Here's another attempt at the Art Nouveau style, of course, with Carlos. I like that style and the compositions you can create. The symmetry and all that satisfying stuff. 🤌
It's also an attempt at coloring pieces like that, which is a work in progress. I still need to practice to figure out how to make it work.
Pairing / Character(s): Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader
Some days you just wanna go home. Unfortunately, there’s still shit to do. And when you finally make it home — Jack’s already on the porch.
warnings: concussion, minor injury, exhaustion, police procedural nonsense
The precinct smells of stale coffee and feels strangely abandoned. Sergeant Wolf is the only officer at the front desk and even the bullpen sits empty. You head straight over to where she’s typing, as if the keyboard had personally offended her.
“Sergeant Wolf?” you inquire.
She stops typing and looks up. “Officer Morgan, you cleared?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a concussion and a graze. Doctor told me to take it easy for the rest of this shift.”
“So, she got you with that knife. You’re justified to go home,” she makes it sound like an offer. But you’re not stupid enough to take it. The story about the last fool who did is still being told to every newbie on their first shift.
“And make you write my reports? I think I’ll pass.”
“Wise choice. Take tomorrow off though,” and her tone of voice makes it clear it’s an order.
“Not gonna say no to that. You’ve an Advil for me?” Your head still hurts, as Jack had not offered you any pain meds.
“Sure, take what you need.” She puts a pill and water bottle on the counter, angling her head to get a look at your bruised temple.
While you fish two out, you ask her, “Any more surprises with my detainee?”
“Well, she’s out on 200 k of bail,” she shrugs her shoulders.
“How? She didn’t even give us her name!” You reel back at the news, before continuing, “And for bail she would’ve had to have been processed.” You hurry to take the pills and swallow them down.
“Name’s Coleen Fernandez apparently and her lawyer showed up at the hospital with the bail order,” Sergeant Wolf grimaces.
“Wow, she must be someone special.” You can feel your eyebrows going for your hairline and flinch at the sharp sting from your bruise.
“Hm,” she nods and stows the Advil.
You take that as the dismissal it is and make your way down to evidence.
The last lamp on the stairs is still flickering. It has been for the last two weeks. Though since last week there’s a note pinned to the wall, halfway down the steps, reading in print: “Maintenance has been notified.” Now, a handwritten line is added: “The light fixture has been ordered.” You smirk and move on, wondering what will appear there next week. Reaching “The Underbelly”, as the downstairs area housing the evidence lookup and the handful of techs has been labelled, you turn right. After opening the heavy metal door, you whistle.
“One sec,” a voice answers through the speaker.
The tiny room is packed. On three walls shelves reach up to the ceiling. Multiple screens line the wall in front of a desk. And there’s just enough space left for the metal desk and the gaming chair. Sitting down on the edge of Micki’s desk you look down at the sealed RFD-bag in your hand. Your head snaps up at the sound of door hinges screeching before Micki appears in the doorway to your left.
“What brings my wounded Heron?”
“Something that fell out of my detainee’s hair and looks like a pill but isn’t.” You hand over the bag.
Micki taps your thigh, “And this time you managed to bag it properly. I knew you could do it.”
Is he ever going to let you off the hook on that? You tease him a little, “You let me know what you find, Micky Mouse?”
“Careful Heron or I’ll add to your injuries.”
“You’ve a bad day too?”
He takes a noisy breath, “EVERY SINGLE phone they brought me was neither turned off or put in an RFD-bag. So, by the time I got them – they were wiped. And then I get asked why I wasn’t able to produce any leads!?”
“Man, that sucks.”
“You tell me. On the upside, I’m free now. Wait a minute and I’ll tell you where you can buy this.” He waves the bag and disappears back into his lab.
You deliver the knife and the lockpicks into evidence, before going back up to the bullpen. Your report isn’t gonna write itself. Thinking about it, you consider if you should find out the name of the officer, who did the incomplete search. You could ask Sergeant Wolf. But thankfully, pointing fingers is someone else’s job. In this case likely hers and knowing her that officer’s Sergeant has already gotten a call. Ugh, your brain definitely took a hit.
By the time you filled out the basic info on the report by copying it from the warrant, the Advil has kicked in. You take out your notebook to make sure the report and your notes are synced, as your cell phone rings.
“Hey, Micki.”
“I’ll be damned. Your pill is a tracker. And not the made in China kind.”
“Meaning she got it where?”
“Either one of the letter agencies or the black market.”
“Can you narrow it down further?”
“I’ll try but don’t pin your hopes on it.”
