When Jack finds you already showered and in your pyjamas just staring at the wall of the bedroom he knows you’re not feeling like yourself.
“Hey, pretty lady.” He murmurs as he strips out of his SWAT suit and to his boxers. He climbs onto the bed and lays right next to you, your noses touching.
“Hi,” you sound more tired than you look and that makes him pout.
“Long day?” You nod and he coos, slipping one hand to the nape of your neck to get tangled in the hair there. “Anything I can do to help?”
You shrug, shutting your eyes when his fingers close around the hair and give a tug. Silence falls over the room for a bit until you look up at him with glassy eyes.
“I fucking hate working there.” You sound so defeated and Jack’s heart breaks clean in two.
He doesn’t say anything as you recount your week from hell, how nothing had gone according to plan, no one listens to you and you feel overworked and undercompensated.
When you finish he presses his lips to your forehead just between your eyebrows.
“You can just quit, baby.” His hand slips from your nape to the hinge in your jaw to tip your head back so you’re staring directly at him. “I hate that they’re making you feel like this,” he carries on, nudging his nose against yours.
“I can take care of us till you find something better if that’s what you want.” When you don’t say anything, Jack plants a kiss on your cheek. “I can also take care of us if you never want to go back to work.”
“You’re too kind.” You sigh and tip your head out of his hands and onto you pillow, eyes staring at the ceiling.
He frowns, slipping his hand under your sleep shirt to hold onto your waist as he turns so he can catch your eye.
“Think it over, sweetheart. I don’t like seeing you so down.”
You nod, turning to look at him. Your eyes are still glassy when you look at him but they’re less sad. Even if only a little.
“I love you,” you say earnestly, reaching a hand to Jack’s cheek.
He smiles and you see his tiny dimple poke through his grey beard. “I love you too, pretty. Come sit on the sink while I shower and we can talk about dinner?”
warnings : implied sexual content in the last paragraph, other than that: pure fluff !
a/n : jack is such a girl dad, i had to write something about it
—
ೀ the first time you held your daughter, you did shed tears but Jack was a complete mess. His hands, usually steady as his job required it, trembled as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your daughter’s tiny ear. He looked from the bundle in his arms to you, his eyes glassy and bright with a vulnerability he rarely showed the world “You did it, y/n” he whispered, his voice cracking. “We did, Jack” you smiled at him and he lowered himself to plant a kiss on your forehead. He couldn't believe he was worthy of you giving him a life he was ready to give the entire world to.
ೀ the first time a diaper needed changing at home, Jack was surprisingly immediately a pro at it. You were reaching for the wipes, exhausted and still sore from labor, when he gently nudged your shoulder. “I've got it” he said, already rolling up his sleeves. He pinned the tabs with surgical precision while humming a low, gravelly tune to keep your daughter calm. He looked up and gave you a small, tired smirk, assuring you he’d take care of it as often as he could. “Go sit down. You’ve done enough heavy lifting for ten lifetimes.”
ೀ the first time waking up at night for the baby hit hard, the sound of her crying echoed through the quietness of the apartment at 3:00 am. You started to shift, but Jack’s arm was already across you, tugging you back in and pulling the bedsheet up your shoulders. “I got it.” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Get some sleep.” You watched his silhouette leave. After fifteen minutes you went to check on them and you saw Jack swaying rhythmically with the baby against his bare chest. “Don’t worry princess, dada is here, you have nothing to be afraid of. I’ll protect you from the whole word if I need to.” He walked around, until her screams turned into soft, rhythmic huffs of breath. He stayed awake long after she fell asleep, sitting down on the rocking chair and just watching the rise and fall of her chest.
ೀ the first time that Jack had to leave you to go to work, he was on the verge of simply quitting his job. He was fully dressed up, but he kept finding excuses to linger by the cradle, checking the locks and the heater. You eventually had to push him outside the door, laughing as he grumbled about “five more minutes.” He didn't leave before he kissed yours and your baby’s foreheads with a lingering, protective firmness, making sure to repeat for the fiftieth time to call him if anything happens. But the sight when he came back in the morning was definitely worth it : you were asleep on the bed with a finger inside your baby's crib and your daughter who was also sound asleep, holding your finger with her whole fist. Your hair was sprawled across the pillow and your cheeks were slightly flushed. Jack took the quickest shower and then kissed both of you before spooning you from behind, anchoring himself to his family.
ೀ the first time giving solid food to your daughter was extremely stressful for Jack who was looking out for any signs of choking with an intensity that was almost comical. He sat on the edge of his seat, knuckles white as he watched her take a spoonful of mashed fruit. “Is that too thick? I think it's too thick” he muttered, leaning in so close he was blocking the light. “Jack, she’s doing extremely well, but you’re going to start make her doubt herself with your intense staring” You caught his hand and calmed him down, promising him that she was doing just fine. Eventually, he relaxed enough to laugh when she sneezed and sent a spray of pear puree right onto her little table.
ೀ the first time your baby showed signs of teeth resulted in a week of fussiness and restless nights. Jack spent hours tirelessly freezing damp cloths for her to chew on, walking her laps around the room to distract her from the ache. When he finally felt that tiny, sharp ridge against his thumb, he beamed as if she’d won a battle. “There it is. My little princess getting her weapons” he joked, though his eyes remained soft as he watched her finally drift off to sleep.
ೀ The first time for your baby to walk, the world seemed to stop for both of you. She pulled herself up on the edge of the table, wobbled on her chubby legs, and then lunged toward Jack’s outstretched arms. She took three precarious steps before collapsing into his chest. Jack let out a triumphant shout that probably echoed through the upper floor, hoisting her high into the air. He spun her around, his laughter loud and genuine, looking at you with a face full of pure, unadulterated pride.
ೀ the first word being “mama” was a moment of pure joy for you, but Jack spent the rest of the day repeating “dada” to your daughter with the persistence of a man on a mission. Every time she babbled back at him, he’d point to his chest and say it again, more clearly this time. “C’mon princess, I know you know it, da-da” he muttered to her, though he couldn't hide his grin when she eventually grabbed his shirt and let out a sound that was close enough for him to claim victory.
ೀ the first birthday of your daughter wasn't a grand party, it was private and quiet within the safety of your family and closest friends. There was a small cake, a few hand-carved wooden toys Jack had spent weeks perfecting, and a sense of permanence he had never dared to dream of. As she sat between you both, covered in frosting and grasping at a ribbon, Jack wrapped his arm around your waist. He looked at the life you’d built “One year down. A lifetime to go.” Your daughter giggling for the first time at the sight of Jack kissing you.
ೀ bonus : the first time you were left alone happened when your parents took your daughter for the weekend, and you and Jack finally treated yourselves to a night out at a fancy restaurant. You wore a beautiful dress that made Jack’s jaw drop, and he cleaned up remarkably well in a sharp suit. The evening went by smoothly and the food was delicious, but you still found yourself checking your phone “just in case” every few minutes. Each time, Jack would reach across the table, squeeze your hand, and gently assure you she was in good hands. However, the second you were back home, the atmosphere shifted completely. Jack’s hands were all over your body the moment the door clicked shut, his lips glued to your neck as he led you toward the bedroom. He laid you down gently on the sheets, slowly trailing his fingers over your skin as he helped you out of your dress. When you were down to your underwear, he suddenly whispered, “Wait” and made a quick trip to the bathroom for a condom. But when he returned, he stopped in his tracks, the silence of the house had finally caught up to you, and you were fast asleep. He chuckled softly to himself, tossing the condom onto the nightstand before stripping off his own clothes. He climbed in beside you, pulling the heavy covers over both of your bodies. “Goodnight, baby” he whispered against your hair, falling asleep by your side in the quietest the room had been in a year.
Synopsis: Jack HATES you
Tags: Medical error, near-death incident (medication overdose, emergency appendectomy mentioned), Professional misconduct & workplace investigation (suspension, board hearing), Emotional manipulation & power imbalance (investigator vs. accused), Mild workplace hostility & verbal conflict, Developing romance with workplace tension.
A/n: Someone requested this, tell me if i have to make a part 2 to this...
The fluorescent light in my office filled the room with its usual mechanical tune, a petty irritation I’d long since filed under background noise. The clock on the wall ticked toward 3:30 p.m., each second another reminder that time was no longer on my side. On my desk sat a manila folder, three weeks of investigation, interview transcripts, and evidence logs, that now read less like a case file and more like a meticulously documented case against me.
Across from me sat Dr. Jack Abbot, arms crossed, jaw clenched like I’d personally murdered his entire family. For three weeks, that look had infuriated me. All I’d seen was a man hiding incompetence behind a wall of hostility. I’d read it as guilt.
I opened the folder, but I wasn’t looking at the pages, I was watching him. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes weren’t anger, I realized. They were exhausted. The gray in his stubble wasn’t neglect but the residue of too many nights without sleep.
“Jac—Dr. Abbot,” I said. My voice was hoarse. I’d practiced this apology in the car, in the elevator, outside my door. Now every word felt useless.
He didn’t respond. He just watched me, eyes flat and wary.
