When he's a golden retriever in public but anything but that in bed
He's always had a personality in the public of oh he's too sweet and charming, the golden retriever, cutie who helps old ladies cross the street, the one who crams his girlfriend's family members names and birthdays, the one who carries all your shopping bags and never let's you lift a finger, who takes you out on dates to celebrate any achievement, who drives you everywhere. He's the perfect text book golden retriever boyfriend in public but in private it's a whole different story
When he has you face down in the bed sheets crying from over stimulation as he plows back and forth into you whilst you're shaking and barely staying up on your knees if not for his hands keeping you on your knees and arching your back perfectly so he can fuck your cunt just how he wants.
"S'too much" you slur out whilst squeeze the sheets beneath you to get a sense of stability "sorry love it's just that you look so good today─ and everyone kept looking at you and nngh fuck" he rasps when you squeeze around his swollen cock, the compliments going from your head all the way to your cunt.
Nobody would think that it's your boyfriend who couldn't hurt a fly that has his hand squeezing the fat of your hips and fucking up into your ass and rearranging your guts.
"S─shit right t─there" you whine while he pistons into your with his balls slapping against your clit driving you crazy, every thrust sending closer and closer over the edge.
The sheer size of him overwhelming you backed with how many times he's made you cum has tears running down your face and ruining your makeup
"S──so tight, all mine fu─ck... No one else mine mine MINE nghh" he's so fare gone after going about this for hours his cock twitching inside you.
"I'm gonna, I'm c─cum─" you cry into the pillow body shuddering all over, eyes rolling back hips snapping back into his cock, spasming and gushing all over his cock. Finally you felt his cum flowing deep into you fill you up to the brim the frothy mix of both of your releases forming a ring at the bottom of his dick.
Still recovering from the high you notice he hasn't stopped moving in you, his cock is still going at that punishing pace, like he doesn't even realize he's still fucking you and talking to himself in a daze "ah fuck so good baby , too good your pussy feels too aghh"
Summary: A routine ER shift takes a sharp turn when a Jane Doe arrives wearing Jack’s dog tags.
A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
This day wasn't out of the ordinary for you.
Jack had been called into the hospital, so you decided to run some errands instead. Just another walk through the city, another stretch of pavement leading you towards your favourite café. The street was bustling with lunchtime rush, people brushing past without even looking up, all of it so normal you stopped noticing anything outside your immediate line of sight.
You don’t see the window workers until it’s already too late.
There’s a shout, somewhere overhead, sharp, distant, dismissed instantly by your brain as background chaos.
Then something shifts overhead.
A shadow.
A sudden loss of control.
Like something heavy slipping when it shouldn’t.
You look up.
The bucket tips over the edge, half full, unbalanced, too far gone to recover.
You have no time to react.
It drops straight down.
The impact is immediate and brutal, striking the top of your head with enough force to erase thoughts.
Air leaves you all once.
Your body goes back with force, the concrete of the sidewalks rushing up before you can even register that you’re falling.
You don’t feel the landing.
You’re already gone before your body makes contact.
The ambulance door swings open hard.
Two paramedics rush in with a stretcher.
“Female, roughly mid-thirties–struck by falling debris,” one of the paramedics calls.
Whitaker is already moving.
“Trauma Two is open,” someone shouts from the nurses’ station.
The stretcher rolls in fast.
“Unconscious on scene,” the paramedic continues. “Hasn’t come around yet. GSC eight.”
Monitors are attached within seconds. An IV is started. Hands move quickly, practiced, efficient.
Whitaker is at the bedside now, eyes already scanning your injuries.
“Witness said that the window cleaner’s bucket fell from a height,” A paramedic informs. “She went down immediately.”
“ID?” Whitaker asks without looking up.
“None,” the paramedic says, already reaching into his pocket. “But we found this on her.”
He places a chain into Whitaker’s hand.
Dog tags.
Whitaker’s focus sharpens instantly.
That changes everything.
He takes them without hesitation, already thinking they’ve just been handed the easiest part of the case. A name means history, allergies, blood type, everything they need.
“Good,” he says under his breath, almost relieved. “We got lucky.”
He flips the broken tags over.
And stops.
Abbot. Jack.
O Negative.
Fuck.
For a second, the noise of the room is completely drowned out, as if it had been pulled underwater.
He reads it again, more slowly this time, in case the name changes.
It doesn’t.