“Thanks.”
“Any time, Heron.”
You’ve just reached the hospital scene in your report, when you’re interrupted from behind.
“Where is my evidence?” A voice snarls.
Swinging around with your chair you find Detective Fowler standing close enough he had to step back when you turned.
“Excuse me Detective?” you keep your tone casual.
“The evidence you took of the detainee – hand it over,” Fouler is punctuating the last three words.
“I already have. Everything confiscated from my detainee is in evidence,” you reply calmly.
“Get it back,” he barks. “I need that now! The phones were useless.”
“Detective Fowler, the evidence has been properly processed. If you want custody, you’re free to sign it out.”
“You signed it in. We both know I’d need a supervisor's signature for that.”
“Well, if your request is justified, I don’t see a problem with that.”
“It’s MY evidence in MY case.”
Oh, now you’re done being polite. “And I did MY part. You know how to get your evidence. Have a nice day.” You turn your chair and go back to your report.
Fowler is nearly growling in your neck, “You’ll regret this, officer.”
That’s when you realise the “Pill” is with Micki – not in evidence – and hope Fowler isn’t going to check. You’ll have to ask Sergeant Wolf before you leave in the morning.
It’s only 6:40 am when you leave the precinct. Sergeant Wolf told you to leave early, as you have to stop by headquarters and turn your damaged shirt and jacket in. You could have done that tomorrow, but you’re too exhausted to argue.
Sitting down in your car you grimace; it’s ice cold since it has been sitting in the lot for a day and a half. You turn the heat to maximum, even knowing by the time you reach your first stop the car will only be marginally warmer.
The slightly sleepy quartermaster takes your damage report and the clothes for disposal without a fuss. Great. Now you just have to go online and order new ones and pick them up and remember to put your name plate and service stripes on the new jacket.
Despite the music blaring from the speakers and the partially open window you drive home on autopilot. Parking in your usual spot you notice Jack’s Jeep sitting across the street. You check the time: 7:35 am. He said, he would be here at 8. So much for getting a moment to yourself.
Jack’s waiting on the porch of your grandparent’s house a bag from a local bakery in his left hand. He’s wearing a thick, brown jacket over an olive-green fleece shirt, black cargo pants and combat boots. His eyes are tracking your elderly neighbour Mr. Peter as he sweeps the sidewalk. It must be Saturday. Jack turns towards you when you reach the property line.
He holds both hands up the paper bag dangling in his left, “I’m not gonna argue with you this morning — just let me stay.”
Your eyebrows rise and you flinch again; the Advil is wearing off.
“Morning, Jack,” you greet him with a nod. When you reach the front door, you unlock it. “Fine, come in.” You hold the door open and lock it after him.
A quick flick of the light switch illuminates the entryway. The rest of the old house is dark and cold. All the shutters are down to keep the cold out and the heaters have manual thermostats. You both shed your jackets and shoes by the door. Jack hangs his jacket over your leather one after a moment of hesitation, since all three hooks are occupied. You hang yours over your raincoat.
As you make your way to the kitchen, Jack follows you silently. The light comes on with a low hum. Jack drops into the chair on the far side of the kitchen table. Sighing at the state of the worn formerly white cabinets you pull out two plates. When the shine from the old hanging lamp dims, you give it a tap with your free hand. Jack’s hand shoots up to stop you.
“You want to get zapped?”
You put the dishes down and tap the glass of the lamp with your fingernails, “It’s glass, so no zapping.”
Jack looks unimpressed.
“Do you want tea, too?”
“If it’s herbal.”
“Anis, Peppermint or Ginger?”
“Ginger, please.”
After prepping the two cups and setting the kettle to boil you go upstairs to the bedroom.
You return with the bundle of clean clothes cradled under your arm. Your service weapon is now stored in the safe and your badge back in your wallet. Jack hasn’t moved from the kitchen table. He’s stretched his legs out, head leaned back, eyes closed, the bakery bag beside him. You set your bundle on the counter, careful not to disturb the cups by the stove.
As the kettle clicks you measure out two scoops of loose ginger tea, drop them into the waiting mesh balls and pour the water. You set a timer on your phone for five minutes. Since the main bathroom upstairs is a construction site, you turn on the space heater in the guest bathroom. Rubbing your eyes you decide to use the last three minutes to stow the unused coats from the hooks in the wardrobe under the stairs. You stop the timer before the alarm can sound and fish the mesh balls out.
“Jack? Tea’s ready.”
He sits up immediately and takes the warm mug you offer him.