“I’m not here to ask any more questions,” I said softly, closing the folder. “I’m here to tell you that I know. I know about Kim. I know about her son’s emergency appendectomy that night, and the seizure medication she’d been off by twelve hours the week before. I know she was already on a final warning from the board.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not relief. Fear. Protective fear.
“She’s a brilliant nurse,” he said, his voice a low growl, the first time he’d spoken to me with something other than contempt. “One mistake. One moment of distraction because her eight-year-old was screaming on the phone that his stomach felt like it was on fire. You were ready to destroy her career over it. The board would have taken her license. For one mistake.”
“I know.” The weight of it pressed down on my chest. “But the medication error that nearly killed Mr. Holbrooke… the missing charting… it was all her. You saw it happen. You knew if an investigation started, her record would come to light. So you… you made yourself the target.”
He leaned forward, the chair creaking under the sudden movement. “I cleaned up her mess. I refiled the chart. I made sure the patient was stable. And then I told her to go home to her kid. The mistake was already made. It was over. The only thing left to do was protect my nurse so she could come back and save another life tomorrow.”
My investigation had done the opposite. I’d painted him as the villain, turning every senior staff member against him, suspending him, dragging his name through the mud of hospital gossip. The evidence was a mess, but his attitude was all the confirmation I’d needed. A classic case of the uncooperative subject.
And I’d been a classic case of a lazy administrator.
“You could have told me,” I said, the words feeling foolish even as I spoke them. “From the beginning, you could have just explained.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “And have you grill her? Tear her apart looking for other ‘mistakes’? You had your target, ma’am. You’re like a dog with a bone. The only way to keep you from her was to be the bigger, juicier bone. You wanted a hostile, uncooperative doctor? You got one. You were so busy staring at me, you never looked at anyone else.”
He was right. My tunnel vision had been absolute. I’d seen his defensiveness as guilt, his silence as an attempt to hide his own incompetence. I’d never considered he might be silent to protect someone else. I’d never considered that the person hiding something was a hero.
I thought about Kim. I’d seen her in the halls, a quiet, competent woman with tired eyes. I’d dismissed her as a witness. Now I saw the full picture: a single mother terrified of losing the career she’d worked her whole life for, saved by a man willing to burn his own to the ground for her.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and thick.
“You should go home,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. The apology was still lodged in my throat, a barbed thing I couldn’t swallow or spit out.
“Can’t.” His voice was flat. “Night shift’s short. Kim’s on peds tonight. She needs backup.”
Of course she was. Of course he’d still be here, still covering, still protecting. Even now. Even after everything I’d done.
I stood and walked to the window. The parking lot below was mostly empty, just a few cars huddled under the sodium lights. One of them was his—an old pickup truck.
“I’ll write the report tonight,” I said to my reflection. “Full retraction. Full apology. I’ll read it at the morning briefing myself.”
“Don’t bother.”
I turned. He was still in the chair, but something had shifted. His arms had uncrossed. One hand rested on the armrest, fingers drumming once, twice, then nothing.
“I don’t need a speech,” he said. “I need you to stay out of my way.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what I need.” He stood, and the room seemed to shrink. He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe I’d just never noticed before. “You did what you did. Fine. It’s done. Kim keeps her job, I keep mine, and you go back to your spreadsheets and your laptop and your nice clean office where nothing real ever happens.”
The words landed like slaps. Each one deserved.
“You think I wanted this?” My voice came out harder than I intended. Defensive. Exactly the wrong move.
“I think you wanted to be right.” He was close now, close enough that I could see the exhaustion up close, the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his jaw—maybe from coffee and not enough sleep. “I think you wanted someone to blame, and I was convenient.”
“You weren’t convenient. You were—” I stopped. Swallowed. “You were the only one who fought back.”
Something flickered in his expression. Interest? Surprise? It was gone before I could name it.
“Everybody else folded,” I continued, the words tumbling out now. “The nurses I interviewed, the residents, they all gave me something. A name, a theory, a gossip. But you. You just sat there and took it. Day after day. You never gave her up. You never even hinted.”
“I took an oath.”
“Bullshit.” The word hung between us. I took a step closer. We were barely a foot apart now, and I could smell the coffee on his breath, the faint antiseptic soap that clung to his scrubs. “It’s not about the oath. It’s about something else.”
He was quiet for a long moment. The hum of the lights above us filled the space between us, vibrating in my chest.
“What do you want, ma’am?” His voice was tired. “You want me to say thank you? Pretend this didn’t happen?”
“I want—” I stopped. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, and that was the problem. For three weeks, I’d wanted his head on a platter. Now I just wanted him to stop looking at me like I was something that needed to be scraped off his shoe.
“You want what?” He tilted his head, and there it was again, that flicker of something. Not warmth, exactly. But not cold either.
“I want to know why you don’t hate me.”
The words escaped before I could catch them. Stupid. Unprofessional. True.
He laughed, not the humorless bark from before, but something smaller, quieter. Almost private.
“Who says I don’t?”
“You should.” I met his eyes. Held them. “I spent three weeks trying to ruin you. If our positions were reversed, I’d want to watch you burn.”
“Yeah.” He was quiet for a beat. “That’s why I don’t.”
The hum of the lights was suddenly very loud.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I know.” He moved then, just a fraction, but it brought us closer. Close enough that if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch the gray at his temples. Close enough that I could see the way his pupils dilated slightly in the harsh fluorescent light. “You don’t understand because you’ve never had someone you’d burn for. You’ve never loved anything more than your own career.”
“That’s not—”
“Fair?” His mouth quirked. “Probably not. But it’s true. You see a problem, you find a target, you eliminate it. Clean. Efficient. No collateral damage because you never let anyone close enough to be collateral.”
I should have stepped back. I should have ended this conversation, walked to my car, driven home, and pretended tonight never happened. Instead, I held my ground.
“And you?” I asked. “How many people are collateral for you, Jack?”
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.
The moment stretched, thin as glass. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped. Footsteps echoed. The hospital sounds around us, indifferent to whatever this was.
“I should go check on Kim,” he said. But he didn’t move.
“Probably.”
“Report can wait until morning.”
“It can.”
Neither of us moved.
His hand came up, slow, like he was giving me time to stop it, and brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was featherlight, barely there, and it sent electricity down my spine.
“You’re going to write that report,” he said quietly. “You’re going to clear my name. And then you’re going to go back to your office and find another problem to solve, another person to hunt.”
“That’s not—”
“And I’m going to keep working nights. Keep covering my people. Keep doing what I do.” His hand dropped. The absence of it was almost physical. “And we’re going to pretend this conversation never happened.”
“Is that what you want?”
He looked at me for a long moment. The wariness was still there, but underneath it, something raw. Something that looked almost like want.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said. “It matters what’s real. And this—” he gestured between us, “—isn’t real. It’s just the adrenaline talking. The relief of not getting caught. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and remember who you are. I’ll still be the guy you tried to destroy.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Nothing about the last three weeks has been fair.” He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the frame. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t hate you. I wanted to. Tried to. Couldn’t quite get there.”
He left. The door swung shut behind him, and the hum of the lights filled the silence.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, my fingers pressed to the spot on my cheek where his hand had been.
Tomorrow, I’d write the report. I’d clear his name. I’d go back to my office and my nice clean life.
But first, I had one more thing to do.
I walked out of my office, down the corridor, past the empty nurses’ station, toward the peds wing. The hospital at night was different, softer somehow. Quieter. The harsh judgments of daylight dulled by darkness and the shared intimacy of everyone working while the world slept.
I found him outside room 12, half-hidden in the shadows, watching through the glass as a young nurse adjusted an IV. Kim. She moved with quiet competence, her face soft with concentration, completely unaware that her entire career had just been saved by the man standing in the hallway.
He sensed me before he saw me. Turned. Raised an eyebrow.
“The report can wait until morning,” he said. “I told you.”
“I know.” I leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. “I’m not here for the report.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
I watched Kim through the glass for a moment. She was smiling now, saying something to the sleeping child in the bed.
“I was wrong,” I said quietly. “About you. About everything. And I think… I think maybe I’ve spent so long in my office that I forgot what actually happens out here. What it costs. What it’s worth.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned to look at me. The wariness was still there, but underneath it, something else. Something that looked like the beginning of trust.
He didn’t smile. Neither did I.