“...Jesus,” He mutters, barely audible.
A nurse glances over. “You know her?”
Whitaker doesn't answer right away. His grip tightens slightly on the chain, metal pressing into his palm like letting go of it would make this situation even worse.
Because this wasn’t luck.
This was a problem.
A large one.
But more importantly, a very specific one
“Page, Dr. Robby,” he says, voice sharper now. “And Dr. Abbot. Now.”
The nurse moves immediately at the order.
Whitaker set the tags down carefully on the tray beside you, as if they were the most important thing in this room.
Robby arrives first.
He doesn't rush in. He lets his residents lead, but the moment he steps into Trauam Two, the atmosphere shifts anyway.
“What’ve we got?” he asks, pulling on a pair of gloves.
Whitaker doesn't answer right away.
Not because he doesn't know what's going on, but because he can’t quite find the words that fit.
Instead, he shifts slightly so Robby can see you.
Not the monitors. Not the chart.
You.
Robby’s expression changes instantly. Subtle, but complete. The kind of shift that happens when a doctor stops seeing a case and starts seeing a person.
He steps closer without even thinking.
His hand finds your wrist automatically, checking your pulse. His other hand moves to your eyes, checking pupils, clinical instinct kicking in.
“Found down,” a nurse says quickly. “Struck by falling debris—window cleaner’s bucket. Unconscious on scene, brief loss of consciousness, GCS eight.”
Robby nods, but there’s a little delay in it, like the information is landing half a beat too slow.
His hand stays on your wrist a fraction longer than necessary.
“I paged Abbot.”
“How—” he starts, confused, the word barely out.
He doesn’t finish.
Because Whitaker lifts his hand, the broken chain rests between his fingers.
Just enough for Robby to see it clearly.
Dog tags.
Everything in Robby’s expression shifts. Not shock. Recognition. Then something worse. Like the entire situation snaps into place all at once.
“...Oh no,” he says quietly.
His eyes flick back to you immediately.
Because this isn’t just some random patient.
This is Jack’s wife.
Robby straightened slightly, like his body was trying to catch up with what his brain already knew.
“No,” he says under his breath, already shaking his head once. “No-no, no…”
Whitaker starts to say something. “Robby—”
But Robby isn’t listening anymore.
His attention shifts toward the door like he can feel it before it happens.
“He’s coming,” Robby says, more to himself than anyone else.
A pause.
“Fuck.” Robby exhales through his nose, one hand dragging over his face as he looks back at you again.
You’re still unconscious. Still pale. Still completely unaware of who's about to walk in.
Whitaker tries again. “Robby—”
And that's when it finally clicks in his head.
“He can’t see her like this,” Robby says, firmer now, like he’s locking onto the only thing that matters.
Not like this.
And he’s already halfway to the door, trying to get there before Jack does.
Robby barely makes it halfway across the room before the door pushes open again.
Jack.
He’s already moving fast, eyes ready to assess the situation before anyone even speaks.
“What do we have?” he asks, breath just slightly off from the rush. “You paged me.”
Robby steps in front of him, blocking the doorway without hesitation.
“Hey”
Jack frowns, thrown off more by that than anything else. “What are you doing?”
“Jack-”
“Move,” Jack says, sharper now, trying to step around him to assist the patient.
Robby doesn’t. “You can’t go in there.”
That stops him.
“What?” Jack let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Robby, what are you talking about?”
Behind him, the room keeps moving. Voices, monitors, motion, but Jack can’t see any of it past the barrier in front of him.
“Just—wait,” Robby says, quieter now.
“No,” Jack shakes his head, already trying to step around him. “No, don’t page me and then tell me to wait. Move.”
Robby shifts just an inch, and for a split second, it is enough.
An angle opens up.
Just enough for Jack to see.
There are doctors and nurses,
The bed.
You.
Unconscious.
Blood matted into your hair, dark against your skin. Clothes still damp, clinging in the wrong places.
Everything in him stops.
The sound of the room drops out completely.
“…No,” he breathes.
Robby moves immediately to block his view again.
“Jack,” he says firmly. “You can’t—”
“That’s my wife,” Jack cuts in, voice breaking under it despite his effort to hold it together. “What happened?”
He tries to move forward again. His brain tries to process what he is seeing. His weight shifts subconsciously to his real leg to ground him. But it all hits at once, too fast, too much.
“…No,” he breathes, barely there.