“Thank you.”
Checking the pastry bag he brought, you find two bacon and egg rolls and place them on the plates.
“You want yours warm?”
“Please.”
After a minute in the microwave, you both tuck into your breakfast with the speed you develop if you’re always waiting for the next emergency to pull you away. Looking at your clothes on the counter you realise Jack hasn’t brought anything.
“Jack, are you staying tonight?”
He looks at you puzzled, “That’s the plan.”
“You didn’t bring a bag.”
“It’s in the car. I wasn’t sure about my welcome.”
You nod and smirk, “You’re welcome to stay. You’ll have to shower after me though. The stall barely fits one at a time.”
He nods and after breakfast he brings in his backpack as you take a quick shower.
You wrap the towel around you and try to look at your bruise in the fogged mirror, which is pretty useless, so you towel-dry your hair avoiding the sensitive area. Stepping into the hallway you close the bathroom door to keep the warmth and steam in. Jack’s crutches lean on the wall beside his open, camouflaged backpack.
Jack himself is at the kitchen table again. He has cleared it, spread out medical supplies on the surface and positioned a chair across from him. He waves you over, “Come, let me check you and redress that cut.”
Obediently you plop into the offered seat and place your arm on the table. Jack cleans the wound and adds an antiseptic cream.
“Any nausea?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“How’s your headache?”
“Noticing the Advil wore off.”
“Yeah, take some Ibuprofen. It works as an anti-inflammatory too.”
He hands you a pill and a bottle of water.
You swallow the pill down, while he redresses your arm. When he gets up, you inform him, “I’ll be upstairs. Bedroom is behind the left door.”
Jack nods and takes his things into the bathroom.
You go to sort out your bedroom. Your laundry bag for uniform shirts and pants goes into the wardrobe, half-read books move onto the nightstand and your go bag joins the laundry bag. Taking a look around you check if anything else needs to be cleared. You decide to push the bed two feet over to your side, since there’s not much space between the bed and the wall on the other side.
Pushing the bed back so it sits straight against the wall you hear the tapping of Jack’s crutches coming up the stairs.
He enters the bedroom and takes a seat on the bed. On your side of the bed. The one by the door.
“Jack? That’s my side.”
He turns to look at you, “At my place you slept on the side by the window.”
“Because I was in your home. And here the gun safe is on the side by the door.”
“Jesus. Fine. I’ll scoot over.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m off tomorrow. You on?”
“No, Sergeant ordered me to stay home,” you can’t help your annoyance slipping through.
Jack gives you a small smile, “Sleeping in it is.”
And after he scooted over, you both settle into sleep to the constant clicking of the old radiator and the birds chirping outside.
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This is the SFW adaptation of the original Between Always and Never series posted on my main blog. The original version contains explicit sexual content and additional intimate scenes. Storyline, character dynamics and overarching plot remain consistent between both versions.
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
Pairing / Character(s): Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader
What starts as a quiet day off turns into a reminder that some things don’t stay outside the front door.
warnings: racism, police procedural nonsense
So, that’s what you get for insisting on your side of the bed. You wake up half hanging over the edge of it. Your left leg already touching the floor. The cold wood floor. Thanks Jack. During the night he must have scooted over and pushed you to the side further and further.
Well, since half of your body is already cold, you pad downstairs to use the bathroom. Blinking against the onslaught of midday sunshine you check the clock in the hallway. It shows 11:30 am. Great! You consider your options and shuffle back upstairs. Getting back into bed on the side Jack has vacated. It takes a while until you’ve warmed up enough to fall asleep again.
Next, you wake to the smell of coffee. You blink, rub your face and find a coffee mug beside you on the nightstand. Turning to the other side you find Jack leaning against the headboard reading ‘I’ll teach you how to be rich’. Why would he read that? Your copy sits on your nightstand, but why would Jack...Your eyes search for the book, which isn’t where you left it.
“Jack, why are you reading my book?”
“It looked interesting.”
“Is it?”
“Partially.”
“Thanks for the coffee.” You lean over to take your water bottle from beside the bed. Only to remember Jack took over your side.
“Would you pass me the water, please?”
“Sure. Morning by the way.” He hands you the bottle.
“Morning,” you drink half the water down and notice Jack’s already wearing his prosthetic.
“Did I push you out of bed?”
“Yeah, do you tend to do that?” you’re more curious than angry. He could have warned you.
“No... Not...it’s been years since I’ve done that. Sorry,” his voice is quiet.
“Okay. So, workout before lunch?” You feel awake enough now to get through your HIT routine.