But when his hand brushed mine, I didn’t pull away.
it was just like any other night. you layed tucked into your bed, the blankets enveloping you as you mindlessly scrolled on your phone, half asleep as you waited for jack to get home from his shift. he'd always told you not to wait up for him, but you couldn't help it. you couldn't fall asleep without him.
jack came home to find you asleep with your phone in your hand, some random youtube video playing softly. he smiled softly at you, his girl sleeping so peacefully. he brushed his fingers through your hair, moving it out of your eyes. gently, he pulled the blanket that had been covering your nose off of your face, paranoid about your breathing.
you stirred in your sleep. "jack?" you whispered as you felt your phone being pulled away from your hand. "hi sweetheart" he whispered in the dark of the room, taking his scrubs off before throwing them in the hamper. he walked over to you, kissing your forehead in your sleepy state. "hi" you whispered barely awake, a gentle smile pulling at your lips. jack walked quietly to the bathroom to shower.
minutes later you were woke to the sound of the shower turning off. you opened your eyes to see jack, leaving the bathroom in just his towel. his wet skin was lit by the dim light, the fog of the shower simmering behind him.
jack layed beside you. you breathed in the scent of his fresh body wash, rolling towards him before tucking yourself into his neck. you placed a kiss to his skin. "hi sleepy" he whispered, wrapping you into his arms before pulling you closer. you were awake now.
softly, you peppered kisses across his neck and shoulders before moving to his lips. he smiled as you kissed him sleepily. "missed you" you mumbled into the kiss, your core already craving him. you moved your leg over his, softly moving against his thigh. he smirked into the kiss at the feeling of you trying to please yourself against him. "missed you too sweetheart" he spoke gently. the pads of his fingers grazed up and down the skin of your back faintly. "need me to help you go to sleep pretty girl?"
you whimpered at the nickname, nodding your head slowly as you looked into his soft eyes. his hands moved slowly to your waist, pulling you closer to him as he leaned over you. he kissed you deeply, dragging his hand to your core. you leaned into his touch as he pressed a finger to your clit. "so wet for me pretty" he whispered softly. he loved how responsive you were, how needy you were for him. you brought your hand to his dick, pressing into it, earning a soft groan as he continued to rub at your center. he dragged his fingers up and down your slit, all you could do was whimper as he kissed you slow.
"jack" you mewled. you needed him inside, needed him to fill you up. "i know sweetheart, i know" jack knew your body so well, knew from the way you leaned further into his touch that you were already needy for his cock.
he dragged your panties down your legs slowly. he looked into your eyes as you grew desperate for it. you ran your fingers through his hair, pulling him to your lips again. you lifted your hips reflexively, pressing into him as he pulled you closer by your hips. you struggled to pull his boxers off in your hazy state, you pulled and pulled but you couldn't get what you wanted. he chuckled lowly at your desperation before taking them off himself. "please" you pushed yourself further into him.
"i got you sweetheart, i got you" he moved you to lay on your back. you whimpered at the feeling of him rubbing his tip up and down your slit, melting into the feeling as your core ached for him. steadily, he began pushing himself in. "fuck" you whined at the thickness of his cock. "fuck, just go slow"
"yea? want me to fuck you slow pretty girl?" he purred cockily. gradually he rocked himself into you, involuntary moans leaving his throat at the feeling of your wet pussy holding him so tight.
he fell into the heat of your neck, his soft noises in your ear as he fucked you nice and slow. you clenched around him, holding his shoulder as he filled you up so good. you bit your lip at the pleasure as he continued his deep thrusts, squeezing your eyes shut.
you squeaked as he gripped your hips harshly, pressing you into the mattress as he quickened his pace. he fucked you intently, his tip hitting that spongy spot in your core with every thrust. he pressed his hand into your stomach, pushing into your belly so you could feel every fucking inch. you soft moans sending shocks to his cock.
"gonna come for me? hmm?" he watched as your back arched off the bed as he continued rocking into you. you instinctively pushed at his stomach, the feeling of your impending orgasm sending shivers through your body. it was too much. his thick cock filled you so fucking good, you cried as he pounded into your hot pussy. "gonna come for me pretty girl?" you pulled a guttural moan from him as you came, your core pulsing around him was enough to send him over the edge. he fell into your neck again, his throbbing cock releasing inside of you.
fucked out, you mewled at the feeling of him pulling out slowly. a soft whimper left his throat as he watched the string of your mixed fluids connecting him to you. he layed down next to you, before turning to his side to face you. a warm smile crossed his face at the sight of you, breathing slow as you turned to lay in his chest, already asleep.
he pulled you closer, laying his head on top of yours. his sleepy girl.
a/n: first real post on here, i really want to get into writing again and posting it on here so i hope this isn't too terrible!! i really want to write for jack and robby for sure, but not sure who else or from what other fandoms yet :)
content: just some headcanons of jack with an alt!reader. reader has piercings, tattoos, dyes hair. no specific 'style' or subculture mentioned!
word count: 503
jack abbot, who was immediately intrigued by your hair, piercings, and tattoos from the moment you started on night shift. each time you come in with a new hair color or new tattoo, he looks on in curiosity, too nervous to ask questions without seeming like an old man. now, you drag him to the store with you and make him help you decide on new hair colors or piercing jewelry.
jack abbot, who can hear the music blasting through your headphones as you walk into the ED, not recognizing any of the songs but finding himself wishing he did. he then googles ‘songs with screaming’ to try and find anything similar. once you start dating, he insists you make him a playlist to listen to.
jack abbot, who is more than happy to attend any concerts in the area with you. you got pit tickets? he’s standing behind you, arms awkwardly at his side with his earplugs in. you’re dancing all around and grabbing his arms to make him join? his joints don’t move like they used to, but he’s bouncing along as best as he can. hell, he even surprises you with VIP passes to your favorite band for christmas and takes ALL the pictures you want with the band (with most of them turning out blurry and very ‘dad’-esque, but you love them anyway).
jack abbot, who had never really thought about getting a tattoo before. some of his buddies in the army had them, but he had never been enticed until he saw how perfect you looked with them. the way your choices flowed perfectly along your soft skin, framing each and every part of you. he listened intently each time you explained the meanings behind them, even if it was just ‘i liked it’.
jack abbot, who hadn’t seen any of the classic halloween/horror movies until you shared a few days off in october and decided to binge watch everything you possibly could. he liked the way you curled up in his side, biting your lip in anticipation despite having seen them all before.
jack abbot, who comes home one day with a smug smile tugging at his lips. he stands in front of you as you lay on the couch, and tugs his waistband lower. your anniversary date is staring right at you, bold black lines on his hip bone.
jack abbot, who lets you decorate your shared home however you want. you like crystals and tarot? you have a perfect bay window shelf to set them in (“for the moon-cleansing, right baby?”) that jack insisted on building himself. he loves everything you pick out, and loves the nursery you design even better, with it’s vintage decor and stuffed animals. (“jack, did you ever have a bear like this? it’s from my grandma when she was a little girl.”)
jack abbot, who wouldn’t change anything about you. let people make their comments, let them think what they want. he is exactly where he wants to be.
cw: 18+, read at your own discretion. implied age gap (both LEGAL not in a pedo way reader is probably like 22+ while abbot is his canon age), able-bodied reader, gender/genetalia non specific, fingersucking, blowjobs, pet names, reader has hair but colour, length and texture are non specified, spit swallowing, implied further sex/eating out, reader is gender neutral but pink panties are mentioned
pairing: jack abbot x gn!reader
word count: approx 1.4k
NSFW UNDER THE CUT | the pitt masterlist
“That’s it, sweetheart.” He murmurs, using the rough pad of his thumb to swipe against the fresh spit coating your bottom lip. “You’re doing so well,”
A whimper escapes your throat, hands twitching on your thighs. Jack’s sitting on your shared bed with his legs spread, your figure kneeling in between them, looking up at him with reverence reserved for only him during times like this. Your hands slip between your thighs, playing with the lacy trim of your panties. It was a new set, baby pink with a viewing window in the back. Seeing it fresh in the box reminded you of other places his thumb had been—
“Where’s that pretty head at, huh baby? You gettin’ distracted?” He drawled from above you, chin tilted down as his dilated gaze met yours. His rough fingers, caused by years of service and selflessness, grip your chin ever so slightly tighter, smearing the saliva spread against your lips down the side of your face as his thumb resumes its movements against your jaw, light strokes bringing your attention back to him. “That’s it, eyes on me, think about me, nothing else. Empty that pretty little head of yours and let me take care of you, okay?” You nod immediately, head leaning into his hold as his other hand moves to his zipper, a deep groan reverberating through his chest as he relives himself of the pressure caused by the tightness of his jeans around his crotch.
Your eyes dip down from his face to the bulge peeking out of his pants, clad in his boxers. You get a few seconds of admiration before the hand holding your jaw nudges your head back up, wanting your attention back on him. “You mind if i lose the leg, sweets?” You nod, breath heavy and tongue flicking out to wet your lips as you watch him, his forearms flexing, veins bulging out as his hand drops from where it was cradling your jaw to assist his other in shoving his jeans down. Your hands come out to from between your thighs to help fully tug them off, beating him to it as you softly reach for where prosthetic meets skin. His hands go back to the bed, tight black shirt shifting to reveal a sliver of his stomach pudge when he leans back to watch you.
“That’s it, help an old man out,” Jack murmurs as he watches you release his leg, or what’s left of it, from the prosthetic, leaning forward to grab the artificial appendage and place it on the floor on the other side of the bed. You lean forward, pressing a small kiss onto the scar, Jack’s eyes softening as he watches. “So sweet, so good to me.” The words leave his mouth with sweet adoration coating them, looking down at you with irises swirling with lovesickness and lust.
