The concept of Jack Abbot being a cowgirl kind of man 🫣
Walk with me here !!
The poor guy spends all day (night, I guess) on his feet, lifting people from gurneys, running through the ER like a headless chicken, standing through long surgeries, rarely getting enough time to breathe, let alone actually sit down. He's no spring chicken, either!
He's reaching an age where the greys popping up near his temples can't be blamed on stress anymore, and his knees protest a little when he bends down to properly look at patients. He's not old, but he's definitely not getting any younger.
His girlfriend, however...
No issue. No knee problems, no achy back or stiff shoulders, fit as a fiddle from having been repeatedly dragged to the gym with him.
A benefit he's too tired not to reap when she offers (requests, really) to go on top. He puts his body through enough shit, literally nightly. The least she can do is let him hit without it having to be another workout.
Admittedly, he doesn't like the idea at first. Feels bad for making her put in the work, just because he's too tired - plus, he likes watching her relax, enjoys seeing the satisfaction he can bring her with his hands and his mouth, and eventually his cock.
That reluctance flies out of the window the moment he realises the view he's been missing this whole time. Truly, just the sight of her on top, tummy flexing with the effort of each roll of her hips, tits bouncing, eyes narrowed in concentration, it's nearly enough to finish him off on the spot.
It's like a fucking reward at the end of a long, gruelling shift, just being able to watch as his gorgeous, perfect girl rides him, takes what she wants and looks so ridiculously good doing it. It honestly makes him mad that they didn't do it sooner.
Everyone knows Dr Abbot is married, purely due to the ring on his finger, and the very, very rare slip-up mentions of his 'Mrs', who remains nameless, mysterious, and yet to be seen by literally a single one of his coworkers.
That's what they think, anyways.
Of course, they have no idea that the young thing that comes in at least once a week with the silliest bumps and scratches is said Mrs.
They think she's just some silly girl with a crush, finding excuses to come and see him each and every time she insists on only being looked at by a quietly amused, if not slightly disgruntled Doctor Jack Abbott.
The age difference alone is enough for them not to suspect otherwise.
In fact, it's become a running joke, Jack and his little fangirl, coming into triage with silly bruises and clumsy cuts, just so that she can be seen by their objectively handsome senior attending.
At one point, he's asked what his wife would think, if she knew of the little thing who's so insistent on being seen to by him.
Which, he simply laughs off.
Only if they knew.
Also, nine times out of ten, the mysteriously acquired injuries aren't even real. They're just a way to bring Jack a coffee and snack that he'd forgotten on the kitchen counter at home in his rush to work.
Not a word on my English pretty please, I've lowkey forgotten how to write in it!!!! and write period!!! so many languages and so little room in my silly little brain!!
I knooow for sure that Simon ends up leaving the forces and rescuing a retired K9 upon the recommendation of his (very much mandated) therapist but also like,
When he ends up settling in a place somewhere more rural, that just so happens to have a scraggly, feral stray cat beneath the porch, it's not like he can just leave it to starve, right??
But he's totally insistent upon the fact that he doesn't like cats. They're lazy and moody and bring dead sparrows to his doorstep as some sort of fucked up hazing ritual, staking their claim on his house.
Plus, he already has a dog. He doesn't need anything more to worry about. One pet is one pet too many, in his opinion.
His line of work has instilled the belief that too many dependents - any dependents - are a weakness.
The dog is manageable. Takes himself out in the yard to do his business, spends most of his time on the porch swing eyeing up birds on the feeder Simon had installed with a sense of utter mortification at how middle aged he'd become.
Started barking at something under the porch a few weeks ago, and has been driving Simon mad with it since.
When Simon sees the cat a few days later, he looks at the little shit with nothing but exasperation.
It's been leaving dead things on the doormat, and he swears that the shredded cushions of his singular piece of outdoor furniture have fallen victim to tiny claws.
But, no matter how reluctant he is, or how much he tells himself to leave it alone in the hopes that it'll find someone else to bother, he can't just leave it to starve.
Not with the end of the warm weather coming up.
