his massive, imposing presence closing the distance until he was standing right behind you. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, smelling the faint, familiar scent of cedar wood and soap that had always been him.
“I was wrong,” he whispered.
You bit your lip, refusing to look at him. “You think?”
“I was wrong about why I was angry,” he corrected himself, his voice cracking with emotion. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering over your shoulder, before he gently, tentatively placed it there. The touch was electric, burning through your scrubs. “I wasn't angry because your decision was bad. I knew the technique. I knew it was a battlefield maneuver. I knew she was in PEA.”
You finally turned around, snapping your eyes up to meet his. In the dim red light, his dark eyes were shining with unshed tears, his expression completely broken, stripped of all pride.
“Then why did you humiliate me in front of my team?” you demanded, your voice rising, the anger and hurt finally spilling over. “Why did you call me reckless and arrogant? Do you know what that felt like? After everything I went through, after my ex told me I was empty and that my career was a disease—you stood there and told me I was a liability!”
Brendon looked like he’d been stabbed. He took a sharp breath, his hands coming up to gently grip both of your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin.
“Because I was terrified!” he shouted softly, his voice thick with raw passion. “I walked into that bay and saw you covered in blood, pulling a stunt that could have ended your career if it went wrong. If that patient had died, if you had cut that artery, the board would have stripped your license before the sun came up. They would have destroyed you.”
He stepped closer, his chest pressing against yours, forcing you back slightly against the elevator wall. He looked down at you, his eyes wild with a desperate, consuming love.
“I didn't care about the protocol, baby. I cared about you. The thought of you losing your license, the thought of this hospital breaking you, the thought of you being taken away from me again before I even got the chance to tell you... I couldn't handle it. The Shark? That’s an act. It’s an act I put on so I don't break. But when it comes to you, I have no skin. I am completely raw. I saw you risking everything, and I panicked.”
You stared up at him, your breath hitching in your throat. The anger in your chest melted away, replaced by the profound, crushing realization of his true intent. He hadn't been attacking your competence; he had been trying to protect you from the system that had almost broken him.
“Brendon...” you breathed, your voice softening, your eyes searching his face.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, his forehead dropping down to rest against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
“Seven years, baby. Seven years of working eighty hours a week, looking at bone scans, moving up the ladder, but every single night, I woke up wishing I was back on that floor in med school sharing Chinese food with you. I wished I could turn back time. To when things were simple. To when I was just the awkward kid who was lucky enough to have the most beautiful girl in the world look at him.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, catching the red light. “I wished for it too,” you confessed quietly. “Every single day.”
“I love you,” he said, the confession raw, heavy, and absolute. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”
The final wall of ice inside you shattered into dust.
You reached up, your hands flying to the back of his neck, burying your fingers in his dark hair, and pulled him down.
The kiss wasn't like the ones from seven years ago—it wasn't full of tragic promises and impending goodbye. It was a violent, passionate, territorial reclamation. It was the release of seven years of pining, of loneliness, of misery.
Brendon groaned deep in his throat, his arms wrapping around your waist like bands of steel, lifting you slightly off the floor as he crushed his lips against yours. He kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue parting your lips, tasting you, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.
You gasped into his mouth, your body melting completely into his broad, massive frame. You locked your legs around his waist, your back pressing hard against the cold metal wall of the elevator as he held you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs with a fierce, possessive intensity.
The red light flickered around you, creating a private, chaotic heaven. He moved his mouth down your jawline, his lips burning against the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch your back and let out a soft, breathless moan that echoed off the metal walls—the exact same sound you had faked seven years ago in that closet, but this time, it was entirely, beautifully real.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned against your skin, his hands sliding under your scrub top, his warm palms mapping the curves of your waist, making your skin tingle with an electric fire.
You pulled his head back up, your eyes meeting his dark, blown-out pupils in the crimson dusk. “Don’t stop,” you whispered breathlessly. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn't. He kissed you until your lips were bruised, until your lungs burned, until the seven years of separation felt like nothing more than a bad dream.
CLUNK.
The elevator gave a sudden, violent jolt.
The mechanical screech returned, and suddenly, the bright, harsh fluorescent white lights of the car snapped back on. The digital indicator flickered and changed to G. The elevator began to move again smoothly.
You both froze. You quickly slid down his body, your feet hitting the floor, your hands frantically smoothing down your wrinkled scrubs and fixing your hair as Brendon stumbled back a step, his chest heaving, his face flushed, his eyes wild.
A second later, the chime echoed. The doors slid open smoothly to the main lobby.
Standing right outside the doors, waiting to board, were Langdon and Santos.
The two of them looked into the elevator. They took in the scene: you, standing near the back, your lips visibly swollen, your hair slightly disheveled, but your face wearing a cool, utterly unbothered expression. And beside you stood the Chief of Ortho, Dr. Brendon Park, his scrubs wrinkled, his breathing heavy, and a look of profound, dazed distraction on his face.
Trinity’s eyes went wide. Langdon blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you.
“Uh... evening, Doctors,” Frank stammered. “Is... is the elevator working?”
You flicked your hair over your shoulder, stepped past them with an elegant and utterly effortless charisma, and gave them a sweet smile.
“It’s working perfectly,” you said smoothly. “Have a good night, everyone.”
You walked out into the rainy Pittsburgh night, your heart soaring higher than it ever had in your entire life. Behind you, you heard Brendon’s heavy footsteps rushing to catch up.
The rain had stopped by the time the sun began to peek over the Monongahela River, casting a pale pink and gold glow over the brick buildings of Shadyside.
Inside your bedroom, the air was warm, quiet, and peaceful. The half-unpacked boxes in the corner didn't look like an unfinished chore anymore; they looked like a beginning.
In the center of the bed, tangled deep within the white cotton sheets, lay the two of you.
After the elevator doors had opened, there had been no more talking, no more hesitation. You had driven back to your apartment in a blur of rain and neon lights. The moment the front door had clicked shut, the clothes had been shed, the barriers broken down completely.
The sex had been profound—an intense, passionate, and deeply emotional consummation that carried the weight of seven years of waiting. It hadn't just been physical; it was the reclamation of your souls. Every touch, every gasp, every whispered confession against the skin had been a promise rewritten. He had loved you with a fierce, worshipful intensity that made you realize you were anything but empty. You were his entire world.
You slowly opened your eyes, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips.
The morning light filtered through the blinds, illuminating the broad, muscular expanse of Brendon’s back. He was sleeping on his side, his large frame taking up most of the mattress. One of his massive arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand resting possessively against your hip, pulling your back flush against his chest even in his sleep.
You smiled, turning around slowly within his grip so you could look at him.
Without the mask of the Shark, his face was peaceful, handsome, and remarkably soft. The dark circles under his eyes seemed less prominent now, smoothed out by the deep, restorative sleep he’d been deprived of for weeks.
You reached out, your fingers gently tracing the sharp line of his jaw, moving up to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from his forehead.
Brendon stirred. His long eyelashes fluttered open, his dark eyes cloudy with sleep. The moment his gaze focused on your face, a slow, incredibly beautiful smile spread across his lips—a smile that was reserved strictly for you.
“Good morning, baby,” he rumbled, his voice thick and raspy from sleep, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.
“Good morning, Shark,” you whispered back, leaning forward to press a soft, sweet kiss against his lips.
He groaned happily, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his warm breath tickling your skin.
“Don’t make me go to work today,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll page out. I’ll tell them I broke my arm.”
You let out a melodic, genuine laugh, running your hands through his hair. “You’re the Chief of Ortho, Brendon. You can't page out for a broken arm. That’s bad for your brand.”
“My brand is entirely yours,” he whispered, kissing the sweet spot just beneath your ear, making you gasp softly. “Let them handle the bones today. I’m staying right here.”
You smiled, closing your eyes as you held him tight, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.
The past was gone. The cruel words of your ex-fiancé were nothing more than ash. You were here, in a new city, running a world-class department, and waking up in the arms of the man who had loved you through a lifetime of separation.
You were the cool and undeniably brilliant doctor who feared nothing—not the trauma bay, not the future, and certainly not the Shark. Because beneath the steel and the bone, he was just your Brendon, and you were his.
cw: ooc!Park?, pregnant!reader, morning sickness mentioned, weight gain discussed
“Has the dryer been giving you issues?” Brendon asks as he makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen where you’re making breakfast.
“No,” you reply as you add the golden pancake to the pile, “why? Do you have holes in your clothes? Are the clothes coming out damp? I’ve told you that sometimes the linens need more time to dry all the way.”
“It’s not that,” he grumbles as he piles up a short stack of pancakes onto his plate, smothers them in butter and drowns them in syrup. He cuts into the stack and shoves a forkful into his mouth, speaking with a full mouth, “my clothes are shrinking.”
"They're shrinking?" You ask after blinking away your shock.
He nods, gulping down a cup of orange juice in one go. He pours himself another glass and goes in on the pancakes again, "they're fitting my tighter than they were a few weeks ago."
You hum thoughtfully as you build your plate. A few weeks ago even the thought of all this food would have sent you sprinting to the bathroom, but now, safely into your second trimester, you can safely fulfill all your cravings. You'd woken up this morning craving crispy bacon and fluffy pancakes and couldn't get out of bed fast enough.
Last week you were craving cereal at three in the morning and Brendon walked into the kitchen after an on call shift to catch you eating it from one of your serving bowls. A few days later you both went grocery shopping and came home with three different frozen pies. And since your morning sickness had subsided, you'd snacked on various fruits and vegetables covered in chili powder.
You take a bite of bacon and eye your husband, "I haven't had any issues with any of my clothes shrinking. Is it just one piece or?"
"All my clothes," Brendon shakes his head as he places his now clean plate into the sink. He starts in on the plate of bacon, chomping away on one piece and then another before adding, "scrubs are getting tight. I can't even tie them anymore."
You watch on with amazement as he casually puts away half the pack of bacon in one go. That bacon was supposed to last a few days!
You think on it as you cut into your breakfast. A few weeks ago his clothes started getting smaller. What else was going on a few weeks ago? He'd had a few call-ins, you had a scan, your morning sickness stopped when you got into your second trimester, and— before then you couldn't even be around strongly scented food. Brendon ate most of his meals alone and they were his usual meal prepped and measured meals. Ever since the nausea had passed, you hadn't shied away from your cravings and your husband hadn't either.
You wanted steak? Well, Brendon would get one too. Those pies? You weren't going to eat alone! His mother taught him better than that! You told him you wanted ice cream, but he would be the once to suggest ice cream sandwiches between two home made cookies.
You giggle as the realization hits you, "honey, maybe it's not your clothes that are shrinking..."
"What does that mean?" He asks with furrowed brows, wiggling his fingers over the bowl of fruit.
You set your fork down, "I think you're gaining sympathy weight."
His jaw drops, looking at you with a mix of shock and betrayal. You hold up your hands defensively, "honey, it's not a bad thing. Just think about it, okay? When I snack, you do too. You never let me eat alone now that I can keep food down and I can't even remember the last time I saw one of your meal prep containers in the fridge."
His lips pout adorably, "I'm still going to the gym when I can... but it is much less often since you've been pregnant."
"And I really, really appreciate you being home with me more."
"Is it noticeable?" He asks.
You fit him with a deadpan expression and point down to your bump, "I've been more focused on growing our kid, honey. No, I haven't noticed and even if I had, I wouldn't love you any less. You're still the most handsome man I have ever laid my eyes on."
He smirks as he brace his arms on the counter, "yeah? You like dad bods?"
You roll your eyes with amusement as you refocus on your food, "chill, I'm already pregnant, B."
feedback is appreciated! divider from cursed-carmine <3
theory crafting - billionaire!jack x fake wife!reader
word count: 9.2k
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, extremely dubious consent, somnophilia, fem!reader, fake relationship trope, he calls you “baby girl” and you call him “sir”, age gap (25/50), reader is a genius quant with a huge ego (but secretly shy), boss/employee relationship, you fall first but he falls harder, surveillance (jack looks at your internet history!), possessive!jack, sadistic!jack, forced proximity, there's only one bed!, mutual pining, loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, unprotected sex, breeding kink, forced orgasms, mild cnc/rape roleplay, squirting, fingerfucking, edging, biting, he makes you beg, some angst, another “slow” burn
summary: being married to a billionaire is easy when it's not real. but when you slowly grow feelings for your husband, you start making mistakes that are losing him millions.
but he'd be willing to lose his entire fortune if it meant he could actually have your heart…
a/n: I've been rewatching one of my favorite shows, billions, and gah I just could not get my mind off of jack being a billionaire, so here it is!
hope it's a sick read ♡
You watch the interview again in your free time. The one after your boss Jack Abbot announces that he'd be marrying you, “his favorite quantitative analyst".