“Wanna suck you off, wan’ you to fill my mouth.” The pleads fall from your lips, sticky with desperation as you glance up at him, head leaning against his sinewy thigh, feeling the hair against your soft cheek. Leaving soft kisses as you trail your way up to where his cock was straining in his boxers as his thick hands move from beside him on the bed to cup your face, his thumb repeating its earlier movements as it brushes against your bottom lip. You drop your jaw open slightly to take his thumb into your mouth, suckling at the pad and whimpering at the faint salty taste it leaves on your tongue. Your actions pull a hearty groan from his lips as he slowly pushes his thumb in further, before pulling it out slightly and pushing it back in again, mimicking the movement his cock would be making in the near future. The tension between the two of you meets its peak eventually as his other hand moves to the back of your head, gathering your hair and using the thumb in your mouth to press down on your tongue, drool gathering at the entrance as he leans down and lets a glob of spit drop into your mouth, the string breaking once it meets your tongue. As he removes his thumb, you don’t hesitate to swallow down what he’s given you.
Roughly exhaling, Jack brings the hand with the thumb that was just in your mouth to his boxers, freeing himself. His grip on your hair tightens as you immediately keen forward, keeping you in place. “Ah- ah,” He tuts, lightly stroking himself. “Remember what i taught you, be patient and i’ll give you what you want.” A whine escapes your lips at that, the old man above chuckling at the reaction he’s pulled from you.
“Alright,” He mumbles, guiding the tip of his cock to your lips, lightly tapping it against them and watching the pre coating his mushroom top mix with the saliva on your lips, attaching them through thin strings of fluid. Impatient, you lean forward with the little give you have and suckle on the head, a deep grunt leaving Jacks lips with your action, but he doesn’t move to stop you.
You lave your tongue around his tip, swallowing down the pre that leaks into your mouth as a result of your devotion. Jack loosens his hold on your hair and gives your neck its full range of motion back, and you take the opportunity to sink your mouth further down onto him, taking him deeper and ignoring the watering of your eyes and the slight burn in your jaw.
“Ah- That’s it- Yeah sweetheart, you’re doing so good.” The praise burns hot in your belly, thighs clenching together as your hands grip his hairy thighs tighter. Breathing through your nose, you close the gap between his crotch and your lips, feeling the coarse hair brush against your nose.
“Fuck-“ Jack chokes out, hand tightening in your hair as you take his outburst as a sign to keep going, bobbing your head up and down and using the little room you have in your mouth to lick up against the underside of his cock, pressing against the familiar pulsing vein.
“‘m not gonna last long, sweets. My stamina- ugh- isn’t what it once was,” Jack groans, head tilting back and exposing his neck. You want to bite him, mark him up, leave a permanent reminder of yourself on his body for him to find later while you’re asleep, for other people to see and know that he’s taken. Your eyes flutter shut as you focus on the sensation of his tip hitting the back of your throat, ignoring the burning in your lips from the stretch and the soreness building as your jaw is held open. You swallow around him and trigger a series of events; Both his hands tangle in your hair, tugging you down to hold you close to his crotch as he groans and finishes down your throat, Jack’s own mouth dropping open slightly as his orgasm wracks through him. You swallow down as much as you can, a whimper leaving you when you feel his cum escape from your mouth and drip down your chin. Cock twitching in your mouth from the aftershocks of his mind numbing orgasm, he hurriedly pulls you off and his strong hands pull you up onto his lap before settling on your hips.
“So good, you’re so good to me. You did amazing baby.” He murmurs, licking up the cum that escaped and pressing his lips against yours, brushing his tongue against your lips, requesting entrance to your mouth. When you allow it, he groans once more, using his tongue to push the small amount of escaped cum back into your mouth, the salty taste mixing with saliva from both of you. Jack leans back, letting himself fall back on the mattress with you plastered against his front, rolling over so your back hits the mattress. His fingers trail down your sides, thumbs brushing against your hips before tugging at the waistband of the lacey pink panties he had bought you, and you had worn for him.
“Let me make you feel good, sweetheart”
an: so my first work guyz, not proofread at all… let me know what you think 😞😞 don’t be silent! like comment subscribe send asks mwah. remember to drink water and eat food and take ur medicine and a moment to breathe. also lmk if u want a second part where he ravages you.
Summary:A trip to the cabin spirals into full-scale chaos when Dottie declares war on the Cookie Man, demotes and re-promotes her Papa, and emotionally demolishes Uncle Jack before rebuilding him. Between Michael spiraling and Jack pretending he’s still a hard-ass, Dottie somehow fixes everyone’s hearts—with cookies, courage, and unhinged toddler logic.
They’re sitting on the dock:
Michael tying a lure with surgical precision,
Jack pretending he knows what he’s doing, and Dottie kicking her tiny legs while staring VERY seriously at Jack’s prosthetic.
“Unca Jack?” she asks softly.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, Bug?”
She squats down, hands on her knees like a tiny OSHA inspector and checks out the carbon fiber.
Then, reverently: “How Dot get one like dis?”
Michael freezes mid-knot.
Jack does not.
“Well,” he says casually, “I didn’t eat my dinner one night, so your Papa took my leg.”
Michael’s head snaps up so hard it’s a medical risk.
“JACK. ABBOT.”
Dottie GASPS, full hands-on-cheeks drama.
“Papa STOLE it!?”
Jack shrugs. “Actions have consequences. Clean Plate Club is serious business.”
Dottie WHIPS toward Michael, horrified.
“Papa, Dot PROMISE she eat ALL dinners. Even the peas. Even the icky green things. Please don’t take Dot’s legs!”
Michael looks personally victimized.
“Baby, Papa did NOT take his— Jack was JOKING.”
Dottie turns back to Jack, heartbroken.
“I’m so sorry Papa stole your leg, Unca Jack.”
Jack nods solemnly. “Thank you, sweetheart. It was a dark day.”
Michael rubs his temples like summoning the patience of ten saints.
“Jack. TELL HER.”
Jack sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine. Bug — Papa didn’t take my leg.”
Dottie exhales in relief.
Until Jack adds:
“I traded it.”
Michael: “OH MY—”
Dottie’s eyes go wide. “For WHAT?”
Jack thinks. Hard.
“…A really big cookie.”
Dottie gasps like he sold his soul.
“You shouldn’t do that, Unca Jack!” she cries. “Dot give you ALL her cookies! Then you buy your leg back!”
Michael lets out a strangled groan.
Jack lights up like Christmas.
“You’d give me all your cookies?”
She nods frantically.
“Dot make a BIG cookie pile. Then Unca Jack leg come back and you no be sad anymore.”
Jack’s heart actually malfunctions.
And then she adds, even more earnestly:
“You shoulda just asked Dot! Dot would give you TWO cookies!”
Jack turns to Michael with THE smuggest look in recorded history.
Michael considers walking into the lake.
Before anyone recovers, Dot leans down and presses a sticky, applesauce-smelling kiss right onto Jack’s prosthetic.
Jack stops functioning.
“…Bug,” he croaks, “you are absolutely destroying my reputation as a hard-ass.”
Dottie beams like she won the fight for a later bedtime. Michael pinches the bridge of his nose.
Dottie…
copies him exactly.
Hands on hips.
Shoulders tense.
Curls scrunched in her fists.
Tiny sigh full of exhaustion.
Jack stares.
Then SNORTS.
“You SURE she’s not your DNA?” he asks Michael. “That—” he points at her full stressed stance— “that’s EXACTLY you, Papa.”
Michael groans. “She picks up everything. EVERYTHING.”
Dottie mutters gravely, “Dot very stressed,” and nearly sends Jack into the water laughing.
But she’s not done.
Suddenly she gasps and digs through her little backpack.
“MAMA!” she announces. “Dot call Mama. She make cookies for the cookie man. BIG cookies. Then we buy Unca Jack leg back FAST.”
Jack is wheezing.
Michael looks skyward, begging for strength.
Dottie whips out her toy phone and mashes random buttons like she’s launching a military operation.
“Mama? Hi. Dot need cookies. MANY cookies. For the cookie man. He got Unca Jack leg.”
Jack folds in half laughing.
Michael genuinely looks like he might pass out.
Dot snaps her phone shut with finality.
“Mama say yes,” she announces proudly, despite nothing happening.
“She make BIG cookies. Like Unca Jack big.”
Jack snorts. “Bug, my leg IS pretty big.”
“Dot know,” she says gravely, hands returning to her hips. “Mama make BIG.”
Jack points again at her stance.
“Mini-Michael. Same posture. Same tone. Same disappointment in humanity.”
Michael throws his hands up.
“I CANNOT live like this.”
Dot gently pats Jack’s real knee with sticky determination.
“Dot fix it,” she promises.
And Jack?
Yeah.
He’d trade both legs for that kid.
Jack’s cabin is quiet, soft firelight flickering, Dottie warm in Michael’s lap and fighting sleep with the desperation of a toddler facing mortality. Her curls are still damp from her bath, her Papa’s shirt swallowed around her knees.
Everything is peaceful.
Until she gasps like she’s remembered a war crime.
“MAMA! We need call Mama right now.”