“Jack,” he says, low and steady. “You can’t—”
Robby stops him, hands on his chest this time.
“You cannot go in there,” Robby says, stronger now. “You know that.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know,” Robby answers. “But you will if you make a mistake.”
That lands.
Not because it calms Jack’s nerves, but because it forces clarity through the panic.
If he treats you like this… he could make it worse.
Jack’s breathing is uneven. His eyes keep trying to find you past Robby’s shoulder.
But he can’t.
“Let us do our job,” Robby says, quieter now. “We’ve got her.”
Jack doesn’t move.
Doesn’t agree but doesn't try to push past him again either.
A long, stretched-out second passes.
Then Jack steps back.
Just one step.
Like it costs him more than anything else today.
Robby watches him carefully, like he expects him to surge back towards him.
But Jack just… goes still.
The fight drains out of him all at once, as something snapped.
He turns away without another word.
The roof is silent when Robby and Whitaker find him.
Jack is at the edge, hands gripping the metal railing, shoulder tight. Not leaning over, just holding on. Like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.
The city stretches out in front og him.
He doesn’t turn.
They both know he heard them.
Robby glances once at Whitaker, then back to Jack.
“She’s stable,” he says.
No response.
Whitaker steps a little closer. “Vitals are holding. We’re sending her for CT—possible concussion, maybe a small bleed, but nothing immediately life-threatening.”
Still nothing.
Robby moves a little closer, not too fast.
“She’s going to be okay,”
That gets a reaction.
Barely.
Jack exhales slowly, the sound rough, like he’s been holding it in too long.
He doesn’t turn around.
“…Did she wake up?” he asks.
“No,” Whitaker answers. “Not yet.”
Jack nods once.
Silence returns, wind cutting across the roof.
Whitaker hesitates for a second, then—
“She had your tags on.”
That lands differently.
Something in Jack breaks, just a little.
A quiet, breathless laugh slips out of him, completely out of place against everything else.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough.
He shakes his head once, like he can’t believe it even now. “She hates rings.”
A tear slips down before he can stop it.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
He just stands there, staring out at the city, holding onto the railing like it’s the only solid thing left.
Back in your room, everything is calmer now.
Monitors still beep steadily, machines still running, but the urgency is gone, replaced with something calmer. Controlled
Jack hesitates in the doorway before stepping in.
He takes you in slowly this time, like he’s afraid moving too fast will break the moment.
A sudden movement pulls his focus.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here.”
Your brows pull together slightly, a small reaction to the sounds of his voice.
Then your eyes flutter.
They open slowly.
Heavy.
Disoriented.
A small sound escapes you when the lights make contact with your eyes.
“Easy, babe,” he murmurs. “Don’t try to move too fast.”
You blink a few times, trying to focus.
Everything hurts. It’s too bright, too loud. Your head is throbbing.
“...Jack?” Your voice is rough, barely there.
“Yeah,” Jack says quietly, catching it. “Head’s gonna hurt. You took a bucket to the head.”
Your eyes finally land on him, and you just stare as if your brain is trying to catch up.
“I’m here,” he says again.
Relief flashes across your face. Small. Real. Your shoulder loosens, and seeing him suddenly makes everything feel less chaotic.
“You look mad,” you murmur weakly. That gets a faint breath out of him, almost a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I was.”
His hand finds yours carefully, grounding you.
“But you’re okay,” he adds. “That’s what matters.”
Your eyes drift shut for half a moment, exhaustion pulling at you.
“Mm,” you hum faintly. “Feels like I lost a battle.”
Jack huffs under his breath. “You did,” he says. “Badly.”
A faint smile tugs at your mouth, even through the ache.
“Rude,” you whisper.
Then your fingers shift against the sheet.
“Hey,” you say softly.
“Yeah?”
Your eyes flick to his chest.
“…Not on me,” you murmur.
Jack looks down at you. “What?”
“The tags,” you say, voice still rough but more alert now. “They’re not on my neck,”
You expect them to be there; they have been for years.
Jack exhales through his nose, almost amused.
He reaches into his pocket.
Carefully, he pulls out the chain.
His dog tags.
Worn. Familiar. Still his.
He places them gently into your hand.
“That’s how they identified you, Mrs. Abbot,” he says quietly.
That makes your expression shift, softening, something warm and tried underneath it.
Then your eyes drop the break.
The link halfway down snapped from the impact.