“She's my most valuable asset.” Jack says to the interviewer with a smile that could sway millions to invest in anything he tells them to. “Falling for her was the easiest thing in the whole world. I fell in love with that brilliant mind of hers and then, just like that, I wanted to marry her. I am very lucky that she said yes.”
You like to rewatch this interview mainly to ponder that last sentence. You know the rest is a lie. He isn't actually in love with you.
But does he truly feel grateful that you said yes to marrying him for the sake of his image?
People love a good love story. And you were the one who convinced Jack it would sell.
You did the math.
The math is never wrong.
It sold more than either of you could imagine.
It saved his firm from getting thwarted by a merger that nearly halved Jack's net worth. Not that anyone would've ever found out, given how good you are at your job. You singlehandedly clawed the numbers back up.
But you could only achieve it by playing dirty.
That's how this whole thing started.
With a dirty little secret…
It was an emergency meeting. There was no reason for you to be there but you were dragged into it.
You are, by far, the best quant in the firm. Maybe even the world, but you don't stroke your own ego that much.
Everything is a numbers game at the end of the day. You picking to work for Abbot Financial was not because he paid the most. He certainly does not have the best base yearly salary. But, he had the highest percentage ratio for bonuses, meaning you could make more money by making him more money.
And there was no way in hell you weren't going to make him money.
So, you picked his firm based solely on there being no cap there.
And you've made him millions.
Subsequently meaning you've made yourself millions.
Money you don't really care for.
You do this for the love of the craft itself. To see the numbers spike in ways that give you the kind of high that no drug could ever replicate.
It makes you good at your job.
Maybe a little too good.
Because when Jack asks everyone at the meeting what to do about the failing merger, you're the only one who doesn't spew out an idea that sounds like it was typed into an AI chatbot and regurgitated out to seem appealing.
None of these ideas would work. You knew this.
Jack could tell you were bored. He could tell you were thinking the same thing he was.
Who the hell are these people trying to fool?
He was in a room of idiots, of yes men, of people who wanted to keep their jobs but refused to risk it for the chance to climb the ladder of his interest.
You were none of those things. You don't even know why you're here.
Not until Jack singles you out and asks, “are you not going to share any thoughts?”
Your blank stare back at him slices through him in ways no one has dared to do in years. You look like you couldn't give less of a shit about answering him. Because you know what he knows.
Jack can't fire you.
You're his greatest asset.
Which is why you have the gall to say back, “none of the thoughts I have are shareable with a crowd.”
You won't speak the things on your mind with an audience.
Jack scoffs at that, an amused half chuckle leaking from his lips as he says back, “are you afraid of being judged?”
“I’m not the one who should be afraid.” Your blank stare converts back to a bored expression, accompanied by a yawn. You're tired of all this sitting around. “Are we done here?”
“We aren't.” He points to you and him, then the rest of the crowd. “You're all dismissed. Make me my fucking money back.”
They scatter immediately, leaving you and Jack alone in the conference room.
“Say your piece.” He gestures that you have the floor to speak.
But you shake your head. “It's lunchtime.”
“Excuse me?” He has no clue what to make of you.
You're mentioning food, now of all times? When his company's value could halve at any second if there's even a single bad trade?
“Can you drive?” You pull out your phone, making a reservation. “There's a restaurant I like. Always has an open table for me. I'll tell you my idea after lunch. But only after lunch. You're paying by the way, sir. ”
At first, Jack had thought this was quite a strange request. He never eats with employees, which is why all eyes are on the two of you when you're both spotted at the restaurant together for lunch.
Jack watches as you pull a bottle of some kind out of your bag. You apply it to your hands, so it must be some kind of cream. It's colorful but becomes clear once you've pressed it into your palms and warmed it up. He stares for longer than he should at your odd behavior. You seem engrossed in the action of rubbing your hands together.
“It's not polite to stare, sir.” You look up at him, again with that rather bored expression you always have on.
“What is that?” The question leaves his lips before he can stop himself from asking.
“It's a hand cream from a Korean boutique I visited a few months ago.” The same trip you went on with the firm for that failing merger. The one you knew Jack should've never convinced himself to do but you weren't going to stop him.
It's not on you to tell your boss how to run his company.
Your job is to make him money and that's all you’re focused on.
“Do you always apply it before eating?” Jack asks mainly because he finds it counterintuitive since you'll be handling utensils.
“If you think I'm putting this shit on for the sake of softening my hands, then there's no wonder your firm is failing.” You say your words with such a blunt harshness that Jack is taken back.
“Excuse me—” Jack is quickly cut off by the server joining the two of you.
You switch up your behavior so quickly that your boss gets whiplash when you politely order your food and thank the server with a smile.
He's never seen you smile before…
Why does he seem intrigued by the sight of it?
Jack orders his lunch and then looks back at you. There's no longer that smile on your face. You're sifting through your bag again before pulling out a small colorful container full of pills. You pour out one of the small tablets onto your palm then drop it into your water glass. With a few simple swirls of the glass, the water turns a lovely shade of lavender. You take a sip of it, looking content at the now flavored water.
Neither you nor Jack ordered any drinks. You definitely don't drink at all, since you believe it clouds your mind, but you certainly wouldn't during work hours. Jack feels like he can use one since you're acting so weird…
When the two of you are back in his car after lunch, Jack finally asks, “are you going to tell me now?”
To which you reply, “not yet.”
Your eyes are glued to your phone. He wants to make a comment about how people your age are so obsessed with their phones but he refrains.
Why? He doesn't really know.
He doesn't really understand you at all.
He had always known you were different from other people. That's what makes you so good at your job.
But he never realized how different you were until he sees you scrolling through data on your phone all the way from the restaurant to his office.
You tell him you have to do something on your computer before you can meet with him privately and you're gone before he can tell you no.
So, for the first time in the many years Jack has been a billionaire, he waits for someone. Usually he is the one that people wait on.
However, in this case, his curiosity has the better of him. He just needs to know what is keeping his firm stagnant.
And when you return to his office, you answer his question, “it's you, sir.”
“Excuse me?” He feels like a broken record saying that again but your words are constantly baffling him. He can't quite wrap his head around what you could mean.
Not until you detail it out for him, “you are the reason your firm is failing. It's because you're single. People don't want to commit to an investing firm where the head of it can't commit himself to one person.”
You exude a type of arrogance that Jack normally never entertains. He should just fire you on the spot for insubordination. But no one has ever had the courage to speak to him like this, not even back in his medical school days or his time in the military. He had always been wealthy so most people wanted to stay on his good side.
You could care less. You have plenty of money. You do this because it's entertaining for you and you're good at it.
Really good at it.
Because you show him the money you just made his firm and Jack's jaw nearly hit the floor.
“How did you—”
“The hand cream I used had certain ingredients that very few companies produce, including in the eco-friendly packaging. I bought in before lunch. I sold after lunch. Same thing with the flavor tablet.” You knew that if you were going to be spotted with a billionaire known for being a bachelor, you had to play your cards well.
The house never wins when it comes to you. That's why you're banned from several different casinos. It isn't your fault that you count cards. It's a reflex at this point, to see the numbers and where they could go.
All the possibilities align exactly as you intend them to.
Including your proposition to your boss. “If you want to rebuild your image into something truly profitable, then we should start dating.”
“You want to date me?” He almost laughs at the thought of dating someone just for optics.
But then you convince him by saying, “I want to make money. Don't you?”
Of course. It's all he wants, ever.
Because making money is simple. It isn't like sewing someone back up in an emergency room or out in the field. He likes to keep things simple now that he has lost his leg.
Can dating you truly solve all his problems? Could it really be that simple?
You show him an article on your phone. A tabloid has already published a whole piece on you and Jack. They've done most of the heavy lifting for you two, implying that your outing was a “soft launch” of your relationship with him.
Which is how you figured it would go.
Again, you're rarely ever wrong in your predictions.
Jack starts to see that now more than ever. The brilliance that is your mind.
Everything you predict comes true. The world eats up the relationship the two of you have. They like that you're distant and purposefully avoidant of the spotlight because it heavily contrasts with Jack, who is constantly being shoved in front of a camera.
Opposites attract, after all.
You and Jack go out on dates that you plan strategically to manipulate your portfolio. In the few public dates the two of you have been on, you have made Jack enough money that the merger flop was miniscule in the grand scheme of things.
You're thinking bigger.
That's why when you're interviewed for the first time about your relationship and they ask you what you love about Jack, you tell them in that nonchalant way of yours, on live television, “that he didn't make me sign a pre-nup and he let me pick my engagement ring.”
An agreement the two of you never made but you simply cornered him into.
Jack can't possibly marry you without a plan in place. Definitely not without a pre-nup to protect his money.
So, he snaps at you when you get to his penthouse apartment, where you've been living for the last few weeks, from that interview. “We never agreed to get engaged. And if we were to, you will be signing a pre-nup.”
“No, I won't.” You shrug off your jacket, hanging it at the coat rack by the door, completely ignoring the irritation building on your boss's face.
Jack never had a coat rack before. You brought yours here. You brought a lot of your things here.
You actually live here now, which is something Jack is not used to at all…
He has always been alone. A bachelor at heart. He had thought once of maybe settling down, having children, etc, but then life got in the way.
Jack made his first billion investing in the medical field and his second billion after he lost his leg overseas.
He's about to make his third billion by marrying you.
Somehow you've accumulated that much value, at least in social currency. People love how straightforward you are. No bullshit, despite it all being bullshit.
Jack won't win this fight. He'll slowly learn that he can never win when he comes to you.
You will always be several steps ahead.
You convince him against a pre-nup. You convince him to elope with you. You convince him to go on a honeymoon to a place specifically where a luxury chain you have a stake in owns every hotel on the island.
Your money is now Jack's money. Much to his surprise, it ends up being a lot of money. Still not as much as he has but enough that anyone would find you well within the 1%.
You don't need to make any more money. You could live the rest of your life comfortably.
But what's the fun in that?
Jack learns your habits over the year the two of you have been in a fake relationship.
You wake up early. You read the trends. You scope out options that you might want to look into. And you always, always make him money.
He definitely doesn't need any more money but your abilities have allowed him to create a more relaxed workplace with plenty of safety nets. He is able to convince several private health companies to invest their employee pensions with Abbot Financial, a trend that continues to grow as your decisions create a healthy cushion for any possible mishaps.
His firm is juggling megatons of money now, more money than most firms will ever see in countless lifetimes.
Jack has everything he has ever wanted.
That is, until he wakes up in the morning and sees you sitting on his couch, in his home.
And he realizes he doesn't have you.
Not truly.
He looks down at the wedding ring on his finger then turns his attention back to you. He can see the matching band on your finger, along with the engagement ring you picked out and billed to him, not that it cost anything all that substantial to a billionaire like him.
The two of you are married but…it's not real.
Your eyes shift to him, furrowing your brow at the sight of him staring at you. “You do that a lot, sir.”
“Do what?” He feigns ignorance.
“Stare at me.” You don't like that he stares so much.
Makes you feel things you shouldn't towards your boss.
Things that a wife would feel towards her husband, if he were actually her husband.
Like the desire to ask for a kiss in the morning.
You shake that thought away, going back to looking at your laptop, staring at the numbers for the day.
Numbers are safe.
The thoughts that just swarmed your mind were not safe…
Because he fuels those delusional thoughts when he responds like he always does, “am I not allowed to stare at my wife?”
“I'm not your wife.” You answer the same way you always do to this joke of his.
“You'll have to be my wife for the charity gala tonight.” It's Abbot Financial's annual charity gala.
The first one since you and Jack got officially married, which means you will indeed have to be by his side then.
“I know.” You've been dreading it.
There is too much to account for. While your distant act worked well when you and Jack were “dating”, you can't do the same act now that you're married to him.
You have to act like you're in love with him and that disturbs you because…you won't need to act.
You are in love with him.
You've never felt anything for anyone before but over these last few months, you've grown to care about Jack more than you've ever cared for a person.