Michael blinks. “Sweetheart—”
“No,” she insists, clutching his shirt. “NOW.”
Michael obediently FaceTimes you. Jack, from the recliner, whispers, “This is gonna be good.”
The screen lights up.
“Hi, my loves—”
“MAMA,” Dottie interrupts, scandalized, “you done with the cookies yet?”
You freeze. “The… cookies for what?”
Jack promptly starts choking on laughter.
Michael drags a hand down his face. “She thinks cookies can buy Jack’s leg back.”
“It TRUE,” Dottie snaps, hands on her hips with the exact stressed posture Michael uses when interns disappoint him. “The COOKIE MAN got Unca Jack leg!”
You blink. “I’m sorry… the who?”
Dottie spirals instantly, her voice rising, curls bouncing, pointing toward the cabin door like the Cookie Man could burst in any second with a burlap sack.
“He's BAD, Mama! He takes Unca Jack leg and he NO GIVE IT BACK and that VERY MEAN. He needs to say sorry. We make him say sorry.”
Jack’s entire face is red from silent laughter.
“Bug,” Michael tries, “no one took Jack’s—”
But she’s already at DEFCON 1.
“Mama,” she says urgently, clutching the screen, “you take ALL his toys. ALL OF THEM. Put inna box. Put HIGH up.”
You bite your lip. “The Cookie Man’s toys?”
“Yes,” Dottie nods gravely. “No toys. No crayons. No snacks. NO GUMMY WORMS.”
Jack whispers, “Damn, she’s harsh.”
Dottie jabs a tiny finger at him. “HE ONLY GETS ONE COOKIE. Just one. He have to look Unca Jack inna eye and say ‘I sorry I took your leg.’ Then he can eat it.”
You stare, caught between horror and hysterics.
“Baby… that’s… quite a punishment.”
“He bad man,” Dottie says, completely serious.
Jack wipes his eyes. “Bug, I would pay GOOD money to see you run a courtroom.”
Michael sighs deeply. “Sweetheart, there is no Cookie Man kidnapping people’s prosthetics—”
You bite your lip, playing along.
“Okay, baby… how many cookies do we need to get Uncle Jack’s leg back?”
Dottie freezes. This is high-level negotiation.
She looks at Jack very seriously.
“Unca Jack… how heaby you leg?”
Jack sputters. “Uh— Bug, I—I don’t know, it’s—what—?”
She nods gravely. This is expected. She turns to the true authority.
“Papa,” she says, poking Michael’s cheek, “how much cookie we need? You know.”
Michael stares at her. Jack stares at Michael.
You stare, waiting.
Jack whispers, “Go on, Papa. What’s the conversion rate of cookies to prosthetics?”
Michael shoots him a murderous glare before returning to Dottie.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently, “Uncle Jack’s leg can’t actually be bought with—”
Dottie gasps, horrified. “YOU DON’T KNOW!?”
Michael looks betrayed by the universe.
Jack bursts into hysterics.
You choke on a laugh.
Dottie huffs, hands back on her hips in her Papa stance.
“Okay. Dot guess. Leg VERY big. So… Mama?” She leans into the camera. “We need… five cookies.”
You're trying not to visibly cry-laugh.
“Ten cookies, baby? That’s a lot.”
Dottie nods with grim determination.
“Unca Jack leg worth it.”
Jack actually looks emotional.
Dottie holds up her tiny pinky to the screen.
“Mama, you PROMISE help Dot defeat the cookie man?”
Of course you pinky-promise. “I promise, sweetheart.”
Dottie exhales with the weight of nations lifted.
“Okay. Tomorrow we save Unca Jack.”
Jack beams. “My hero.”
Dottie pats his knee, comically gentle.
“Dot fix it,” she whispers, eyes drooping.
And Jack?
Yeah.
He hopes the Cookie Man never apologizes, because he’s never been so loved in his entire life.
Jack wakes to Dottie draped across him like a toddler-shaped heating pad that smells faintly of applesauce and pure chaos.
She is peaceful.
For sixteen whole seconds.
Her eyes snap open.
“Unca Jack,” she whispers urgently.
Jack flinches. “Jesus—what? What is it?”
“We forgot Mama.”
Jack rubs his face. “Forgot her how?”
Dot sits up with a war-general level of seriousness.
“Papa said I have to bring ten cookies. We need to call Mama RIGHT now.”
Jack blinks. “Your papa said that?”
Dot nods hard. “If I not bring cookies, Cookie Man won’t say sorry.”
Jack closes his eyes. “Sure. Yeah. Perfect toddler logic. Makes total sense.”
Before he can redirect, she snatches his phone and FaceTimes you.
It rings.
No answer.
Dot tries again.
Still no answer.
She GASPS like a federal crime has been committed.
“Unca Jack… Mama’s not listening.”
Jack bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh.
Fails internally.
“Well, Bug… maybe she’s busy—”
“No,” Dot says gravely. “If Mama doesn’t listen, Papa will take her toys.”
Jack sits up straighter.
“Why would your papa take your mama’s toys?”
Dot gives him a look of deep pity.
“Papa takes everyone’s toys.”
Jack’s eyebrows launch into orbit. “He WHAT—”
Right on cue, Michael wanders in, hair a mess, looking like he slept in a ditch behind a CVS.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Dot swivels toward him immediately.
“Papa. Mama not listening. You’re gonna take her toys.”
Michael freezes. “I’m gonna—what?”
Jack gestures broadly. “Apparently this is a household dictatorship.”
Michael groans.
“How else am I supposed to get her to listen? I take something she cares about, she stops throwing yogurt on the ceiling.”
Jack explodes laughing.
Dot immediately drops into her stressed-Michael pose:
Hands on hips.
Shoulders tense.
Curls scrunched.
Big disappointed sigh.
“Papa,” she warns, voice low and deadly serious, “you are THIS close—”
She pinches her fingers together, less than a centimeter.
“THIS close to getting toys taken.”
Michael chokes. “Jesus Christ, Bug.”
Jack is screaming laughing.
Actually screaming.
And then you finally answer the third FaceTime attempt.
You catch Dot mid–power stance.
“Hi, baby—what’s—”
“MAMA,” Dot says, voice firm, “please bring ten cookies. Before Papa takes all you toys.”
You blink. “My… toys?”
Michael mutters behind her, “Not right now.”
Dot turns to Jack, fed up with the general incompetence of adulthood.
“Unca Jack,” she says with the authority of a judge, “take Papa’s toys.”
Jack wipes tears, delighted. “God, I love this assignment.”
Michael sputters. “Bug—you can’t just assign Jack to STEAL my toys.”
“You didn’t listen,” Dot says simply. “So you get your toys taken.”
Jack pats her shoulder respectfully. “Rules are rules.”
Michael points at him. “You’re a menace.”
Dot sighs like she’s forty and exhausted by everyone.
“Dot has to fix it,” she says, stretching tall like her Papa.
Jack wheezes. “She’s gonna run the trauma center one day.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose on the screen.
“Okay, sweet girl. I’ll bring the cookies.”
Dot nods, deeply satisfied.
“Good. Thank you.”
She pats Michael’s cheek gently.
“Papa, try to listen today.”
Michael closes his eyes like he’s praying.
“I’m begging the universe for strength.”
Jack whispers to him, “Yeah, buddy… you’re gonna need it.”
Dot drags Jack across the cabin like she’s leading a military operation.
“Unca Jack, I show you Papa’s toys. They on the top. The good ones.”
Jack follows, amused. “Let’s bust this thing wide open.”
Dot points dramatically at the very top shelf of the bookcase.
“There.”
Jack squints.
“Bug… those are books.”
“They Papa’s toys. Take them.”
Jack stretches up to reach
Fails instantly.
Dot gasps. “Why you no reach?”
“Because your father stores things like he’s seven feet tall,” Jack mutters.
Right then, Michael wanders in, joints cracking like he slept on gravel.
“What’s going on?”
Dot points at him, horrified.
“Papa too tall. We can’t take your toys.”
Jack snorts. “How convenient.”
“And Papa didn’t listen this morning,” Dot adds, deadly serious. “So he gets toys taken. He was this close—”
She pinches her fingers together.
“—THIS close.”
Jack loses it laughing.
Michael does not.
He straightens, tone shifting.
“Okay. Bug. Enough.”
Dot freezes.
Jack immediately steps in. “Mike—she’s picking. She’s not doing any harm—”
Michael cuts him a look sharp enough to slice steel.
“Jack, I’m not letting her act like a brat.”
Dot’s head swivels toward Jack in slow motion.
Her expression:
A WHAT???
Her tiny heart cracks right there on the hardwood floor.
Jack’s laugh dies instantly.
Michael kneels.
“Dottie. Look at Papa.”
Dot doesn’t move.
Jack looks at Michael like—fix it. FIX IT.
Michael tries again, gentler.
“Sweetheart. Look at me.”
Dot finally lifts her face, lip trembling.
Michael taps his chest.
“Who’s the Papa?”
Dot whispers, barely audible—
“…Mikey.”
Michael flinches.Like she stabbed him with a tiny emotional dagger.
He looks at Jack like: oh shit.