“Sounds good.”
After throwing on your workout clothes you head down to the basement, Jack in tow. The improvised home gym is an ice-box as there’s no heat down here. So, in winter you had motivation to actually move with minute breaks and during summer you get to enjoy the more moderate temperatures. The equipment is a mix made by opportunities. The newest piece being your rowing machine from the last Black Friday shopping at Dick’s Sporting Goods. And the oldest the weight bench your grandfather had dragged in with you after the old boxing club closed. Though the half dozen weights you snagged during the last update in the academy might be older.
“You need anything, Jack?”
“You’ve got a balance board around here by chance?”
“Well, I use the hardwood plank with the pole underneath.” You point to where the two pieces lean beside the self-made jump box.
He nods, “That works.”
After snatching two waters from the box in the corner and putting one beside Jack, you head over to your rowing machine and set the timer for your HIT training. Jack has located the jumping rope and put your thick gym mat in front of the impromptu balance board. You sync your phone with the speakers and start your training playlist.
During your eight minutes warm-up you keep an eye on Jack. He stands on the balance board with a tennis ball and throws it against the wall at varying angles. After a minute he lifts one leg, another minute and he switches to the other leg. He uses the board throughout his routine, with planks, squats, side-planks and side-steps.
In the 3-minute intervals you’re busy concentrating on your breathing and motions. During the minute intermissions, you watch Jack. And when he catches you doing it, he smirks at you. By the time you’re sweat soaked and in cool down, he has switched to stretches.
“Looked like the board worked.”
“Yeah, it was intriguing. The one I have at home is round. So, it behaves differently.”
“30 minutes on a balance board. Wow, you really put those core muscles to work.”
“I have to. Couldn’t do 12 hour-non-stop-shifts otherwise.”
“Ugh, I never thought about that. So, quick shower then lunch?”
“You know a good place around here?”
“Pitaland, it’s a 20-minute walk.”
Jack nods, “And this time I’m paying.”
40 minutes later you both walk through the door of Pitaland. The small Lebanese café and shop combination greets you with the smells of freshly baked pitas and garlic. Most of the seats are taken by dinner guests. Since it’s Saturday most of the customers are either families or couples.
Donna notices you and stops. She frowns and heads over to you. “Hi Morgan, we don’t have an order from you?”
You smile at her. “Evening Donna, no you don’t. We’d like to eat here.” You point your thumb at Jack behind you.
“Ah, of course. Just take your corner seat. You need menus?”
“One for Jack, please. And two Lemonades.”
She nods and turns to him, “Good evening and welcome to Pitaland, Jack.”
“Good evening, Donna. And thank you.”
Smiling she heads back behind the counter. You lead the way over to the small corner table besides the kitchen doors across from the entrance marked “reserved”. While you take the seat facing the room, Jack takes the stool beside you and slides it closer.
“You’re a regular here.”
“My entire life. My grandparents met here. We were here every Saturday for dinner until I graduated. And then depending on my shifts for breakfast instead.”
“Wow, how long has this place been around?”
“My parents opened their first shop over 50 years ago,” Donna volunteers and puts down the drinks before handing Jack a menu.
“Thanks. I’m looking forward to your food then.”
“Thank you, Donna.”
“You’re welcome.” And she’s on her way to the next guest.
“Any favourites?” Jack points to the menu.
“At least half of the dishes on there.”
He chuckles, “Not particularly helpful.”
“The Pies are really good. Though today I’m going with a Sandwich.”
“Hm.” It takes him five minutes and when he looks up to order, you wave at Joe through the kitchen window. Because Donna is busy at the register with takeout orders and evening shoppers. He pokes his head out of the kitchen, “What do you need, Morgan?”
“One large Gyro Sandwich and...” you look at Jack.
“The Grilled Halloumi Cheese and a Lamb Pie, please,” he adds.
“Ready in ten,” Joe replies and the kitchen door closes.
Jack shakes his head.
“What?”
“Nothing really. You’re just so....at home here.”
A customer’s loud and angry voice from the counter catches your attention and you push your chair back, making eye contact with Donna. Her expression is one of strained patience and her next words are pitched, so you can understand her over the clatter coming from the kitchen, “Sir, this is exactly what you ordered. I’m sorry if that’s not what you expected. We can make you something else but that will take about 15 minutes. Or you can just leave.”
You get off your chair, walk over and position yourself three feet behind the stranger. Most of the other patrons are regulars and make room for you quietly.
“I’m not eating flatbread! I’m not a damn Arab!” the man spits back.