And it has you making mistakes you shouldn't be making.
Like when someone asks you what you'd like to drink at the gala.
But you don't drink, so why did you tell them to get you Jack's favorite drink, the one he always has when he's at home, his favorite brand of double barrel whiskey…
You figured since you were asked, you might as well get him something.
Big fucking mistake.
You have no stake in that brand and neither does Jack. You should've ordered something you had a stake in because now, your trends will be off. People will invest in that whiskey brand knowing a billionaire enjoys drinking it, which means they'll be investing in the materials that make up the bottle and the wax label. None of which you had accounted for in your projections…
The weight of that glass of whiskey felt heavier than it was in your hand once you received it.
It feels even worse when you give Jack the glass and he exclaims rather happily, “my favorite! Thanks, baby girl.”
And he kisses you on the temple, causing your stomach to do flips…
You don't like that he chose that nickname for you. It's playful because of your age difference. The media eats it up whenever he calls you “his baby girl” when he talks about you. People love how “affectionate” he is when it comes to talking about you.
You hate it. You hate knowing that it's all a lie and that all the pretty words he says about you are just to keep this ploy going.
So why did you care enough to get him his favorite drink?
That's when you catch the truth.
The calculated truth.
That your subconscious mind knew he'd give you a kiss for it because that's what a husband would do if his wife thought of him dearly enough to bring him his favorite drink.
You feel sick realizing this…
“Is my baby girl feeling alright?” Jack sets his glass down on a nearby table so he can cup your face in his warm palms, which only has your heart beating faster than it already is.
He can feel your rapid pulse. He wonders what's wrong—
“I feel a little nauseous.” You say in a fake attempt to whisper. You speak loud enough for the crowd around the two of you to hear you say, “it must be because…you know…”
Jack doesn't know what you could be implying. Not until he reads the news the next day after the gala and people are speculating that you're pregnant.
But he knew your nausea was not pregnancy related. He's never touched you.
No one has ever touched you…not that Jack knows that.
Jack does know, however, that you were actually feeling unwell.
So, he asks you when he sees you in the living room on your laptop, like you always are in the mornings, “should I get you some medicine?”
“I’m fine.” You aren't fine.
Your trends are off.
They're never off.
But they're off today…
They're off for a whole week before you can level them back out properly.
Jack wouldn't be able to notice the things you do, so he has no clue why you've been glued to your laptop for days on end. He just worries that you're working yourself sick.
“You need to rest.” He tells you when, for the eighth day in a row, you've been barely sleeping.
“I'm fine.” Again, you lie.
“You are not fine. There's obviously something wrong. Just talk to me.” Jack goes to sit next to you on the couch and he flinches when he sees you stare at him with a startled expression.
He has never ever sat down next to you at home. He has never been this close to you in private before.
It causes you to snap your laptop shut and stand up quickly. Too quickly.
You clutch your head, the blood rushing out from it, making you dizzy enough to stumble.
And your heart stops in your chest when you feel Jack's hands on your arms, steadying you.
He's close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, reminding you that he just woke up and he's wearing what he usually does to bed. A high end brand of athletic shorts and a shirt that clings a little too nicely to his upper body, showing off that he trains in his free time with a specialized workout instructor for people with prosthetics.
Your eyes shift down for a second because you feel something brush against your thigh.
Is that his…oh fuck!
You scramble out of his hold and without saying a word, you run off into your room.
You don't come out for an entire day.
Jack knocks several times to make sure you aren't dead in there. He, again, has no clue why you're acting so strange. He hadn't realized he was sporting a hard on from waking up and it had casually poked at you through the fabric of his shorts.
You have to tell yourself that it's just something that happens with men in the morning. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.
You shouldn't want it to have anything to do with you! Why would you want your boss to get hard for you!
This is…beyond horrific.
You can't look him in the eye, which is fine because usually you can't anyways.
But you forgot about the children's dinner.
It's an event for children with disabilities that Abbot Financial hosts. It's a community cooking event and you're supposed to cook alongside your husband Jack.
The entire time, you act the role of the shy wife beautifully because whenever Jack touches you casually or gives you a kiss, you react with such shock that everyone around finds you adorable. Including Jack.
He's never seen you act so cute before. Every time he kisses you, you look at him with the most surprised expression that he can't help messing with you for the rest of the event. Especially when the two of you bake some cookies and he tries one and they're so delicious that he picks you up and twirls you around in front of everyone, telling them all how talented his wife is.
“My baby girl is brilliant in more ways than one.” He says to the crowd before pressing a kiss against your lips. You can taste the flavor of the cookie on his lips.
And to his shock, you lean in and kiss him.
Just so you can memorize the feel of his lips against yours.
You shouldn't have done that. You really shouldn't have done that. You didn't think it through.
You always think things through.
You always play out all the possibilities.
But in that moment, you didn't.
And now everything is uncertain…
Like how you don't have a plan for when Jack is driving the two of you home from the event and he asks, “what was the reason behind that kiss?”
“Hmmm?” You pretend not to understand what he's asking.
“You always have a reason behind everything you do. I'm just curious what the reason was there.” Jack can't wrap his mind around why you decided to kiss him back. You've never shown him affection before, which is what you're known for.
So, why did you kiss him?
You shrug, not answering verbally, leaning your head against the tinted window.
His eyes shift over to you, to your lips, to the memory of you kissing him for the first time.
And he hopes you'll do it again.
A hope he shouldn't have because he has no clue that you have feelings for him.
He isn't sure you could have feelings for anyone and if you did, it would have to be well within your calculations.
You would never just fall for anyone.
Whoever you fell in love with, it would have to be someone who fits into your numbers.
Someone who definitely isn't him…
But, little does he know, you only have eyes for the man who is playing the role of your husband in the public eye. The man you consider your boss even though you've been his wife now longer than you've ever been his employee.
Three years have gone by and…your feelings for your fake husband have only grown by the day.
You find yourself looking forward to the events where you have to be seen with Jack because during those events, you can enjoy being loved by him. It's not real and it makes your heart ache when it's over and you're reminded that it's all an act, but you try to enjoy it in the moment.
Try as you might, it doesn't aid in the lump that forms in your throat every time Jack asks you why you do certain things, like hold his hand the whole night or give him a kiss. You simply shrug and so far, that's enough. He doesn't push for an answer past that.
He believes you must have your reasons. In his mind, he can't fathom that reason being that you just want to hold his hand or kiss him. It has to be a piece in a puzzle that only you can see somehow.
But then, one night, you slip up.
And you hold onto his hand even in the elevator up to the shared hotel room, where there are no eyes to see the two of you.
No reason for you to still be holding his hand.
Jack stares down at the way your fingers are interlocked with his. At the way your thumb is casually brushing against his skin. At how relaxed you seem. At how content you are to be holding his hand.
Until you realize what you're doing and you quickly slip your hand out of his, hoping he hadn't noticed.
It's the first time Jack sees you clearly.
He sees that you're just a shy girl who seems to like him, though you'd never say anything about it.
Not even when the two of you are legally married and there's no reason for Jack not to grab you and kiss you right now.
You are his wife, after all.
No one would bat an eyelash if he pinned you to the wall of this elevator and grinded his body up against yours until a moan slipped from your lips.
What's stopping him now that he knows you feel something for him? How long have you been hiding this from him?
Is that why you're never in bed when he wakes up on the rare occasions you and him have to share a bed, like tonight?
Are you nervous about what would happen if he slid a little closer to you in your sleep and touched you?
Would you…let him?
Thoughts race through his mind that are sinful and perverted. His lovely wife is interested in him. Maybe even the whole time the two of you have been married…
Jack starts feeding into the delusion that perhaps this has all been a ploy to make him fall in love with you. A clever girl like you would think that far ahead, after all.
While that isn't true at all, it doesn't matter.
It's what Jack believes now.
And you hardly prove him wrong when the two of you share a bed that night and you don't push him away when he spoons you.
Why don't you shrug him off? Why don't you move?
You can't figure out why you're letting him hold you…
Maybe it's because you actually enjoy how his body feels pressed up against your back. How good he smells when he's this close to you and his scent wafts in your direction.
You and Jack are currently attending a five day long retreat, run by an eccentric billionaire who thought it was a good idea to rent out an entire ski resort just for a handful of people.
Jack usually declines by booking something to overlap with the retreat dates but this time, he hadn't. Because he told you about it and you said that it would be a good idea to go. To show people he's in a happy relationship, as many billionaires are not.
He would be in an even happier relationship if he could sink his hard cock into you and hear you beg for him to cum inside.
Your heart starts pounding in your chest when you feel how hard he has gotten in his sleep. His cock is resting between your thighs…and you have to stuff your face in your pillow to stop yourself from making a sound when he rolls his hips against your ass.
You don't know what to do. He's surely asleep. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing this.
You should scoot over. You shouldn't keep letting him dry hump you like this in his sleep.
But he is asleep…right?
So, can't you pretend that he has no clue this is happening so you can cum from the feeling of the tip of his cock brushing against your clit over and over again?
Jack swears he hears you moan. It's so faint but it had to have slipped from your lips.
And now he has to hear it again.
He keeps fucking your thighs, humping you like an animal in heat, and you bury your face further into your pillow, digging your nails into the sheets to hold yourself steady so that his cock can rub up against you where you need him to make you cum.
The orgasm that shoots through you feels better than when you've touched yourself. You've never been this wet before. There's an ache between your legs. You wish he'd just slip his cock inside of you and start fucking you.
Wait, what? No, you shouldn't be thinking that. He's asleep. He's probably having a weird dream.
You need to just go to sleep and—
Another moan slips from your lips when you feel him draw a line down the length of your slit with the tip of his finger before dipping inside of you. He curls his finger just right as his palm applies pressure on your clit and suddenly, stars flood your vision. You can barely keep in your voice anymore.
And nothing can stop him when his name leaves your lips all breathy and nervous, “Jack?”
No “sir”. Just Jack.
You never call him Jack.
Now, he needs to hear you moan his name again. And again.
In that soft, shy, scared voice of yours, so lost in the pleasure he can give you.
You don't know how long he bullies your pussy with his fingers. You've cum so much that you feel hollow when his fingers finally free you from their grasp and your pussy is left wanting more.
Then, before you ask him anything, Jack feigns a little snore before flipping over, his back now to your own. He mainly did that so he can lick the taste of you off his fingers without you catching him. But it also helps him hide the fact that he had done that all consciously and you let him.
You don't mention a word about it in the morning.
Like usual, you aren't there in bed when he wakes up. But his hand slides over to where he had fingered you last night and there's a dampness there that tells him that it really did happen and he didn't just dream it.
He can still taste you on his tongue.
Jack wants to bury his face between your legs and hear you moan his name from his mouth ravaging your pussy.
But, first, he needs you to admit that you want him.
Something that proves almost impossible.
Over the rest of the retreat, you're much more cautious around Jack, especially in private. You do the bare minimum of affection. You don't push the bounds like you had before with holding his hand or kissing him. You try your best to maintain a proper sense of decorum.
Until the two of you lay down in bed together.
Then, everything gets thrown out the windows.
Because you don't stop Jack from touching you in his sleep.
You let him grope you under your sleep shirt and pinch your nipples while his cock grinds up against your ass. You let him finger you into multiple orgasms that have you reeling by the end of them, your body tense and aching for him to go further. He never goes further.
You won't get his cock until you beg for it. That's what he has decided. Jack will play your game of pretend for now but he knows one day, you have to cave.
Either you will, or he will.
And for once when it comes to you, Jack likes his odds.
Because now, in the corner of your eye when you look at him, there's a heat that wasn't there before.
Even if it isn't love, Jack will accept your lust. He can turn that into love. He can make you truly his.
He wants you to be his wife, his actual wife.
So, he starts asking you to go on more “business” trips with him. Excuses to force you into the same bed as him disguised as necessary ventures for capital.
Excuses you allow because your body has grown a bit too attached to the pleasure he spoils you with in his sleep.
You miss his touch when you sleep alone in your bed at his penthouse. You wish he'd slide into bed with you and make you cum and just fuck you already.
You know that this can't be some strange type of sleepwalking. Jack is actively touching you and he knows you're letting him.
But neither of you will admit to the other the truth.
That you want each other, in a way that is deeper than just momentary pleasure.
Despite all your genius, you can't reason the “correct” approach to confessing this to him.