Jack mouths: dude.
Michael exhales shakily.
“No, baby. I’m Papa. Always.”
Dot sniffles.
“And who’s the baby?” he asks softly.
Dot wipes her nose with her fist.
“I not a baby.”
Michael sighs. “Bug—”
“No,” she insists, chin lifting. “Dot BIG. Dot fix things. Dot be be boss too.”
“That’s not how this works,” Michael says, gentler now, but firm.
“You don’t talk to Papa like that. You don’t take my toys. You don’t threaten me. That’s not okay.”
Dot crosses her arms in the exact stressed-Michael stance and mutters:
“Dot not a baby.”
Michael tries again. “Bug, listen—”
She cuts him off, voice cracking:
“Dot is NOT a BABY!”
And that’s when Michael has to pull it.
The nuclear option.
“Dorothea Lynn.”
Dot’s entire body locks up.
Jack whispers, “Oh shit.”
Her lip wobbles.
Her eyes fill.
She looks between both men like the world betrayed her.
“Papa…” she whispers, voice breaking. “Dot just want be like you.”
Michael’s face collapses.
“Oh, Bug…”
She takes a tiny shaky breath, hands balled at her ribs.
“Papa stand like this.”
She mimics his exact stressed stance.
“Papa talk like this.”
Her voice drops into miniature-Michael gravel.
“Papa make people listen.”
Tears spill down her cheeks.
“But nobody listens to Dot.”
Jack turns away, jaw clenched, swallowing hard.
Michael gathers her instantly, holding her tight, one hand on her curls, the other on her back.
“Oh, sweetheart… I hear you. Papa hears you. Always.”
Dot sniffles hard, clinging to his shirt.
“I just want be like Papa.”
Michael pulls back enough to see her eyes.
“You don’t have to be like Papa,” he murmurs. “You just have to be you. And you’re perfect.”
Dot hiccups.
“Dot not brat?”
Michael shakes his head instantly. “No, baby. You’re not a brat. You’re just three. And learning. And doing your best.”
Dot sniffles again.
“…Papa?”
“Yes, Bug?”
“Dot still mad at you.”
Jack chokes on a laugh.
Michael sighs deeply. “That’s fair.”
Dot crosses her arms again and leans into him with the dramatic resignation of a queen on her fainting couch.
“Fine. Papa fix it.”
Jack wipes his eyes. “She’s going to run the world.”
Michael kisses her hair. “She already runs this house.”
Dot pats his cheek like she’s passing judgment.
“Try harder.”
Michael stares at her.
“I… what?”
Jack HOWLS.
Dot nods solemnly, satisfied with her verdict.
“Papa, fix everything.”
Dot is finally asleep, her puffy cheeks, damp lashes, and little body melted heavy into Michael’s chest.
Michael strokes her curls absently, eyes somewhere far beyond the cabin walls.
Jack watches him for a long, quiet moment before asking softly:
“You gonna tell me what’s actually going on, man?”
Michael exhales slowly, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath all morning.
“I thought I’d be too old for this,” he murmurs.
“For her. For… all this.”
Jack’s eyebrows lift.
Not the direction he expected.
Michael keeps going, voice thin around the edges.
“When I met Y/N… I told myself I could handle a relationship. I could handle moving. I could handle cleaning up my life.”
He swallows. “But a kid?”
Jack doesn’t interrupt.
Michael’s thumb brushes Dot’s cheek.
“I told myself not to get attached.”
Jack snorts. “How long did that last?”
Michael huffs a humorless laugh.
“Forty-eight hours.”
Jack grins. “Yeah. Sounds right.”
Michael looks back down at Dot, expression softening painfully.
“She wrapped her fingers around my heart so fast, Jack. Sometimes I forget…”
His voice falters.
“…biologically, she’s not even mine.”
Jack stares at him like he’s speaking absolute nonsense.
“No offense,” Jack finally says, “but what the hell are you talking about?”
Michael blinks. “I just mean moments like today happen, and I think… maybe I overstepped. Maybe she doesn’t see me as—”
Jack lifts a hand abruptly.
“Stop. Stop right there.”
Michael falls silent.
Jack gestures at Dot who is limp as a noodle, drooling on Michael’s shirt like she pays rent for the privilege.
“Exhibit A: she is literally laying on your chest like it’s her permanent residence.”
Michael’s lips twitch.
Jack points again, firmer.
“Exhibit B: she calls you Papa like it’s her favorite word on earth.”
Michael swallows hard.
“And Exhibit C,” Jack adds, leaning forward,
“she copies everything you do. The stance. The tone. The disappointed sigh. The finger pinch. If she could grow your five o’clock shadow, she would.”
Michael snorts, the first real laugh since the meltdown.
Jack softens, voice low.
“Bug didn’t call you Mikey because she forgot you’re Papa.”
He pauses.
“She called you Mikey because she was scared she messed up with the person she loves most.”
Michael closes his eyes, breathing unevenly.
“You should’ve seen your face,” Jack adds gently. “Like someone ripped out a rib.”
“It… gutted me,” Michael whispers.
Jack nods.
“Yeah. Because you’re her dad. Full stop. Biology be damned.”
Michael rubs Dot’s back slowly, his eyes glistening.
“You think so?”
Jack gives him a look, half amused, half deeply, painfully sincere.
“Brother, I don’t think — I know. That kid would fight the boogeyman for you.”
Right on cue, Dot stirs, mumbling into Michael’s shirt:
“Papa…”
Jack smirks. “See? Even asleep, she’s choosing you.”
Michael laughs through his nose, emotion softening into something warm and steady.
He presses a kiss into her curls.
“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess she does.”
Jack pats his shoulder gruffly.
“Good. Now stop spiraling. You’re making me feel feelings.”
Michael rolls his eyes. “You have feelings?”
Jack gasps mockingly. “Don’t spread it around. I have a reputation.”
They share a quiet laugh, and for the first time all morning, Michael looks at Dot…
…and doesn’t wonder if he’s enough.
He knows he is.
You pull up to the cabin with a Tupperware full of still-warm cookies in your hands, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you step out.
Before you can even knock, the door swings open.
Jack stands there barefoot, prosthetic off, hair sticking straight up like he’s been stress-electrocuted.
He eyes the cookies like salvation.
“Oh thank god,” he murmurs. “Dot's gonna declare peace for at least six minutes.”
You lift the container a little.
“Special delivery. For the Cookie Man negotiations.”
Jack snorts, but there’s a weight behind it.
He glances over your shoulder toward the driveway, checking that Michael and Dot aren’t within earshot.
Then he steps closer, voice dropping.
“Hey… before you go in, wanna give you a heads up.”
Your stomach tightens. “What happened?”
Jack drags a hand over his face, exhaling long and slow.
“Oh, just Michael having a full-blown emotional crisis because Bug called him Mikey for the first time since you moved in.”
It hits you harder than you expect.
“…Oh.”
Jack nods, grimacing.
“Yeah. He just—he folded. Guy looked like someone pulled the ground out from under him.”
Your heart aches. “Is he okay?”
“No,” Jack admits quietly. “He thinks she doesn’t see him as her dad anymore.”
Your breath stutters. “Oh no…”
“Oh yes,” Jack murmurs. “Then he tried to correct her, she said she’s not a baby, and he had to drop the full-name nuclear option and—”
He freezes mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at you.
“Her name is Dorothea Lynn?”
You wince. “…You didn’t know?”
Jack whisper-shouts, hands flying up dramatically:
“NO, I DID NOT KNOW. You’re over here naming her like she’s about to inherit a plantation and no one thought to mention it?!”
Despite the knot in your chest, a small laugh slips out.
“It never came up!”
Jack shakes his head, but a reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.
Then the smile fades.
“And Michael—” Jack sighs, running his thumb across his eyebrow in a nervous tic.
“He told me he forgets sometimes that biologically she’s not his. And then he hates himself for forgetting. And then he hates himself for remembering.”
The breath leaves your lungs.
“…Oh, Jack.”
Jack softens, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, dropping the sarcasm entirely.
“He loves that kid so damn much it makes him reckless. And today? He’s convinced he screwed up. That he pushed her too hard. That the full-name thing broke something.”
Your chest aches painfully.
“Where is he now?”
“In the living room,” Jack says. “Holding her. Quiet. Too quiet. You know how he gets when he’s blaming himself.”
Yeah.
You know exactly.
Jack nods toward the doorway, voice gentler than you’ve heard from him in a long time.
“Maybe you go in first. He needs someone who doesn’t look like a mirror.”
You swallow, hard.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Jack nods once. “Anytime.”
He steps back, letting you pass, then throws one more comment over his shoulder, softer this time, not teasing but affectionate in that Jack Abbot way:
“…And seriously, when are you changing all our last names? Just trying to plan my calendar.”
You manage a wet laugh, swatting his arm as you walk past.
“Go put your leg on, Abbot. The Cookie Man awaits.”
Jack salutes.
“Yes ma’am.”
You step into the cabin, warm air hitting your face, and spot Michael on the couch, Dot asleep on his chest, his hand resting over her back like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.