“Oh,” you murmur. “It’s broken,”
“Yeah,” he answers. “We’ll fix it.”
You study him for a second, still holding onto the chain lightly as if it grounds you.
“Thankfully,” you murmur, “the government likes labelling their property.”
That gets a quiet breath out of him.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You nod faintly.
“Very official,” you add. “Important documentation.”
Jack shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“And what,” he says, voice lower now, teasing, “are you properly of?”
You don’t even hesitate.
“You.”
The teasing fades out of his expression for a second, something quieter replacing it.
“…Yeah?” he asks softly.
Your grip on the tags tightens just slightly.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Been that way for a while.”
He holds your hand a little tighter.
“Good,” he says quietly.
Then, softer:
“Keep it that way.”
Your eyes start to drift again, exhaustion pulling at you.
ᝰ.ᐟDomestic dominance headcanons I can’t stop thinking about
Guiding you through streets with a hand on your hips, moving past you in the kitchen by grabbing your hips or waist to nudge you aside. Maybe they're holding a hot pan or plate and will gently guide you aside with a hand on your hips and words like "Careful baby—there we go, good girl".
Make you keep eye contact with them whenever you speak, it could be you rambling on about your day fidgeting with something on your lap and they will guide you to look up with two fingers to your chin, gently coaxing you to meet their eyes, "Hey, eyes on me, pretty".
Always making sure you're fed. You're busy with work, typing one email after the other and they will come up behind you tap on your cheek and press a fruit slice to your lips "Open. Now" and you do because there's no other choice.
It's always the one worded commands that make you lose it.
"Sit."
"Come here."
"Stop."
You don't carry bags or touch door handles around them and if you try, "what did i say?" With that stern look that makes you shut up instantly.
Pulling you between their legs while they're on a call, pressing your back to their chest as their hand travels up your shirt and traces lazy patterns against your stomach while they talk, making you shudder.
You say something snarky, bratty, they just give you the look, lean in and say "That's not how you speak to me. Try again".
Knows when your exhausted and will come shut your laptop for you with a simple "You're done" and drag you off to bed over their shoulder if your unwilling to leave.
Makes sure you're hydrated, if your water bottle is not as empty as they wish they will simply place it in your hands and cross their arms, standing over you. "Drink. Now".
Will always put your seatbelt on for you, usually with a snarky "There. Try not to die".
Always offering you the best seat in the house with a pat on their lap "Come. Sit."
the silliest drabble. husband!nanami/fem!reader, daddykink, softdom nanami, reader is a bit of a brat but gets it turned on them. nsfw 18+ mdni.
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Nanami Kento who’d simply shaken his head and scoffed a little when you’d first uttered that cringeworthy honorific.
A taunting little quip: “Thanks for cooking, daddy.”, as you’d slipped through the kitchen after another delicious home cooked meal.
His face was even, the sound light and airy, but you swore you caught him flush a sweet baby pink up to the tips of his ears as he turned toward the sink, flicked the water on high to drown out your giggle as you fled the kitchen, spoon full of icecream slipping between your teeth.
Plagued with that little slip of curiosity, like a rogue grain of sand rolling behind your eye, you dared again.
“Ah-hah!-Right there!… Fuck-daddy!” You’d cried, peered up at him through syrupy eyes, thighs trembling where he had them pushed against your chest in a mean mating press.
“D-don’t call me that..hah-… not like this.” He’d grunted between quiet little pants, pretty brown eyes fluttering closed as he fucked you into the mattress.
In that moment, you’d decided to let it go. Much too lost in the dizzying slap of his hips to worry about taunting your poor husband any further. Instead, you wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer, dug your heels into his hips, little joke long forgotten - sucked beneath the unending waves of pleasure.
But when you felt his thrusts turn wide and sloppy, when the steady thrum of his hips finally began to falter and twitch haphazardly, you winked an eye open to find that he was staring at you, dark eyes utterly blown.
Black devoured melted chocolate, and his jaw unclenched as he craned his head down, panting out heated breaths. His voice gravelled as he nipped at the soft strip of skin behind your ear.
“Such a good girl. Gonna cum for daddy?” He’d purred, low and teasing over the shell of your ear.
And maybe it was you who was truly the fool, with the way the simple utterance of that little word from his tongue sent you crashing over the edge, headfirst into your second orgasm. While Nanami ran his teeth over your throat, and fucked you through it.