It feels like it's too late, or too impossible to do now.
Your feelings for him are growing to be too overwhelming. You find it hard to focus when you're slick between your legs at the thought of him.
You've never been like this before so you never had a reason to fathom the possibilities. Your logical brain assumed that something like this could never happen because why would you ever let someone touch you the way Jack has been touching you?
Why are you letting him…
Why does it have to feel so good?
This is fucked up.
You're not his wife. You're not even in a relationship with him. You're practically a stranger he shares a bed with on occasion.
You're a toy he likes to play with. That's the conclusion you've come to because you can't reason that he loves you too. Such a thought is more than unlikely, even though it's the truth.
You've never been so wrong before.
But your judgment is clouded heavily by the idea that he only agreed to be with you for money.
The moment you're no longer useful to him, you'll get thrown out. It's inevitable.
That's why you start looking for back up plans. You should've done this earlier and built your own safety net.
But you couldn't have known you'd fall in love with your boss of all people…
You would've never suggested this if you thought for a second you'd feel something for him.
Feelings make everything more complicated than they should be.
Like the jealous rage Jack gets when he checks what you've been searching for on his internet. He had been keeping tabs on your internet history. He owns the provider so it wasn't difficult for him to get the information he needed.
You're looking for ways out.
He finds it adorable that you think you can get away from him of all people.
Don't you know what he did for the military?
Jack was a combat medic but he was special ops first, specializing in surveillance.
There's not a corner of this Earth you could go where he couldn't find you.
You can never leave him. Hadn't you calculated that in your head?
Why would he ever let you go?
You're his.
Whether you want to be or not…
He just needs to make sure you're aware of it.
So, Jack buys a new apartment. He buys an entire building, actually, where the penthouse suite is rather large but only has one bedroom. On purpose. He built it that way.
And he makes a grand showing of how he curated the building for you, his lovely wife.
You had no clue about any of this, which is why you had no idea that he built you a cage.
A cage you walked right into with a smile for the world to see…
“Why is there only one bedroom?” That's the first question you ask when you walk into the new penthouse for the first time.
And for once, Jack is the calculated one. “Because the design plans are available to the public and we don't have a need for a guest room so it looks better for our relationship to only have one bedroom.”
The logic is sound. You can't argue with that.
Jack figured you wouldn't. He assumed that maybe you'd even look forward to having to sleep next to him every night.
You do look forward to it, for all the wrong reasons…
You can't keep letting him touch you. You try to just fall asleep, to ignore how easily Jack can make you cum but to no avail. He knows your body better than you do at this point and that's only with his hands.
Imagine what he could do to you with his mouth or his cock. If only you'd just tell him how you truly feel about him.
But the fear of losing him completely prevents you from ever mentioning it.
It prevents you from giving him more than a polite nod in the morning even though the night before he made you cum so hard on his fingers that you squirted all over the new bed while crying out his name.
You're beginning to test the limits of his patience. He can't keep cumming in his hand and wasting it when he could be buried deep inside of his pretty wife.
You're his baby girl, who has no need for protection because you never thought you'd ever have sex so why would you be on birth control?
He could put a baby inside of you.
That would ensure you're his forever.
Maybe he should just take you. Rip the choice from your hands. It's not like you'd stop him. He knows you want it too.
If you won't admit it to him, then he'll just have to make you…
Jack hasn't touched you since he made that decision. You're confused by it.
You're uncomfortable with the fact that you miss those late night aggressive touches from him. You haven't cum in what feels like weeks. Your own fingers can't get you to the same pleasure Jack can so you don't even try.
You've been left desperately wanting to ask him why he stopped.
Is he…tired of you? Has he lost interest in you?
You knew the time would come eventually so you prepare yourself to leave him first. You won't be here for the heartbreak.
You'll end this on your own terms.
Or, well, you try to.
Only for Jack to laugh in your face. “You can't be serious.”
“Our marriage has run its course.” You tell him with that bluntness of yours, trying to maintain that cold, calm expression you usually have on. “We'll divorce amicably. I already have other firms lined up to hire me so there won't be any mess—”
Your back is against the wall in an instant and you can't hardly register the feel of Jack's lips on your own until he forces his tongue into your mouth. You squirm, shoving him off of you but failing miserably when he grabs your wrists and pins them to the wall, holding you steady there with his body pressed firmly against your own.
Jack has never kissed you like this before, where he's purposefully stealing every breath you take, making you feel lightheaded. It's so aggressive that your knees start to buckle from how much you want him to keep going.
But you can't let him do this.
What is he doing?
“Sir, I—!” You let out a yelp when Jack bites your neck all of a sudden. “What are you doing!”
“Marking my wife.” His words have heat rushing to your core.
“Your…” You stare at him in disbelief. “I’m not your wife.”
Again, he lets out a laugh that is so sinister, goosebumps form on your skin. Though, that might be from the words that decide to leave his lips with such menace, “I wonder how many times I'll have to rape you until you finally admit that you want to be my wife.”
“W-What?” You must've gone crazy.
Did Jack really just say that—
He grabs you and drags you to the bedroom, locking the door. Then, he tosses you onto the bed before kneeling down and ripping your bottoms off completely.
You hold in a shriek of surprise when Jack buries his face between your legs and starts eating you out like he has been dreaming of doing since the moment he first got a taste of you. And you cum way too quickly…
Drawing yet another sadistic laugh from his lips. “You really like it when I make you cum.”
Heat shoots through your whole body when you realize he's trying to get you to acknowledge all the times he has touched you up until now.
“Oh, don't be shy, baby girl.” He says as he drags his tongue along your slit, causing your legs to tremble in his strong hold. “You're allowed to like the pleasure your husband can give you.”
“You're not my—” You clamp your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from letting out a scream when Jack seals his lips around your clit and starts sucking the life out of you until you squirt all over his face from the intensity of his actions.
Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest at the sight of him licking his lips and smiling up at you. “I am your husband. We're legally married. It's finally time to consummate our marriage.”
Jack stands up then, slowly unbuckling his belt. You're too stunned to move. Your eyes are glued to the bulge in his pants, to him pulling his cock out for you to finally see.
You hadn't realized how big he was.
There's no way that's going to fit inside of you.
You're scrambling to get away from him the moment you realize he's actually going to try to put that monster inside of you. But he snatches you by your hips and drags you back towards him, lining his cock up with your entrance from behind.
That's when you scream, “I'm a virgin!”
In your mind, that was supposed to get him to stop. But again, your predictions have not been accurate.
Because Jack simply pushes forward, sinking the tip of his cock inside of you before saying, “you won't be for much longer, baby girl.”
“Please, sir, stop this!” You try to claw yourself away from him but he's too strong, his hands digging into your hips, holding you steady as he thrusts more of his cock inside of you.
And again, you had no clue how easily your body would swallow him up…
You can't believe it when Jack hilts inside of you, his hips meeting your ass, his cock fully seated inside of you.
Jack can't believe it either. How did he last so long without knowing how warm and wet your pussy would feel wrapped so tightly around his cock?
He needs more. He has to hear you begging for his cum.
So, he slips out of you. Then back into you. Then out again. He repeats this devilish movement over and over until you're trembling beneath him, your body desperate for an orgasm that refuses to build from the lack of stimulation.
“Please, sir.” You can't take it anymore…
“Say your husband's name properly.” He won't let you call him “sir” anymore.
“Please, Jack.” The moment his name leaves your lips, he pushes his cock back inside of you and you let out a whimper and plead, “please don't pull out again.”
“Why not?” Such a surge of pleasure rips through him when he slides out of you and you bury your face in the sheets, muffling your cries of disappointment.
“I want to cum.” Your words are suppressed by fabric but Jack still hears you clearly.
“You don't need my cock to cum.” He dips two fingers inside of you and you tense up immediately. “You've cum plenty on my fingers. Don't you remember?”
Of course you remember. Your body remembers all too well because it only takes a few thrusts and him curling his fingers just right to have you making a mess on his sheets like always.
Jack pops his fingers out of you before lining his cock back up, the tip of it teasing your slit back and forth, making you so needy for him to be inside of you that you've lost all rationality.
He's fucking you stupid, which is unbelievable, given that you're a genius. You can't be so swayed by the pleasure he can give you.
But you don't know how to do the math for this.
What will get Jack to fuck you other than you completely giving into his every whim?
He's in control here. You're smart enough to know this for a fact.
That's why your hand slips between your legs and you spread your pussy wide for him and tell your husband, “please fuck your wife, Jack.”
And you can't see the smile on his face but you can hear it in his response, “so you're finally my wife now?”
You nod. “I've been your wife. I've been all yours.”
“Since when?” He demands answers and you'll give them to him because he will reward you if you do.
“Since that first time I kissed you.” All those years ago…
Jack flips you over so he can look at you. So you can look at him as he strips completely, letting you see his bare body for the first time.
“Take it off.” His voice is so commanding that you listen without hesitation, pulling your top off until you're naked too. “My wife is so beautiful.”
Jack climbs on top of you, grabbing a hold of your face, kissing you the way he has needed to for years. Happiness floods his system when you moan his name on his lips from his hard cock grinding against your pussy.
“Please.” Your hand slides down, positioning his cock back at your entrance. “Please fuck me, Jack.”
That draws a laugh deep from his belly that you feel so prominently on your lips. “I can see the gears churning in your head, baby girl. Is that what you thought would get me to give you my cock? Try again.”
You bite your lip. He's right. You did think that would be enough.
And it could've been if Jack wasn't a more patient man. If he was more desperate for you. But he has you now.
He needs you fully committed to him.
He has waited a very long time to hear you say the words that finally leave your lips, “please put a baby in your baby girl, Jack.”
Your eyes roll back when his cock thrusts back inside of you, filling you up so deep that you can feel the tip of it grinding against your womb. Jack presses his hand down on your lower belly, massaging where his cock is resting inside of you, making the feeling of him more vivid than ever.
“Eyes on me, baby girl.” Jack won't let you get too dazed. He wants you present for when he pumps a baby into you.
“I'm here.” You reach up, cupping his face, brushing your fingers along the stubble that has grown on his jaw. “Can I kiss my husband?”
“Of course.” He never thought he'd be so happy hearing you say that but when you lean up and kiss him on the cheek, he realizes just how much he loves you.
Only you could give him such a light peck and it would be enough for him to want to give you the entire world.
You are his whole world. Everything he has ever wanted and dreamed of.
He'll have to spoil you rotten if he wants to keep you looking at him with so much affection like this.
So, Jack spoils you with the one thing you weren't certain about, by telling you, “I love you.”
And he fucks the shock right off your face, your expression going from startled to pleasurable in a second.
“Wait, Jack—” You need a second to think.
He can't just drop that on you and then start fucking you!
But he does. Because he likes how panicked you look, all flustered and adorable, unable to comprehend his words combined with the pressure coiling in your core.
You feel like you could cum at any second.
He won't let you cum, though. Not until you say it back.
“Come on, baby girl. Tell me what I already know.” He slows his strokes when he can feel you tightening up, your body wanting to cum but he stops moving right when you're close.
You cover your face with your hands, feeling so shy, completely unprepared to confess your love for Jack.
So, he slips out of you and you reflexively yell, “no!”
And then you scream into your hands, embarrassment filling your body when he lets out such a sadistic chuckle in response.
“If you want to cum on my cock, tell me you love me.” He pushes your thighs together, fucking them like he would when he was pretending to be asleep, your pussy aching to be filled.
It takes every ounce of courage in you to say, “I love you, Jack.”
Only for him to go, “say it to my face, baby girl.”
You move your hands away, anxiety consuming you when you see the smirk on his face. He is way too happy about this development.
You're in danger. There's nothing safe about what's about to transpire.
If you were smart, you'd find a way out of this. You know better than to give yourself up to a billionaire crazy enough to marry you for money and then make you into his actual wife.
The math is there. It proves you're going to be stuck with him for life. There will be no escape.
You're going to be his.
But you knew that, didn't you?
From the very first moment you laid eyes on Jack, you knew that he was capable of this and you still chose to go through with it.
You can pretend all you like that you didn't see this coming but the truth is, you had known this outcome could happen from the very beginning.
And you still chose him.
Because you really are as crazy as he is.
“I really love you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer to you, grinding your hips up to meet his. “So please make me yours, Jack.”
That's what you've wanted this whole time.
Your true goal in all of this.
It was never about the money.