His eyes lift when he hears you.
He tries to smile.
He doesn’t succeed.
And you feel your heart break twice in the same second.
You’ve never seen him look quite like this.
Not tired.
Not overwhelmed.
Just… afraid he made a mistake he can’t fix.
“Hey,” you murmur.
Michael swallows. “Hey.”
You sit beside him, close enough he can feel the warmth but not touching unless he chooses.
He stares down at Dot again, breath shaky.
“She—uh…” He clears his throat. “Rough morning.”
“I heard,” you whisper.
He huffs a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
“I didn’t mean to be so hard on her,” he admits.
“She just—she pushes, and I know she pushes because she wants to help, but I can’t—”
His voice cracks once.
“—I can’t let her think she has to carry everything. She’s three.”
Your chest tightens.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Michael opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “She called me Mikey, and it just… it felt like she’d stepped back from me. Like I scared her off.”
“You didn’t,” you say firmly. “She wasn’t rejecting you. She was overwhelmed.”
He nods, but it’s not an I-believe-you nod.
It’s the kind you give when you want to believe but your heart hasn’t caught up yet.
You rest your hand lightly on the couch cushion beside his, not touching him, but close — an invitation.
His eyes flick to your hand before returning to Dot.
“She hasn’t called me Mikey since we moved into my place,” he says, voice quiet and raw.
“That name was from before I earned anything. Before I…”
He exhales shakily.
“Before I got to be her Papa.”
Your heart pulls so sharply it almost hurts.
“Michael,” you whisper, “you are her Papa. Every way that matters.”
Something shifts in his expression, a soft, pained flicker, but before either of you can say more—
Dot stirs.
It’s subtle at first: a tiny wrinkle of her nose, a little wiggle, a sleepy whine.
Then—
Her eyes pop open.
She scans the room once.
Locks eyes with you.
And launches.
Like a koala being shot out of a cannon, she flings herself bodily across Michael’s lap and INTO you.
“MAMA!”
You grunt as thirty pounds of emotionally volatile toddler slams into your sternum.
“Hi, baby,” you wheeze.
Bug wraps arms and legs around you like a starfish that’s chosen violence and clinging.
Michael instinctively supports her back so she doesn’t somersault off the couch, but Dot is already firmly suction-cupped to you.
She buries her face in your neck, breathing fast, hiccuping once.
“Mama… Mama… Mama…”
Little fists curl into your shirt.
“Dot miss you.”
Your hand goes automatically to her hair, thumb stroking her curls.
“I missed you too, sweetheart.”
Michael watches, his jaw softening, shoulders lowering in relief, and an ache mixing in his eyes.
Dot doesn’t even glance at him.
She is fully glued to Mama, no room for other thoughts.
You adjust her, kissing her temple.
“Did you have a rough morning?”
Dot nods violently.
“Cookie Man and Mikey—Mikey say Dot a baby.”
Michael’s whole face folds inward.
He looks physically smaller, like the sentence punched the air out of him.
You rub Dot’s back slowly.
“My baby…”
Dot stiffens at the word.
“Mama,” she whispers urgently, “Dot no wanna be baby.”
You ease her back just enough to see her face.
“Why not, sweetheart?”
Dot mumbles incoherently nto your collarbone:
“Sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing a curl from her forehead, “why are you calling Papa, Mikey?”
Dot sniffles, looking between you and Michael like she’s bracing for consequences.
“’Cuz Unca Jack do,” she mumbles.
Jack, who just entered the room mid-cookie, freezes like a deer in headlights.
“Whoa—HEYYY—don’t drag me into this—”
Dot keeps going, voice tiny and pitiful and absolutely lethal:
“Unca Jack cool. Dot wanna be cool too.”
You blink.
Jack blinks.
Michael dies inside.
Dot soldiers on, pointing at Jack with all the solemnity of someone giving sworn testimony:
“Cool like Unca Jack… and scary like Papa.”
Michael jerks like someone slapped him.
“Scary??” he blurts.
Dot immediately shakes her head.
“No! No-no-no—Papa not scary.”
Michael blinks.
“…Then why did you say—”
Dot frowns hard, frustrated, trying to gather words she doesn’t have.
She stands on your thighs, tiny hands waving like she’s conducting a storm.
“Papa not scary like monsters,” she says firmly.
“Papa scary like… like… big! Like—big voice! Big… rules! Big… Papa!”
You bite your lip so you don’t smile.
Michael looks wrecked and confused.
Dot keeps going, hands flying faster.
“Papa say ‘Doro-fee-a Lynn’ and Dot tummy go sick and Dot brain goes AH! and then Dot wanna—wanna—”
She stomps once.
“Wanna be BIG too!”
She plants her feet apart, hands on hips, eyebrows furrowed in her best Michael impression.
“Told you,” Jack mutters. “She’s been studying you like flashcards.”
Dot continues, determined and breathless:
“Papa not scary. Papa just—Papa TALK like scary. And WALK like scary. And… and when Papa put hands on hips then everyone listen.”
Then she looks at you, wide-eyed.
“Mama… Dot wanna make people listen too.”
Michael’s face breaks, right in front of you — the guilt, the heartbreak, the love, all tangled.
You cup Dot’s cheeks gently.
“Oh, baby… Papa wasn’t trying to scare you.”
Dot thinks on that.
Hard.
Then looks at Michael, confused and earnest:
“Papa… you not scary?”
Michael swallows.
“Only when I have to be,” he admits. “To keep you safe.”
Dot processes that with the seriousness of a Supreme Court justice.
Then she nods once.
“Okay.”
“And if Dot BIG…” Her voice softens and hands fall.
“…then Papa love Dot forever?”
Michael’s soul leaves his body.
He freezes.
Jack freezes.
You swear the air freezes.
Dot continues, tiny and heartbreakingly sincere:
“Dot wanna go work with Papa. Dot miss Papa when he work. Dot wanna be big so Papa no leave Dot. Big people go with Papa.”
And right there, that’s the wound.
Not disrespect.
Not rebellion.
Fear.
Loneliness.
Missing him.
You kneel, gently taking her little face in your hands.
“Oh, my baby,” you whisper, “Papa loves you forever no matter what size you are.”
Dot’s eyes shine with confused, terrified hope.
“…Even if Dot small?”
Michael finally finds his voice, barely.
“Bug,” he whispers, coming closer, “come here.”
Dot walks to him slowly, like she’s afraid he’ll disappear.
Michael kneels so they’re eye level.
His voice is raw.
“I love you forever,” he says.
“No matter if you’re big, or small, or loud, or messy, or mad, or scared, or sleepy, or ANYTHING.”
Dot sniffles, staring at him like she’s testing every inch of his face for truth.
“And Bug,” he adds softly, “you don’t need to be big to go with me. You just need to be my baby girl.”
Dot’s chin wobbles.
“Dot misses Papa when he works.”
Michael swallows hard.
“I miss you too,” he whispers.
Dot steps forward and presses her forehead to his.
“Dot wanna stay with Papa. Forever.”
Michael closes his eyes—just for a second—like he’s trying not to shatter.
Then he pulls her into a hug so gentle it aches to watch.
“You can,” he murmurs. “You always can.”
She melts into him, finally letting herself be small.
Jack,quiet for once, looks away with a tight jaw.
You sit beside them, brushing Dot’s curls.
She sighs into Michael’s shoulder.
“Okay…” she whispers, sleepy and soft now.
“ I be big later. I be Mama baby now.”
And for the first time all morning Michael breathes.
Dot marches toward the dock with righteous fury vibrating through her tiny body, clutching her cookie like a holy relic.
You follow behind holding the Tupperware.
Michael trudges after you like a man being escorted to his own execution.
Jack limps beside Dot, his hood up, sunglasses on, like a veteran returning to the battlefield that stole his youth, dignity, and leg.
Dot plants her feet at the edge of the dock.
“COOKIE MAN!” she bellows. “DOT HERE!”
Jack nods like a war general.
“That’s right. Call him out.”
Michael rubs his face. “Jack, for the love of god—please don’t encourage—”
Dot raises a cookie high over her head, hand trembling with emotion.
“COOKIE MAN! DOT DEMAND SORRY FOR UNCA JACK LEG!”
Jack whispers, voice haunted:
“He never apologized to me either, Bug.”
Dot’s gasp is feral.
“He rude.”
“Deeply rude,” Jack agrees solemnly.
Dot throws the cookie into the lake with the solemnity of an ancient ritual sacrifice.
Plop.
Jack nods.
“A worthy offering.”
Michael mutters, “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Dot stamps her foot hard enough to shake the planks.
“COOKIE MAN! WE NOT AFRAID!”
And then—
RIBBIT.
A frog hops onto the dock post.
Everyone freezes.
You whisper, “Oh no.”
Dot inhales—
—and unleashes a scream so powerful the surrounding wildlife rewrites its migration pattern.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!! HE HERE!! HE COME FOR DOT LEG!!”
She LATCHES onto Michael like she’s mountaineering for her life:
One leg hooked around his waist
One arm choking his neck
The other pointing at the frog with betrayal and sorrow
“PAPA! SAVE DOT! HE TAKE DOT LEG TOO!”