He's very familiar with the cold - and the fact that small things, weak things, don't survive it.
The tin of tuna he puts down on the front doormat is nothing.
It means nothing. Just doing the right thing.
Maybe If he feeds the cat, it'll be on its way.
Rookie mistake, really.
He ends up buying a bag of cat food a week later. He doesn't know fuck all about cats, and the aisle at the supermarket is too vast in selection for feeding such a small thing.
He figures kitten food for outdoor cats should be fine.
But the weather turns, quick. Colder than expected.
The part of him that cares too much for fragile things nags him, incessantly. Until he ends up catching the cat by the scruff of the neck (and gaining a fair few scratches) to bring inside.
The internet mentions flea baths and heating pads - even a warm towel from off of the radiator should be enough. Wet food, too. Easier for them to eat when they've not yet learned how to.
He'll take it to a shelter at some point. He promises himself that.
Even if it would be a shame to see it go. It's been a pain in his ass for such a long time, it almost feels like a part of his routine.
And, beneath the dirty, flea ridden fur, and crackly meowing, it's actually quite cute.
Sure, it's far too skinny, and seems to think that his forearms are a scratching post every time he picks it up, but he feels a reluctant sort of fondness for the thing.
Plus, the shelter is overrun with strays, and he can't exactly picture anyone having a ball of mismatched, noisy fur as their dream pet.
He tells himself that keeping the cat is good for catching mice. Maybe it'll keep the dog entertained.
It certainly does for him, no matter how exasperated he pretends to be with the incessant meowing for food, or the fact that it insists on sleeping right next to his head, purring like helicopter blades.
Of course, he's still a dog person. He still thinks cats are impossibly annoying and very good at doing what they're not supposed to do. It just so happens that he likes his cat regardless.
Thiiiiiinking (a lot!!) about Dr Jack Abbott returning home from the nightshift at the crack of dawn to his partner still asleep in their shared bed.
When he comes home from shift, he's halfway torn between sheer, broken exhaustion and relief that another one is done.
He can't resist sliding into bed beside them, heavy with fatigue syrupy in his muscles, warm and thick and faintly desperate. Maybe it's the stress, maybe just gratitude at seeing them again. Being apart always makes twelve hours seem like a lifetime.
He can hardly help himself when they stir, when they offer up some quiet sound hinting at the beginning of wakefulness, ass pressing just right against his crotch. Twelve hours is truly such a long time to be apart when their legs seem to spread around for his hand like instinct.
He fingers them awake like a ritual - it is. Every morning, his something sweet after nights filled with the bitter choke of antiseptic and the sterile, revolving clamour of patients and death and life and chaos.
It's slow and languid and so, so satisfying when he falls asleep with a thick arm slung heavy around their waist, a hand on their stomach feeling the slow, rise and fall of their breath and the assurance that in their bedroom, there's still life and peace and the smell of clean linen.
Dr Jack Abbot is the shittest cook ever to have stepped in a kitchen of all time.
For all of his capabilities, his rigorous medical training, and the fact that he's a highly qualified emergency surgeon who saves literal lives on the daily, that man unequivocally cannot cook.
In fairness, military canteens and working a job where time to eat is a luxury have always meant that he's never really needed to know much beyond the basics, and now, when he's paid more than enough for his lifestyle, Uber Eats and Doordash are one of the twelve apps on his busted iPhone.
Though, when his partner moves in with him, he has to come to terms with just how terrible he is at it, and quick. A senior resident, veteran and middle aged man almost setting the stove (which he's never used) on fire to cook an egg is truly one of the most mortifying moments in his entire life. Which is saying a lot.
Having tried to bring them breakfast in bed (once) was enough to put him on a permanent ban from the kitchen for reasons better left unsaid.
For someone so intelligent, the failure to discern cayenne pepper powder from smoked paprika is sincerely concerning.
Fortunately, his partner is not entirely culinarily incompetent, and Doordash is no longer his primary source of spending each month.
Can you tell I've been listening to the Shawn Hatosy Quinn series guys 😛