It was about getting this man so whipped for you that he’ll eagerly give you anything you'll ever want, including the kind of sex you never thought would be possible for you to have.
You had to find someone who matched you in every way and make sure he had no idea that you've lured him into quite a snare.
Jack may be fucking you stupid, but you're fucking him right back.
You give him what he wants, to hear you beg for him to make you cum. And the orgasms he draws out of you are so incredible that you know you've made the right choice.
You whisper words of adoration and affection that have him so elated that he's kissing you all over and eagerly fucking you now. You giggle at how cute he can be for an older man who is very much in love with his baby girl.
“I'm not going to last much longer.” Jack may have great stamina but seeing you so consumed with pleasure has him wanting to fill you up right now.
“We have all the time in the world.” You pull him in closer, giving him a kiss before telling him, “we don't need to waste time making money anymore. We should spend our time making babies from now on.”
And just like you predicted, Jack groans and starts fucking you faster, full of need and desire to do exactly as you said.
He seals his lips over yours when he cums inside of you, capturing your moans from the feeling of how warm it is coating your insides.
You could get used to this...
“I can't wait for you to get pregnant, baby girl.” He slips out of you and shifts downwards, laying his head on your belly, peppering your skin with kisses.
You rest your hand in his curls, loving the look of the grays scattered in between his reddish brown locks. You love the look in his hazel eyes when he looks up at you.
Jack loves you so dearly.
Just as you predicted he would.
a/n: I have a thing for a reader who secretly has a few screws loose (maybe bc I have a few screws loose LMAO!) and also just love writing jack batshit crazy ~
this one was a super fun one to write. it's been a while since I wrote something a little longer! I've been experimenting a lot lately writing wise so this one had a bit more…idk how to describe it, like more internal monologue? I always have such a blast trying new things out in my writing hehe!
But tell me why that scene in Shameless when Kev and V are in bed and Kev’s like ‘Wake up mommy, I’m hungry mommy,’ and pawing at her nightgown is so fucking Pope coded. Only he’d be less giggly and more serious when he says it. Like the man’s infatuated with your new pregnancy breasts - big and swollen from the hormones in your body building milk-producing tissue.
If Pope couldn’t sleep because he felt he needed to watch over you before, he def isn’t hitting the hay now that you’re pregnant. He watches you like a fucking hawk when you’re sleeping. You’ve gotten used to it - he’s like a big guard dog. You know it gives him solace to watch over you, and you can usually convince him to get some kind of sleep during the day. This morning is no different. But he’s about to selfishly break his own rule of letting you sleep in whenever possible because he’s currently hard as fuck from the way your tits are spilling out of your tank top. He’s mesmerized by the way they look under the low glow of the hall light, rising and falling with your soft breathing. Your nipples are hard from the fact that you insist on having the fan on even if the house is already cool, and a little stretched from going up a couple cup sizes. The man’s fucking salivating.
He climbs onto the bed, bringing your legs closer together so he can hover over you. He leans down and pulls the fabric of your top to give him better access.
“G’morning mommy,“ he rasps, taking one of your nipples into his mouth and flicking his tongue over it - before releasing it with a ‘pop.’ He looks up at you with those big, hazel eyes. He looks at you like you’ve hung the stars. “‘M hungry mommy, need to taste you. Please,” he ghosts against your breast. You start to show signs of life. You stretch and let out a little ‘Nnngh,’ eyes scrunching in pleasure when he latches back on - swirling and sucking with his tongue and occasionally grazing it between his teeth.
“Mm, Andy, honey, the milk doesn’t come in til after the baby’s born,” you say groggily, your sweet voice still a little rough with sleep. You bring your hand up to his head and tangle your fingers in his auburn curls, tugging as a sleepy moan falls from your lips. He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, but still keeps one nipple between his lips while the he tenderly massages the other. “What’s your deal with my breasts anyway? Been all over ‘em since I got pregnant.” He stops what he’s doing and looks back up at you, little dribbles is saliva on the corners of his mouth.
“You serious?” he asks, deadpan. You nod your head ‘yes.’ “Baby, ‘cause your body’s gettin’ ready to feed my child. Nothin’ is sexier to me than that. And they’re a lot…plumper these days,” he smirks - his soft, pink lips doing that little quiver they do. You giggle and grab his face, pulling him up to kiss you. He fucks you twice before noon, once in missionary with your legs hiked up around his waist - repeating over and over how he’s ‘gonna keep you pregnant just to have you like this always,’ with your full breasts and baby bump - and a second time after you fell back asleep for a little bit and he woke you up again (he’s relentless), pressing his hard cock against your back and spoon fucks you. “God, wanna keep you like this always. Can get a big house, and have ten kids, and jus’ keep you barefoot and pregnant like this. Would you want that…with me?” he says gruffly between thrusts. You press your back into him, toes curling as you settle your arms on top of his, which are resting on your bump. You interlace your fingers and squeeze as he thrusts into you particularly deep, a high moan escaping your parted lips.
“F-fuck Andy, right there! And - yes! yes! - do you even have to ask??? I’m pregnant with your kid and we’re fucking in our bed, in our - oh, shit - house. How else could I show you I want that with you?” You give one of his hands another squeeze. “Hey,” you say as you lean your head back against him. “Yes. I want that with you.” And to no surprise, he cums seconds later.
CONTENTS: farmer! cowboy! jack abbot x pregnant! wife! f! reader, cowboy! jack abbot au, farmer! jack abbot au, fluff, cute toddler moments, smut, fingering, somnophilia, pregnancy fetish
Word Count: 2.3k+
SUMMARY: after becoming pregnant, jack becomes obsessed with your body. once you give birth, he takes control of his life by the reins
lamb divider by @/neosprites
a/n: @meetmeatyourworst asked for a part two to cowgirl so here you go! hope y’all enjoy!
You rubbed at your swollen tummy while you waddled around the garden, you basket in tow as you picked at the plentiful harvest. Your sundress danced in the slight breeze, the fabric gently hugging your soft curves.
Jack would be out in the pasture, checking on his cattle. His eyes would land on you. You struggling to bend down as you plucked tomatoes off the vine. His heart twinged slightly. He was happy that you were carrying his kin, but seeing how you were constantly exhausted made his heart shatter.
He remembers the day you announced the big news.
You held up the pregnancy test, Jackie's eyes studying the two pink little lines. You squealing the minute Jack Abbot hoisted you into the air with his arms wrapped below your butt.
"We're having a baby!" he cheered. "We're having a fucking baby!"
He'd spin you around before setting you back down. Holding your head in your hands, his lips seeking yours. His tongue grazing across yours, spit being exchanged between your warm mouths.
"We're having a fuckin' baby," he whispered against your lips.
His hands gripped along the reins that dragged along the neck of his horse, him tensing as he watched you trudge through the plowed dirt decorated with your plants. He wanted to lift your belly, freeing yourself of the weight. Yet, he leaned across the back of his mare, sighing as he adjusted his cowboy hat.
You'd peek up from the garden, slightly waving to him underneath the sun. His hand would just raise in response, totally enamored by your pregnant self in the fabric of your dress. He watched you for a while as you plucked the fruit of your garden. Your rooster crowing in the background while the sun hung heavy along the horizon.
The sky would grow dark, Jack's hand always encircling your plush stomach. He would feel how his kiddo would squirm and kick along the walls of your womb. The ever growing child pulsing beneath your belly.
"Hey, sweetie," Jack cooed, hush whispers against the skin. You both knowing it was a girl. "You're always moving when you hear daddy’s voice, yeah?"
Jack, who would have his most intimate moments with his daughter while you slept. Always kissing your stretchmarks while the flesh would bend and fold beneath his touch.
"Do y'know how much mommy and I love you?"
Your skin would project with your baby's feet kicking into your side. Jack seeing the constant movements resting below your belly. You'd wince in pain suddenly at the contractions, him afraid to wake the stirring baby.
He'd rub your tummy for a while, feeling how your womb would settle beneath his touch. Just a subtle hand resting on your belly while you slept. Little breaths puffing from your mouth, totally wiped from waddling around in the hot sun. Kisses graced your collar and plump breasts, your boobs being way bigger than usual.
His kisses lacing the hairs on your crotch and trailing to your center, practically begging for him while you slept. You'd be wet, your folds sparkling in the moonlight. His constant licks lapping at your center, digging into your filled cunt. It was great, your womb swollen with his child, the birth coming in the following days.
He couldn't help it, seeking below the barrier of your underwear, sliding the fabric to the side. His tongue dancing along your slick folds and your bud. You'd slightly squirm under him, your large belly swaying from side to side. Your puffy ankles resting on top of his back. He'd watch you, how you moaned in between breaths. It was beautiful, his mama all cute and needy in her sleep. He'd also notice the glint of your wedding ring, the large rock sitting large and present on your finger.
A few hours later, you'd stir awake, always having to pee since becoming pregnant. You'd return from the bathroom, hardly prodding Jack's shoulder. He'd groan, his body stretching under your touch, a low hum spilling from his chest.
"Jackie, why is my underwear all wet?"
"Mmpf—," he growled with his eyes still closed. "M'sorry, you just looked so pretty."
You just smiled, pressing a cute kiss to his forehead.
The next morning, you'd be cracking eggs in the pan while the farmhands chatted at the table. You wearing one of your t-shirts that allowed your big stomach to poke through. Flipping the pancakes and heating the bacon, a shirtless Jackie graced your presence. The constant affection normal for the farmhands to see. Jack's arms settled on your sides, the fingers slowly making their way to smooth over the harsh skin of your stomach. His palms slightly lifting the muscle, you sighing with relief.
"Thank you, Jackie," you said, relaxing into his bare chest and placing a kiss along the expanse of his neck.
"Anytime, sweetheart."
Jokes and stories would be passed back and forth between Jack and the farmhands. Sometimes you laughing so hard your womb shook. Jack's rough hand would settle on your thigh under the table, smirking when he turned to you for your reaction to the most recent prank that was told. The boys consumed the hearty breakfast, praising you for your hard work even while you were pregnant.
Now, you were wobbling towards the goats, their constant bleating filling your ears.
"Yeah? Y'all excited to meet the little one? Our little farmhand?" you asked, sprinkling the feed across the grass. They would all squeal in response.
You were sat there, propped up against the fence. A bottle in your one hand and the other kneading into your warm belly. The kid suckling at the nipple of the bottle, little horns peaking from the hairs resting on the little one's head.
"That's it, I bet you miss your mama, don't you?"
Jack's horse would trail to you, him not even leading, his horse always following, being drawn to you. The horse stood there above you, Jack sitting on her backside. She'd slightly nuzzle you, you chuckling as you palmed her cheek. Standing up, your finger nails scratched further into the horse's fur, him admiring while you watched.
"Just thought we'd check in on you, sweetheart," Jack piped up. "You doing okay?"
"More than okay, Jackie."
You'd pet the horse for a while, patting Jack's thigh when you passed him to go to the chicken coop. He'd steer the horse to follow, obsessed with your unsteady gait as you walked.
"Just gonna watch me now?" you asked, picking up the eggs that nestled in the cubbies.
"Yeah," he laughed, his mouth curving. "Like watching you work.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
It wasn't until he came in while you stirred the brownie batter in the bowl. Him placing kisses along the nape of your neck while he once again hoisted your stomach up.
"Jackie, you gotta stop doing that!"
"Can't help it, doll," he rasped. "You get to feel my daughter all the time. God forbid I wanna hold her too."
Once the men all ate, you would be relaxing in bed, reading another baby book. Jack felt like you and him read a million, almost creating a book club, discussing the contents consistently. You wanted to be prepared, always ready for what you were getting yourself into. Jack plucked the book from your hands, kissing along the thin fabric that settled upon your sternum.
You moaned under his lips, kisses laced upon your shoulders and neck. His hand steady on top of your tummy, the stretchmarks glowing red on your skin. He'd slurp at your neck for a while, and then your swole stomach. Adorning your expanded flesh in hot kisses, his tongue swirling along the marks that rippled through your skin.
He would briefly pull away, shrugging off his shirt and unzipping his jeans. He returned to you, a smile gracing his lips as he kissed you.
You'd sit there, petting at the silver curls, little gasps leaking from your lips. He jerked your hips suddenly, your pregnant body slightly wavering as you settled on top of him. Your belly bare and present in front of him, his hips slightly lifting to shrug off his boxers. Once his cock was free, he drew the inches across your folds. Your clit beckoning for the feel of his length. He teased you for a bit, pumping along your slick center.