“Well, Sir whatever you are, you are leaving now,” you inform the guy.
As he pivots to you, you step between him and the register, pointing to the door with your open hand.
He gasps.
“The other guests would like to enjoy THEIR food in peace and the customers behind you would like to get served. So, leave, NOW,” you nod towards the door and take a step into his space.
His mouth opens and closes. His face is beet red. Then he huffs and storms out. You return to your table, where Jack’s still sitting.
“Some people,” Jack huffs.
“...don’t know what they’re getting themselves into.” you add.
“True. He did not see that coming.”
“How’s the Lemonade?”
“You already know it’s good.”
“It’s freshly squeezed so of course it is,” you tease him.
His stomach grumbles and you check your watch.
With a – “Time to feed you.” – You head to the kitchen doors and open one side.
“Joe? You ready?”
That gains you an offended look and two plates stuffed into your hands. It’s Jack’s order. After delivering it you return for your own. Most of the food gets demolished before the two of you slow down to genuinely savor the taste. In your case: fresh bread, tomatoes, gyros and feta cheese. Jack leans back and pushes his empty plate away.
“Ready for dessert?”
“Dessert? You’re eating me out of house and home.”
Your laughter rings out over the background noise of people talking, the clutter of plates and cutlery and the soft background music.
“Well Jack, I’m sure you can work our bill off cleaning dishes for Joe in the kitchen.”
“I’d rather take the Date Cookies, thanks.”
“Coming up.”
You collect Jack’s Cookies and Baklava with Walnuts for yourself from Donna and ask her for the total.
“Who’s paying?”
“Jack. And he’s already cracking jokes about me ruining him with my appetite.”
“I’d hate to disappoint him. Tell him it’s 50 dollars.”
“Will do.”
Jack blinks as you tell him.
“Okay. The menu did say prices varied for dessert,” he states and puts a 50- and a 10-dollar bill on the table.
“Jack! You know that was a joke from Donna, right?”
He shrugs his shoulders, “The food was worth it.”
Back home you shrug off your jackets and shoes again. Jack stops for a moment when he registers the now empty hooks. And you take the opportunity to inform him, “For future reference the actual total was about 35 dollars.”
“Was that your idea?”
“Maybe.”
“So, you’re selling me out now?”
“Hey! You said I was expensive,” you protest – smirking.
“Well, I won’t repeat that then.”
“Great. And can we also agree you won’t step into a fight I’m having, again?” Only after you said that, do you realise what you said.
“No.”
“Jack! I’m a trained AND armed police officer. Have been for over a decade.” You remind him, because there’s no backing down now.
“I know. And I know shit can happen to the best trained and most experienced,” he stresses.
“I need you to let me do my job,” you plead.
“I’m not keeping you from doing it. But I won’t stand by when you’re in trouble right in front of me.” That sounds final.
You shake your head. At a loss for words for once, as the doorbell rings.
Both your heads whip around. You zoom in on the tablet a few steps away from the door, showing the camera footage. It’s Mr. Peter with a parcel under his arm. So, step around Jack and open the door.
“Good evening, Mr. Peter.”
“Good evening, Morgan. This was dropped off for you.”
“Thank you and have a good weekend.”
“You too,” he waves goodbye and returns to his house across the street.
Looking down at the package you check the return address. You don’t remember ordering anything. There’s none and it was sent via USPS. That doesn’t bode well. The good thing is – it is light – probably around two pounds. Bombs tend to be heavier. You carry it into the kitchen and carefully slice it open. As you peel the box sides open, you’re not looking at a bomb. You’d almost prefer one. Because neatly folded, with crisp creases and neatly packed in paper – sits a brand-new uniform shirt. Complete with police patches and your nametag. On top lies a handwritten card: “Sorry, about your shirt. Nothing personal.”
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
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tag list (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @amacphet
Forgive the sketchiness of this, I just had to put these ideas down. Rumble and Frenzy are a reference to this post that I made earlier which is why theyre using their mouths!! (ignore how the designs weren't fully realised i haven't figured it out yet)
more thoughts below :]
I decided to give them digi legs because since they’re a fair bit smaller than most bots it would make sense for them to have legs that could theoretically be faster, so they can keep up. Tho it would probably mean they need slightly more energy to mass ratio but probably not by much. (it's also just an excuse to draw digitigrade legs because i think they're cool)
OH and rumble and frenzy having tails I'd imagen work for both balance and an extra sensor for detecting changes in the air, it can be functional and cute!!!!