Michael flails.
“It is a FROG—BABY, it is a frog—”
Dot shakes her head violently.
“NOOOO! THAT HIM! HE TINY BUT EVIL!”
The frog ribbits again.
Dot scrambles higher, practically perched on Michael’s shoulder now like a panicked parrot.
Jack is wheezing, tears streaming.
“Oh my god—Bug—Bug, calm—”
Dot spins on him with horror.
“UNCA JACK! HE TAKE YOUR LEG FIRST!! YOU NEXT!!”
Jack stops laughing IMMEDIATELY.
“…Oh hell no.”
Dot grabs your arm next.
“Mama! SAVE DOT! SAVE UNCA JACK TOO—NO, NO—HE ALREADY LOST A PIECE—MAMA, WE HAVE TO GO!”
Jack scoops her out of Michael’s grip like he’s rescuing a hostage.
“We need to leave,” Jack says, alarmed. “Bug and I—we’ve BEEN to war with this guy. Good luck to you two.”
Michael: “What—WHAT—Jack, get back here—”
Jack shakes his head, backing away fast.
“Nope. I fought the Cookie Man once already. I know my limits.”
Dot clings to him like a koala strapped to a rocket.
“WE LEAVE, UNCA JACK! RUN!”
Jack salutes gravely.
“You heard the girl. We’re out.”
Michael stands abandoned on the dock.
“You’re both running from a FROG??”
Dot shouts over Jack’s shoulder:
“MAMA! PAPA! GOOD LUCK! DOT LOVE YOU! DOT SEE YOU IN HEAVEN!”
You nearly collapse laughing.
Michael, defeated by life, shouts back:
“IT. IS. A. FROG.”
The frog ribbits once more, smugly, almost triumphantly.
Dot shrieks again.
Jack turns and sprints toward the cabin (as much as a man with one leg can sprint), yelling:
“YOU TWO ARE ON YOUR OWN! GODSPEED!”
Dot:
“RUN UNCA JACK! I HOLD COOKIE FOR PROTECTION!”
Michael stands on the dock, hands on his hips, staring at the frog like he’s reconsidering every life choice that brought him here.
“…I hate this family,” he mutters.
You pat his shoulder gently.
“No you don’t.”
He sighs, resigned.
“…No. I don’t.”
Back inside the cabin, the chaos drains away.
Jack gently sets Dottie down on the couch, but she immediately climbs into your lap, exhausted from fear, yelling, and righteous Cookie Man warfare.
Her curls are damp with sweat.
Her cheeks blotchy.
Her tiny chest still hiccuping.
You smooth a hand down her back.
“There you go, my baby. You’re safe now.”
She buries her face in your shirt, voice small and muffled.
“I tired…”
Michael kneels beside you, brushing a curl from her forehead.
“You were really brave out there,” he murmurs.
“Papa’s proud of you.”
She doesn’t answer.
Just stares past both of you at Jack, who is sitting in the armchair, rubbing the junction of his stump with an absent, practiced hand.
Something in her expression shifts.
Heavy.
Painful.
Sad.
Dot slides down unsteadily from your thighs and toddles toward Jack slowly, purposeful, like she’s walking toward a truth too big for her small body.
Jack looks up, surprised.
“Hey, Dottie Girl.”
She climbs into his lap wordlessly and rests a tiny hand on the place where his prosthetic meets skin.
Her voice is fragile, cracking around the edges:
“Unca Jack leg… not come back.”
Jack stills.
Michael’s breath catches behind you.
“No, Bug,” Jack says softly. “It won’t.”
Dot swallows, eyes filling.
“Dot try so hard,” she whispers.
“Dot brave. Dot yell at lake. Dot bring cookies.”
Her chin trembles.
“Dot try to fix it.”
Jack’s face bends into something soft and aching.
“Bug,” he murmurs, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”
Her bottom lip wobbles violently.
She pushes out the next words like they’re too heavy to hold:
“Dot… dot no fix your pieces.”
Jack’s throat works.
Slowly, he cups the back of her head.
“Bug,” he whispers, “I don’t need all my pieces.”
Dot’s breath catches.
Jack leans his forehead gently against hers.
“I got the ones that matter.”
Dot stares at him, long, serious, toddler-confused, still trying to understand.
Then something clicks.
Something huge.
She lifts both hands to Jack’s cheeks and cups his face with her tiny palms.
“I love you, Unca Jack.”
Jack freezes.
You hear Michael inhale sharply behind you, shaky, unsteady.
Dot nods once, like she needs to clarify:
“Dot love ALL your pieces.”
She touches his stump again softly.
“Even the ones not here.”
Jack’s eyes shine, but he blinks hard, pretending it’s nothing.
Dot keeps going, her voice hushed, earnest:
“You cool,” she says.
“And pretty.”
A small sniff.
“And Dot no need your other leg. Dot like THIS you.”
Jack lets out a tiny, broken laugh, the sound caught somewhere between joy and grief, and pulls her tight against his chest, arms wrapping around her as if she’s something fragile he can’t believe he’s allowed to hold.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he whispers, voice thick, “you’re killing me.”
Dot melts into his shoulder, sniffling softly.
“Dot love you,” she repeats, quieter now, sleepy and brave all at once.
Jack closes his eyes.
“I love you too,” he murmurs.
“No pieces missing. Not for you.”
For a long moment no one speaks. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and Dot’s soft, even breathing. Michael’s hand has stopped moving in her curls; he’s staring at the two of them like he’s witnessing something sacred he’s terrified to disturb.
Even Jack, the man who weaponizes sarcasm the way other people breathe, doesn’t have a joke ready.
Dot is fully asleep now, tiny body molded to Jack’s chest like she was engineered to fit there.
Her little fist still clutches his shirt.
He adjusts her automatically, rocking her without thinking.
Michael finds his voice again, soft and a little smug.
“There — right there — you’re rocking.”
Jack glances down at himself like he’s caught committing a misdemeanor.
“I— she— LOOK, this is a balance thing!”
You and Michael stare blankly.
Jack scowls, defeated.
“…Fine. Maybe I’m rocking her a little.”
Dot snuggles deeper, cheek squished adorably against his collarbone.
Jack melts.
Michael smirks. “This is incredible. I’m witnessing history.”
Jack shoots him a look sharp enough to cut surgical steel.
“Not. One. Word.”
Michael raises both hands. “Relax. Not like anyone listens to me anymore anyway.”
Jack snorts. “Yeah, that’s new.”
Michael glares. “Jack, my reputation is already ruined.”
Jack pauses, confused. “How?”
Michael sighs like a man who has accepted his fate.
“Because a certain toddler started calling me Papa Bear, and now ALL the med students AND residents call me that.”
Jack blinks.
Then cackles.
“Oh my god. They really call you Papa Bear?”
Michael rubs his face. “Every day. In rounds. In consults. In the parking lot.”
Jack is dying.
He's wheezing.
Dot stirs, and Jack tries to swallow his laughter like a grenade.
“Papa Bear,” he mutters. “Christ. You’re never living that down.”
Michael glares again. “Which is EXACTLY why you do NOT want her calling you ‘Unca Jack’ in public.”
Jack freezes.
“Oh fuck no.”
“Yep.”
“Absolutely not.”
Michael nods solemnly.
Jack leans closer, whispering fiercely:
“I will punch someone. I don’t even care who.”
You pat his knee. “No one’s calling you that.”
Jack points emphatically to the sleeping toddler in his arms.
“She is the ONLY one allowed.”
Dot murmurs:
“Unca Jack… pretty…”
Jack melts again, instantly undone.
Michael grins like the world’s smuggest man.
“You’re going to be called that for the rest of your life if she slips up once.”
Jack’s whole soul leaves his body.
“No. No. I refuse. If any of those med students call me Unca Jack, I swear to god—”
He lowers his voice, leaning in like a man confessing a war crime.
“—I will remind them why I was a decorated veteran.”
You choke on a laugh.
Michael snorts. “Jack, you can’t threaten the staff.”
“I’m not threatening,” Jack says innocently, while absolutely threatening.
“I’m… educating.”
Dot shifts, nuzzling her cheek into his chest.
Jack softens instantly, traitorously.
Michael catches it.
You catch it.
Jack realizes you caught it.
He panics.
“THIS DOESN’T LEAVE THIS ROOM,” he hisses.
“If the residents start calling me ‘Papa Jack’ or anything equally stupid—”
Michael loses it. “OH MY GOD, Papa Jack—”
Jack points at him in pure violence.
“Try it,” he growls. “Try it and see how fast you end up with a matching leg.”
Dot sighs contentedly, drooling her approval onto his shirt.
Jack slumps, defeated.
“…I’m a goner,” he mutters.
Then, quieter:
“But only for her.”
a/n: hey babes!! welcome to the very first installment of the Dottie Diaries 🧸✨ this one was so fun to write, and I really hope you love my tiny tyrant as much as I do. let me know if you wanna see more — and yes, there may be a little Rabbot chaos brewing in future entries 👀💕