The minute he pressed himself into your needy hole, he groaned. Your plump womb bouncing over him, hoping to induce labor with his constant thrusts.
Both nurseries, one in his apartment and one at the farm, were decorated with monograms of the baby's name, little furniture in every part of the room for the tiny creature. Onesies were hanging in the closet, everyone spoiling you with the clothing during your baby shower. Diapers piled high along the walls, the two hospital bags always ready. Once again, one in his apartment, one in the farmhouse.
The bag sitting in the corner of the room at the ready, all while you were riding on top of him. Your hips drawing him further into you.
"Oh, Jackie," you moaned, your stomach slightly tensing. Your hands were placed on the stretched skin while his thick cock rammed into you.
"Yeah? You okay, sweetheart?"
"Mhm, ah—" you hiss, him shifting his hips to meet your spot. "Fuck, baby."
His torso would rise to kiss your plump breasts and your large belly.
"M'sorry, doll," Jack whispered, his breath crossing your skin. "You just look so beautiful, all pregnant and needy like this."
Your hips, moving up and down, your insides encircling and hugging his cock so nicely. The movements were slow, your body so worn that you couldn't keep up.
Slow draws around his cock would Jack to groan, his member jerking inside you.
"Oh, baby, I love seeing you like this," his voice rough with pleasure. "You're so hot, carrying our child— ah—, and— fuck!"
He could hardly keep up as well, just seeing your curvey large body. Fuck, it was too much.
"Jackie, gonna cum—. Oh, fuck!"
"Fuck that's it, sweetheart," Jack heaved. "Just keep riding me, yeah? Keep riding this ole' bull."
The slight roll of your hips did him in, hot spurts lacing your insides. Your own leaking around his cock. He'd hold you for a minute, balancing your soft figure on top of him.
In the coming days, he found himself holding your daughter. His shirt off, meeting the baby skin to skin, slightly bouncing his bicep while she rested in his arms.
You, dark circles decorating your under eyes. Your tummy still swollen from birth. An exhausted smile plastered on your face as you watched your husband hold your little one.
"God, she's so beautiful, sweetheart. You did a good job with her," Jack cooed.
You reached across the arm of the hospital bed, your hand placed along his forearm.
"We did a good job, couldn't have been pregnant without you after all."
The moment the doctor mentioned that you both couldn't have intercourse for six weeks, Jack sighed heavily. He knew he couldn't, he was a doctor of course! However, the minute the words came from the doctor's mouth, reality set in. All Jack wanted was to fuck his brand new mama the minute they put their baby to sleep.
So in that time, you kept busy. You gave your little one a tour of the farm. Jack holding the swaddled child in his arms while you listed off all the names of your animals.
Or even how she'd grow restless, little squeals and cries coming from her mouth. Jack would saddle up, having you hop on while he tried to hush his daughter. The minute you got settled, he'd pass her to you. You both would ride together as the slight bob of the horses gait calmed her down.
"Yeah? You like riding our horsey? I knew you would, my little equestrian."
The minute those six weeks were up, Jack would climb into bed with you. You, all insecure with your flabby belly. Him, constantly placing kisses on the recovering flesh.
"Jackie," you pouted. "M'all ugly now."
"Now you're not, sweetheart," he whispered, placing another kiss. "You did so well, carrying our kid n' all."
As time passed, beyond the moment your daughter took her first steps, said her first word, she became reckless. Always running around wanting to explore everything.
You and Jack would be sat in the grass while she explored the field around the chicken coop.
Jack pulling down the brim of his cowboy hat to shield from the sun, your skirt splayed on the greenery below.
"Mama!" your daughter cheered. "Wook! Chickie!"
You just chuckled, watching as she fumbled with the fluffy feathered chick. Running up to you, showing the little bird off.
"Beautiful, sweetie," you smiled as she placed the chick in your hands.
"Mama, I love chickie."
"I know you do."
She'd take off, sprinting to the coop. You started to get up until Jack placed a hand on your shoulder.
"I got it."
You watched him, slightly faltering while trying to stand on his bum leg. The moment he got up, he took off. Jogging to meet your little one. She was peeking into the little cubbies when Jack's eyes finally landed on her.
"Dada, wook!" She held up an egg to him. "Got an eggy!"
"You do," Jack smirked. "Mighty fine one at that."
In the days ahead, you would return to his apartment in the city. Bouncing your toddler on your hip while you scrambled some eggs on the stove, waiting for Jack to return from his shift.
He'd return, an odd smile on his face after a long shift. You turned to him the minute he crossed into the threshold. Him kissing you and then your toddler, beaming with joy.
"Something happen?" you asked, a nervous feeling bubbling in your stomach.
"I'm retiring," he admitted. "…and we're moving to the farm."
Your shocked look slowly turned into a bright grin.
"Jackie, that's amazing!"
"Can't stand being away from my girls," he said in between sweet kisses on your lips. "I'm finally starting my life with you."
The sun peeked its way through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the bedroom. You were curled up against Andrew’s side, your head resting comfortably against his chest. His arm was wrapped securely around you, keeping you tucked against him as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled your ears.
The soft pitter-patter of little feet approaching the bed made your eyes flutter open.
You looked over to find a pair of big, bright hazel eyes staring up at you sweetly. Your three-year-old stood beside the bed, his little hands gripping the edge of the blankets.
“Hi, Mama,” he giggled softly.
A sleepy smile spread across your face as you reached down and gently cupped his chubby cheeks.
“Good morning, my sweet baby.”
He grinned before lifting his arms toward you, You couldn’t help but smile as you reached down and lifted him onto the bed, settling him carefully between you and Andrew.
Your son immediately curled into your side, his little head resting against your shoulder.
“Did you sleep good?” you whispered.
He nodded sleepily.
“Daddy’s still sleep.” he whispered, glancing over at Andrew.
Andrew was still peacefully asleep, his messy curls falling across his forehead.
Your son’s small hands reached over and gently cupped Andrew’s face.
“Dada?”
Andrew stirred, letting out a quiet, sleepy groan before slowly opening his eyes.
“Mornin’, buddy,” he mumbled, his voice raspy with sleep.
Your son immediately broke into a huge grin.
“Dada!”
Andrew smiled as he reached for him, pulling his little boy against his chest.
Your son giggled as Andrew peppered a few gentle kisses across his cheek, making him squirm and laugh.
“No, that nuff dada!” he squealed through his laughter.
You watched them with a soft smile, your heart feeling impossibly full.
Andrew looked over at you, his sleepy smile growing as he reached out and pulled you closer. His arm wrapped around both you and your son, bringing the three of you together beneath the warm blankets.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s better.”
You rested your head against his shoulder while your son snuggled happily between you both.
Andrew pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
“Hmm?” You glanced up at him.
Andrew looked down at the two of you.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to waking up to this.”
“To what?”
“You.” He said running his thumb over your cheek.
Then he looked down at your son.
“And him.”
He smiled before pressing a tender kiss to the top of your son’s head.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what, Andrew?” you asked softly, placing your hand over his.
“For making me the luckiest man in the world. For giving me everything I’ve ever wanted but never deserved.”
“Andrew…” you whispered, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
You reached up and gently held his face between your hands, pulling him closer until your lips met in a soft kiss.
When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.
“I love you.”
“I love you, both. More than anything.”
Andrew said leaning over and pressing one last gentle kiss to your forehead.
“My kiss?” your son questioned, his little voice breaking the tender moment.
You and Andrew both laughed.
“Of course, baby.” You said.
The two of you turned toward your son, pulling him into your arms and peppering his cheeks with kisses until he squealed with laughter.
He giggled, trying to hide his face beneath the blankets.
Andrew laughed before scooping him up into his arms.
“Come here, you.”
Your son squealed as Andrew playfully lifted him into the air.
He carried your son toward the bedroom door, your little boy giggling as he wrapped his arms around his father’s neck.
You followed behind them, smiling as you watched the two people you loved most disappear down the hallway.
Andrew glanced back at you with a grin.
“You comin’, Mama?”
“Yeah mama, you comin?” Your son repeated looking over Andrew’s shoulder at you with a grin.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” you giggled shaking your head.
in which sammy bryant tries to get you pregnant. like. really tries.
mdni (filthy nasty dirty), based on a dream i had a few nights ago. for @mast3rbait3r who i am leaving once again :c
your legs were sore. and your back. and your shoulders. and your head. but most of all, your cunt. all because you were washing the fucking dishes.
sammy came home a little later than usual. nate had dragged him out to a bar to celebrate before their shared two days off. you didn't mind; you had been able to coordinate your schedules so that your 'weekend' aligned with his. two whole days of blissful married life. maybe you'd take richter to the park and check out that new food truck. the possibilities were endless, really. though, you figured you could probably guess how a majority of your hours would be spent.
you and sammy had been married for a while. long enough to know that, yea, this was gonna work, and that you wanted to add to your new family unit. you did the tests, scheduled an appointment to talk to your doctor about how best to conceive, stopped your birth control, took prenatal vitamins, all of the steps needed. you'd only been officially trying for a few months. but still, you were so excited at the new life that each negative tests made you frown. not for lack of trying, of course. sammy was insatiable about it. and you weren't exactly complaining about having your husband (who was thick in all aspects of his physique) fuck you til your voice was gone every night.
when you heard richter's collar jingle as he dropped from the couch, you knew your husband was home. an invisible tenseness disappeared from your shoulders. he had survived another day and come back home to you. you scrubbed at the sauce-stained pan you had used for dinner, steam curling around you and water pruning your fingers. you ignored the wet splotch that darkened your shirt around your stomach. the stain was really stuck on there and your elbow grease had caused some soapy water to splash against your belly. no big deal. you were planning on getting changed anyway.
you heard sammy greet you. the heavy steps of his shoes on your freshly cleaned floors. you leaned into him when he came into the kitchen and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
"can you take off your shoes? i just mopped." you said absent-mindedly, changing positions to get better leverage for the stain. damn, it was really on there.
"yea, 'course, honey," he murmured, toeing off his shoes and placing them by the table. "i'm gonna shower 'n get ready for bed." you nodded and smiled when he gave you another little kiss.
by the time the pan was sufficiently cleaned, sammy was already in bed. you clicked off the lights and gently nudged richter with your foot. he liked to stay beside you when you were the only one awake. the dog got to his feet and followed you into the bedroom.
sammy was sitting on top of the covers, mindlessly scanning over his monthly magazine that came in the mail that morning. you took a moment to admire the way his shirt stretched around his broad torso before making your way to the bathroom.
"so how was work?" you asked, picking up your pajamas from the floor.
"oh, you know. another day in paradise." he sighed, letting the magazine drop to his lap. "guy we've been looking to arrest for a few weeks got caught on a parking ticket."
"that's good, isn't it?"
"he'll be out again by monday." you gave a disappointed noise for him. you turned to the mirror, watching yourself as you pulled your dampened shirt over your head, tossing it into the hamper before fiddling with the clasp of your pants. when you were only in your underwear, a warm touch to your hips made you jump in surprise. your gaze snapped to sammy.
"sorry," he chuckled with a sheepish grin. "didn't mean to scare you." he took a step closer, fully in your space. his hand spun you to face him. you watched as his eyes drank in your body, and you felt a little self-conscious under his intense stare. it was only a few heartbeats, but it felt like forever. "you're so fucking sexy," he rasped out, voice low and gravelly- the way you liked it, and pupils blown wide.
"really?" your voice was a little shrill. you cast a glance down your front. you were wearing a simple black bra and cream cotton underwear. the kind you could buy in bulk if it didn't have the victoria's secret waistband. mismatched and decidedly not the stuff of fantasies. he nodded with a slackened jaw, eyes fixated on the way your chest rose and fell with each breath.
"really," he breathed, swallowing and licking his lips. his fingers brushed down your sides and played with the waistband of your underwear. "you're so...god, you look so...domestic."
"is that...a compliment?"
"of the highest kind." he pulled you flush against him. you could feel the throbbing of his already-hard cock against your thigh. "you're driving me insane." a smirk played at your lips and you brought a hand to his face, tilting his chin up to face you. you pressed your lips against his and he moaned into your mouth.
you couldn't really remember what happened after that. all you knew was that sammy had made you ride his face (two orgasms), before throwing you down on your back so that you could relax, still tongue-fucking you until your vision was blurry (one more? two more? three?) and then, he finally pulled your legs around his waist and humped into you like an animal, belly colliding against the back of your thighs with every sloppy thrust (another one for good measure). when he finally spilled inside you, filling you so full with his cum that it immediately started to drip down your ass, and you were both gasping for breath, you thought you were done. pleasantly fucked dumb and sleepy. you tangled your fingers in his hair and trailed kisses down his flushed jaw line. sammy snaked an arm under your waist and began to move you. you thought that he was just trying to get into cuddle formation. silly you.
sammy rolled onto his back, tugging you with him until your back was on his chest. you shivered at the sensation of the rapidly-cooling sweat were your skin connected. he planted his feet on the mattress, peaking his knees and situating your legs on the outside of his thighs. he made sure your head lolled back onto his shoulder.
"wh...what are you doing?" you said, barely able to form the sentence. but sammy was much more aware than you. you felt his cock rub through your folds and you let out a keen of overstimulation. you were leaking the combination of your juices. your arousal and his cum coated your pubic hair and inner thighs, pussy puffy and nerves already overworked. but sammy just used two of his fingers to spread your folds apart and gather the liquid. he brought his soaked fingers to your nipples, rolling and pinching. you sucked in a breath. unsure of where to put your hands, they flew behind you, finding a grip in his curls.
"saw it on a forum," he panted, lining himself up with your entrance with the hand not assaulting your tits. "s'posed to get real nice and deep. get right up against there n' reduce the amount of distance my sperm has to travel." he said it so calmly and matter-of-factly. like it was obvious. you wanted to make a quip about scrolling sex forums in his free time, but any remaining wisps of cognition dissipated when he pushed in. your moan was throaty and ruined. "yea," sammy cooed right into your ear, stilling his hips to give you comforting kisses to your temple. "you're doin' so good for me, sweetheart." he began to roll slowly, to try and keep some semblance of control over the burning need that flooded his bloodstream. but it wasn't long before his pace became punishing, his hands, still sticky with your releases, kept a bruising grip on your hips as he fucked you onto his thick cock. sliding you an inch up before plunging you back down to meet his thrusts. you didn't know if you came again. the hot band of arousal seemed to tighten around every part of your being. each of sammy's thrusts punched another breathy whimper from your lungs. your eyes were shut, limbs jelly. truly just allowing yourself to be used by him. "fuck," he hissed, watching where his cock disappeared and re-emerged from your warmth with a new coat of creamy slick. "you feel me in there, hon?" he shifted one of his heavy palms to the center of your abdomen, right below your navel. "that's where i'm gonna fill you full. fuck a baby right into you. right there. fuck- christ- i'm-" his words devolved into needy pants and moans as he felt his orgasm catch him. your body was so hot that you could barely perceive the new gush of warmth that filled you. all you could feel was sammy's chest heaving beneath you and the exertion straining your body.
so, yea, your legs were sore. and your back. and your shoulders. and your wrists. and most of all, your cunt. but all you could do about it was groan as you felt sammy manhandle you into a different position, half-hard cock still standing proudly against your thigh.
genre: jack abbot x attending!reader, rom com, eventual smut nsfw, best friend john shen (sorry i cannot stop writing him as besties. love him down)
the window to have a child is closing and you're done waiting for love to find you first before doing it. naturally, you ask the three men who you feel would be best for the task. the problem? one of them has been in love with you for longer than he's willing to admit.
(a/n: ahhhhhh new fic time guys. been sitting on this one for a minute. truthfully, haven't felt too inspired lately and tbh that's because i've been hella depressed & my physical health hasn't been the best either. anyways, been doing more hobbies and what not to help. but i hope you like this!! i can't say how long it will be, so i'm just going with the flow :) thanks for reading!)
word count: 2000
The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary, and you were elbow deep in suds when you heard Jack's voice carry from the dining room, a little too loud for someone who probably thought he was being subtle. "This is weird, right? Like the vibes are off, I'm not crazy."
Robby just nodded in agreement, not even bothering to disagree.
John, on the other hand, wasn't fazed. "Can't really say. I mean, I live here, so this is kinda my everyday."
Jack cocked his head, visibly confused. "She cooks for you like this every day?"
John laughed. "No way. She's just weird. Always."
"Don't say that." Jack said, shaking his head.
John rolled his eyes. "Whatever, you can't see it past those love glasses you have on."
Jack had the gall to look offended. "I don't have love…whatever."
He was spared only because you were walking in, setting a basket of rolls down on the table. You dropped into your seat and waved a hand at all of them. "Okay, eat."
Conversation came easy the way it always did with the three of them. Robby recounting some disaster with a drunk patient who'd tried to leave AMA in nothing but a hospital gown, John needling Jack about his coffee order, the conversation of people who liked each other more than they let on. But as plates started to empty, you set your fork down and took a breath.
"So, I'm just going to say it." Three heads turned toward you. "Last week I saw a fertility doctor. My window to have a child is closing sooner than I expected. And as you can see" you gestured around the apartment, empty of any partner, any ring, any evidence of a life headed in that direction "I have no partner, which leaves me at a crossroads. I am going to do artificial insemination."
Jack choked on his drink. Robby, unbothered, tilted his head. "You saw David? I'm surprised he got you in for a consult that fast."
You smiled at him. "I told him I'd babysit his kids while he takes his wife out Friday. Bumped me up the list."
Robby shook his head, equal parts amused and unsurprised, and you kept going. "Anyways. After crying in my car about it for a solid twenty minutes, I've narrowed down my list of donors."
You let your eyes drift around the table slowly. "...oh no." John said.
You turned to him, all sweetness. "Oh yes. It's between the three of you. Now, we can all discuss separately, but I wanted to get it out on the table so that whoever's totally against it can move on, and I can choose accordingly."
Jack just stared, mouth open, before he finally sputtered. "I mean..what? No. You're so young. You're gonna find someone and they'll give you a baby. This is crazy."
You couldn't help but laugh a little, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Is it, Jack? My last boyfriend ghosted me after dating for six months. Mind you, he told me he loved me, and we went ring shopping the night before he disappeared. The string of dates I've been on since have all been losers. This is happening on my terms. And it's what I want."
Jack couldn't argue with that. He didn't even try. Robby cleared his throat instead. "I mean, I can't argue with you either, but honey, I'm old. I don't even know if my guys still swim."
"Be so for real, Robby, you are in great shape."
He just shrugged, unconvinced but pleased. You turned to John. "You're being awfully quiet. No retort from the peanut gallery tonight?"
He held up both hands. "No, I'm actually considering it. You're hot, so am I. Our kid would be fucking awesome."
Robby and Jack both groaned in unison, a chorus of ewwwws, napkins flying across the table at John's head. You just laughed and threw an arm around him, pulling him into a hug. Your best friend in the whole wide world. Of course he'd say yes without blinking.
"What would Emma say, though?" you asked, once the napkin assault had died down. Emma, the new nurse, the one John had been stupidly happy about since she started.
"I don't think she'd mind," he said "but I should probably not make any unilateral decisions about fathering your child without asking her first."
You stood and started gathering plates, but Jack was up before you'd even reached for his, taking the stack out of your hands without asking. You grabbed the rest and followed him into the kitchen, leaving Robby and John at the table.
Jack set the dishes in the sink, then turned to face you, leaning back against the counter. "Is this really something you'd want?"
You nodded, and it took you a second to find the words, because the honest answer was bigger than a nod.
You'd wanted to be a mother for as long as you could remember wanting anything. A kid with your stubbornness. You'd built a version of that life in your head at twenty two and again at twenty six and again at thirty one, and every time, you'd handed the blueprint to a man who wasn't ready to hold it. You'd waited through the ones who needed to "find themselves" first, the ones who loved you but not enough to choose you. You were tired of being someone's eventually.
You didn't want to build a family around a man's timeline anymore. You wanted this to be the one thing in your life that happened because you decided it, not because someone else finally got around to agreeing.
"Yeah." you finally said. "I do."
Back in the dining room, John scooted his chair closer to Robby, dropping his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry into the kitchen. "I mean, it's obviously gotta be Jack." he said. "He's in love with her."
Robby just shook his head slowly. "Yeah, well. Her feelings for him aren't exactly platonic either."
John's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Do you know something I don’t?” But before he could push, you and Jack were walking back in, and the conversation died on his tongue.
You clapped your hands together businesslike. "I'm not asking for an answer right now. In fact, take some time. But just know, this would mean the world to me. I think the three of you are more than what I'd find looking for a candidate at a bank. And I'd rather it be someone I already know and trust. You get that, right?"
Three nods. You gave them a small, grateful smile, then turned and headed off toward your room, leaving the three of them alone with considerably more to think about than they'd walked in with.
…
The night air had cooled considerably by the time Robby and Jack made it down to the parking lot, the heat finally letting up now that the sun had been down for hours. Jack unlocked his car , but he didn't get in right away. He just stood there, one hand on the door frame, staring at nothing.
Robby raised an eyebrow over the roof of the car. "You gonna get in, or are we doing this out here?"
"Doing what?"
"Whatever's happening in your head right now. I can hear it from here."
Jack exhaled and finally dropped into the driver's seat. Robby climbed in on the passenger side, and for a second neither of them said anything, the engine ticking as it idled in the cool dark.
"She can't be serious." Jack finally said.
"She seemed pretty serious to me." Robby said as he buckled his seatbelt.
Jack's jaw worked and he just stared out the windshield. "So what, we just..one of us knocks her up and that's that? That's insane. That's not how this is supposed to go for her."
"How's it supposed to go?"
"I don't know. Normal. She meets someone, they fall for each other, they do it the regular way, with.. " he gestured vaguely, "dating, and a proposal, and.."
"You've clearly given this a lot of thought."
Jack shot him a look. Robby just held his hands up, all innocence. "I'm just saying," he continued, "she's not asking anyone to marry her. She's asking for a sample and a signature. That's it. She made that pretty clear."
Jack didn't say anything else. He didn't trust himself to, not with the way his chest had gone tight and stupid the second you'd said his name out loud at that table, lumped in with two other men like he was just an option on a list instead of whatever it was he actually wanted to be to you.
…
After he dropped Robby off at his house, Jack went home to stew.
When he asked you if that’s what you really wanted, he'd wanted, so badly, to close the distance between you right there against the kitchen counter and tell you that he'd give you anything you wanted, that he'd give you all of it. Not a sample in a cup, not a signature on a form, but the whole thing, the ring shopping and the nursery and the 3 a.m. feedings, if you'd just let him.
He hadn't said any of that. Of course he hadn't. He'd just stood there like an idiot and let you walk away.
The thing was, he'd known for a while now. Months, if he was honest, which he wasn't particularly in the habit of being with himself on this subject.
He'd known it the night you'd shown up at his door with soup because you'd heard secondhand he had the flu, standing there in sweatpants and no makeup at eleven at night, telling him you weren't staying, you just didn't trust him to feed himself properly, and then somehow ending up on his couch for two hours anyway, arguing with him about a movie neither of you were really watching.
He'd known it every single time the two of you went toe to toe in the middle of a trauma bay, both of you too stubborn to back down, and somehow he came out the other side of the argument wanting to laugh instead of throttle you, which had never once happened to him with another human being in his entire life.
It added up, until one day he'd looked at you across a nurses' station and understood that he was in love with you and had been for a while.
And now you wanted a baby. Not with him, necessarily but a “donor” and the worst part, the part he kept circling back to and hating himself for, was that some ugly, jealous corner of his mind had already started doing math. John was out, probably, if Emma had anything to say about it. That left him and Robby.
He loved the guy like a brother, but the idea of watching Robby's kid grow up calling you Mom while Jack stood on the sidelines being Uncle Jack made his stomach curdle.
The truth was simple, even if he wasn't ready to say it out loud to anyone, least of all you. He didn't want to be your donor.
He wanted to be your person.
He just had absolutely no idea how to say that to a woman who'd just told him that she'd rather go to a bank than wait around for a man to get his act together.
He was starting to worry he might be exactly the man she meant.
and just need yall to know this picture inspired this fic lolllll
You and Jack used to hookup frequently. You guys met at the bar a few years back and had what you thought would be a one night stand but realized soon after you two couldn’t stay away from each other for too long.
You guys had attempted a relationship once or twice but realized you wouldn’t be able to make it work- you struggled to handle Jack’s long hours and he struggled to give his hours up. The two of you decided to keep it casual and let whatever happen, happen.
It turned out you guys put a little bit too much trust into the universe and a few weeks after a hookup, you started to wake up vomiting and nauseous at anything you’d smell.
Surely you were just sick, right? You and Jack were… careful to an extent and as you sat in the toilet with your head in your hands, pregnancy test on the counter, your last hookup flooded into your mind. Of course he had a condom on but you were insatiable.
Jack was the first person you called, obviously. You felt bad for doing it while he was at work, but if you had to deal with this knowledge now, so did he. He picked up the FaceTime with a giant smile, the smile nearly immediately falling as you held up the positive test in silence.
Maybe the hormones were already getting to you, but when he asked if it was his, you nearly flipped out on him. Well, you fully did but he was completely understanding, watching you with a smile as you apologized for telling him he was a stupid fucking idiot, you think I’m just sleeping around?
You had begged him not to leave work and that you just needed to tell him, but you should’ve known better after ending the call that the giant smirk he had on clearly meant I’ll be there in twenty.
He pulled up to your place as fast as he could and never left your side after.
Jack was there for every part of your pregnancy, he was there at every appointment, there for every early morning and late night puke, shaved your legs when you got too big to do it yourself, waited on you hand and foot during your baby shower (that the night shift had put together all on their own), and held your hand tight as you gave birth to your beautiful daughter.
He was there for you postpartum, took the time off of work and everything to make sure you were taken care of and had the support you needed. No matter how much you insisted he didn’t need to help, he’d wave you off with a crazed look as he did your laundry, cooked your meals, and cleaned your house.
By the time your daughter was six months old, you and Jack had become closer after all of the time you spent together. You guys were working so well that you decided to give each other another shot.
You tried the relationship again and it had gone much better than the first time around but then the late nights and midday work emergency phone calls started happening again. You were able to hold on just a little bit longer, but the stress and annoyance of still never knowing if he was truly available started to get to you. Jack always made time for your daughter and that’s really all you could ever ask for, just not in a significant other.
So, after a long fight when he got off of an unscheduled shift, you decided once again to break things off. The two of you realized your daughter needed happy parents and that’s wouldn’t be achieved in a relationship.
Once again you guys were single as her first birthday rolled closer and as always, it never changed a thing. You two were still two peas in a pod who just happened to have a kid.
Planning her birthday party was a feat of its own. Every balloon, birthday cake design, party hat, and streamer choice had you sobbing into your hands in bittersweet emotion. You couldn’t believe your baby girl was a year old already! Time had flown right by and before you know it she would be going into kindergarten and then graduating highschool and then going to college and then-
Jack had to stop the spiral before you flooded the grocery store with tears.
Jack was at your house for the few days leading up to babygirl’s party. Between setting up and making all the appetizers and a crazy baby who just learned how to use her own two feet, you were swamped and the only thing that helped you push through was Jack. He made all the calls and invitations, picked up whatever last minute supplies you needed, and even took babygirl out for a few hours when all you wanted to do was put up some streamers without the little gnaws and cries.
The house was soon a little wonderland of pink and sparkles and when the party finally arrived, no one was suprised to see Jack’s arm wrapped tightly around you as you greeted your guests.
The party was honestly a bit more lively than expected for a one year olds birthday, but everyone was having a great time. Your families mingled in one space, having grown closer since the birth of your little ladybug while what seemed like the entirety of PTMC gathered in every other space possible.
Thanks to Jack (and all of the other doctors who wouldn’t give up the baby for anything), you were able to actually enjoy the party yourself and celebrate your babygirl without having a million other tasks to do in between. You ignored all the knowing glances when it was time to blow out the candles and Jack held your weeping body, pressing soothing kisses into the top of your head as your daughter plowed through her little smash cake.
Soon, the night came to an end and the three of you waved bye to everyone between all of her new and exciting toys. You guys let her play around as you picked up what was left, laughing and reminiscing about the past year you’ve had with her. Your heart began to ache a bit as you got her ready for bed, thankful for the relationship you had with Jack but still wishing you could’ve made it work a little better.
You watched with fond eyes as he kissed babygirl’s temple and lowered her sleeping body into the crib. He snuck out quietly, shutting the door with a soft click.
The two of you had lingered by the top of the steps for a moment, his goodbye hanging heavy in the atmosphere. Your body must’ve known better than you about what was going to happen next because the was absolutely no element of surprise when Jack leaned in and locked his lips with yours.
His hands found your waist and yours locked around his neck right after. You only stood in the hallways for a few moments before your feet walked you right into your bedroom, the two of you hardly disconnecting from each other as you moved.
You know you should’ve known better and been more careful but the feelings that have been bottling and boiling up since the last time you slept together burst out at the same moment, and as you laid there after Jack took control of your body in the exact way it needed you couldn’t help but feel guilty at the lack of regret you had.
You woke up the next morning wrapped up in each others arms and finished cleaning up from the party, Jack giving your babygirl all the love he could before he had to leave and get ready for his next few shifts. He didn’t leave without placing a big, wet kiss on your lips, laughing at your groan as you wiped off the excess saliva from your mouth.
That kiss carried you out until the next time you saw Jack a few weeks later, this time holding your hand as you sat on your bathroom counter holding up another positive pregnancy test with big smiles plastered all over your faces.
Synopsis: 18+ MINORS DNI! Jack’s sweet girl has come down with a case of baby fever. Thankfully, Dr. Abbot has just what she needs. Inspired by Juno by Sabrina Carpenter.
Content: porn w/ essientially no plot, afab!reader, reader & jack have body hair, daddy kink, mommy kink, breeding kink, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, overstimulation, dumbification, sticky sweet lovemaking (ew), not proof read
A/N: not proofread bc I'm lazy, but i'm ovulating and that new shawn hatosy photoshoot got me feeling some type of way. short but i hope y’all enjoy!
Jack Abbot, above all else, was a man who got shit done. So when he told you about Baby Jane Doe, and you mentioned how you had stopped taking your birth control, you should’ve known he’d make good on his promise to give you a baby.
You just assumed that he would wait a little longer than 5 fucking minutes to try and give you one.
He had you folded like a damn lawn chair against the couch, and honestly you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Knees to your chest, soft belly folding in on itself, your swollen tits piled up on your chest. Your hips ache from the stretch, you never wanted it to stop.
Jack was hypnotized looking at the sight before him. His sweet girl, all pliant and needy just the way he’d been craving all shift. Her skin slick and shiny with sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead, her beautiful breast rising and falling from the amount of times he’d made her cum already.
You look like an angel, and Jack makes sure that you know it.
“Fuck pretty girl, look at you.” He breathed out. “You look just about good enough to eat.”
You had that glazed look in your eye, the look you saved just for him. Heat thrummed under your skin like a live wire, nipples hard and heart racing, everything he did turned you on more and more by the second.
“Nnngh.”
Nice. Real coherent. You think that while trying to conceive a whole ass baby you’d come up with something a little more poetic. Jack’s cock has never been good at making you smarter. He smirks at that.
“Oh, baby, you’re drooling everywhere. Such a dumb little thing for Daddy’s cock.”
While he was just as eager as you were, Jack knew everything that made you tick. Every coax of his thick fingers had made you cum twice already. If he was going to give you the baby you always wanted, he was gonna make sure this moment was unforgettable. Even if you turned into a drooling, needy brat every time he made you come undone.
“Daddy… please,” you begged.
“I know baby I know. I'm gonna make you a mommy. Be patient, pretty girl.”
His hand gripping the base of his cock, Jack’s thumb and pointer finger guides his tip as Jack takes his sweet sweet time tapping the leaking head against your puffy folds. He maneuvers his cock through the folds, up and down agonizingly slow, just to pull out that sweet high pitched mewl only he can draw from you.
“Daddy please please I need it. Need you to fill me up. Please Daddy I wanna be a mommy,” you plea, hoping your pathetic whimpers will breakdown his will power and give you what you want.
Jack lets out a humorous laugh before leaning over you, pushing your knees to be an inch closer to you head than they were previously.
You gasp at the weight of him on top of you, his strength making your thighs shake in anticipation.
His cock slaps against you with his every movement. The honey sweet smack of your bodies barely touching over and over is as dizzying as it is infuriating. Your fingers leave crescent indents on your thick thighs as you close your eyes and use every bit of self control to not cum again. Not before Daddy gives you permission.
“Nuh uh. Keep your eyes open for me.”
He cups your face as you sleepily attempt to follow his directions, belligerently and thoroughly cock drunk. He lightly smacks your drool covered cheek, smiling as you finally wake back up.
“That’s it. You’re such a good Mommy aren’t you?”
You bite your lip, moaning as your back arches at his words. Your pussy was basically crying from how overstimulated and eager you were, your thighs a sticky mess. You can feel your creamy hole drooling for even an inch of his length.
Jack being the tease that he is, lets the ridge of his tip catch onto your opening as his drags his cock up towards you one last time.
A high pitch squeal leaves your lips, making you breathless. You wiggle your hips subconsciously, before Jack corrects you.
“Shush, stay still for me baby, I’m not going anywhere. Daddy’s gonna give you want you need.”
Finally, Jack smoothed his large hands over the back of your thigh, just as he lines up his flushed cock with your weeping hole. In a sudden move, Jack buries himself inside of you.
“Fuuuuck,” you both exhaled as he rolled his hips and filled you to the hilt.
“God, you feel amazing, baby girl. You were made to take my cock.”
Your calves rested on his large freckled shoulders, his sweat covered curls bouncing with every thrust. Jack’s graying public hair touched your glistening cunt, making a mess of you both as your hair mats to your skin. You feel every vein, every pump of cum waiting to be released the moment he enters you.
The slap of his balls against your ass is music to your ears.
“I love you so much Daddy.”
Jack speeds up only to rub his thumb over your throbbing clit, cooing at the way you clench around him at the feeling. A string of your arousal connects to his thumb as he releases the pressure on your clit.
“I love you too honey, you’re gonna be the best Mommy.”
He takes his pointer and middle finger to rub unhurried circles on your clit once more, before dragging them down your folds and onto his cock while he continues to pound into you.
“Look how good you take it.”
You look down at where you touch, eyes welling up at the sight.
He strokes his cock for a moment while fucking you, only to rub your clit again to ease you through the sensation. His wedding band is covered in your mixed juices. He decided in that moment that he’d marry you all over again if he could.
He looms over you until your tummies are pressing against one another, his calloused hand brushing you hair away from your face. He kisses your tears away before pressing a kiss against your bit swollen lips. He flicks his tongue against your lips, licking into your mouth the minute you open up for him.
Every grunt that came from Jack made you clench around him a little tighter, as you feel the coil in your stomach get closer and closer to sending you to the edge. Jack notices immediately, smiling into the wet kiss.
“God, you love it like this, don’t you?” He murmured into your flushed skin.
“Yes Daddy, can feel you everywhere. Can feel you right here, fuck!”
You grab his hand and move it to the bulge in your stomach. He pressed just enough to make you gasp, your nails immediately going to mark up his back and shoulders.
“Ohhhh my baby I know. It’s ok. Cum one more time for me, I know you’ve got it in you.”
“Daddy, please cum with me. Gonna make a baby together.”
You were trying to kill him. He was sure of it. The most perfect girl in the world was folding as his every command, begging him to give her a baby. He couldn’t possibly deny her, even if he wanted to.
So with a squeeze of his heart, and a final drive into your warm womb, he gave you every last drop of his cum.
Your vision filled with stars as pleasure washed over you both, leaving you reeling at the warm pooling of his cum inside of you. You pulled him on top of you as he moaned, relishing in the connection you felt with your husband.
After a few silent moments of sweet kisses and wiping away each other's tears, Jack moves to sit up.
You whine at that, obviously.
“Noooo…” you protest quietly.
Jack rubs your clit once making you jolt at the sensitive bud, making him chuckle.
“It’s ok baby, Daddy’s got you. Gotta make sure it sticks, yeah?”
You nod, trusting him completely.
Slowly, he removes his softening cock from you, only to tilt your hips vertically, holding you there so not an ounce of him leaks out. You take it a step further, pushing two fingers into yourself, despite the ache, just for extra protective measures.
Jack’s head hangs for a minute in disbelief, licking his lips before speaking.
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