Hi, I'm Sam. she/her. Thirty-three. This is my masterlist. Below you'll find the characters I write for and the links to their stories and/or individual masterlists.
I will write original fiction here based on actors (i.e. they're my face claim for those characters) and they will go under the actors' names. Just so you know!
I am an 18+ only blog for my safety and the safety of others. If you are a faceless/ageless blog, you *will* be blocked.
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
MDNI and Reblog dividers by @cafekitsune
In progress fics will be marked with 🌹
On hiatus fics will be marked with 🥀
Finished fics will be marked with 🕯️
Recently Added:
No One Has to Know, You Know? - TWW - Ainsley/Lionel
There Is Magic All Around You - The Librarians - Cassandra/Jenkins
One Misstep Down a Fire Escape - The Librarians - Jenkins/Morgan
Coming Soon:
Dripping Colors on the Mattress - The Pitt - Shenvadi
Characters I've Written:
Pedro Pascal
Javier Peña:
🕯️ Breathing Space - Based on "The Crush"
🕯️ Souls Heal Less Readily (x fem! reader; part one)
🕯️ In The Night Comes a Phone Call (x fem!reader; part two)
Din Djarin:
🥀 Darmanda (x fem!reader)
Dieter Bravo:
🥀 Sweet, Summer Child (Dieter as Death; x fem!reader)
I'm gonna say this, and it's gonna spark a defensive reaction within some of you, but I need you to listen to me and let it sit for a moment before I explain further. It is not a personal stain against your morality.
From both my experience reading works by white writers, and my experience running this blog, I have come to the conclusion that many white writers are too used to relying on Whiteness being understood as the default experience of both your characters and your readers, and it makes you weaker writers with weaker technique overall.
One thought I find myself having often is "well, what do you do for your white characters?" I've grown to understand... Many of you don't 😅 you don't actually understand or apply character design techniques because it is Assumed™ that the reader understands- that the reader has the white gaze. It doesn't need to be Said that your character is white, and will do familiar white things. It is Assumed™ that white characters fall under the Magicking It Away rules automatically, while Black characters have to have reality applied to them first. You don't actually have to... Well, write.
The brilliant Toni Morrison explained this in an interview of hers (here's another; watch her doc!!!) that there's this assumption that one's readers are white. So when she would purposefully- and there's a difference!- write stories for the Black gaze, that certain things didn't have to be explained because we Understood, it would get frustrating for white readers. They felt left out, unappealed to, hurt.
And yet, that's standard fare- and everyone's not writing such specific stories like Toni! To be "fair", we did understand y'all. We had to. But those same techniques, both in writing and in media consumption, I believe are atrophied from white viewers ("I don't watch this because I don't relate!" Or projection of ones own identity into Black characters to be "relatable") because it's not Socially Required for you to apply them.
It's why I'm always telling y'all to study Black creations about Black people. Writing is a craft, and a craft has to be honed!! You have to practice!! I had a whole lesson on this and I feel like everyone glossed over it lmao. I promise it'll make your writing of EVERY character better overall. 🙏🏾
contents: smut! twitter was asking for an erectile dysfunction fic so i started drafting and well, this might have been my calling. ED, a little blue pill, drug talk (jack’s on depression meds), some wine consumption, a whole host of second-hand embarrassment for jack, world’s best wife in the reader, and of course ED wasn’t enough… loosely inspired by 02x02.
[jack abbot x fem!reader. wc: 7.2k ]
masterlist | other jack abbot fics
He was a doctor—of course he read the side effects of his pills. Right?
Right?
God. Jack could barely think for himself let alone think what the fuck was on the prescription label. He especially couldn’t think straight when you were on top of him, fingers carding through his curls, and your chest pressed against his own.
Everything would be fine. Everything is fine.
It wasn’t fine. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him and when Jack Abbot’s internal alarm bells went off, anyone in a ten mile radius could hear them. All it took was one look, a not fully present kiss, and you knew something was amiss.
“Jack?” You murmured softly in his ear. He loved the feel of your breath; the warmth your body brought to his.
He swallowed hard. His jaw tensed as his chest shuddered in immediate nerves and your hands moved to cradle his face instead. Jack’s eyes avoided you like the plague, sticking to a spot over your shoulder in the direction of the tv.
“Yeah?” He barely whispered.
“Are you okay?”
Oh, goddamnit. Shit.
Everything was really not fucking fine.
Jack hated when his shifts never lined up with your schedule. Summer’s were easier, so were those few breaks you’d get during the year, but most weeks it felt like you were ships passing in the night.
You were his wife, not a “sometimes companion” depending on the day. So, when he had off, there was nothing he loved more than being at your side. Watching mindless television, going to the grocery store, listening to you complain about your job, and everything in between. He loved it. Jack never thought that chance would come again and when it did, he promised himself that the time he gave to you would be nothing short of devotion.
And, when the time to “love” became a little more intimate, Jack gave you everything you could ask for. You’d never had a more generous lover, in all sense of the word.
He cared so deeply about you that he was too easily forgetful about his own needs. Jack never liked when you tried to make it all about him—he’d had enough attention in the last twenty years to last him a lifetime in solitude. In return, Jack’s altar was beside you, on top of you, under you, and anywhere near you.
Therefore, when he sacrificed his time away from you to save the lives of strangers, it was only right for him to recompense through the most natural form of intimacy.
But it had been five days. Five days of back to back night shifts where he left you sleeping in bed and you left him walking out the door with your work bag in hand. There had been a light in the distance, Saturday, when his schedule finally broke and you were both off to enjoy each other’s company.
He cooked, you cleaned, and then you’d both retired to the sofa where your feet landed in his lap and a movie you’d seen a thousand times played quietly as days-long lodged conversations started to flow.
Then, you shuffled into his lap and Jack knew something was wrong before even started.
His lips met yours and you melted. You’d been so quick to fall into him, wrapping your arms around him, and pressing down into his lap that it felt needy. Tilting his head back, your fingers pulled at his curls to open him up to you. His kiss deepened and you couldn’t fight the smile on your face.
You laughed, breaking apart.
“What?” Jack asked incredulously. His eyes darted between yours as your hand brushed back his hair.
“Nothing.” You shook your head. “I just love you.”
Jack’s hands ran up and down your sides gently. “Well now it’s cheesy if I say it back.”
“No.” Your nose bumped into his. “You could never make it cheesy.”
“I’m pretty sure I could,” Jack admitted with a peck. He let his hands wander down your sides, feeling the skin of your ass before smoothing down your legs and holding them down on himself. “I love you.”
“How much?”
“Eh. ” He shrugged causing you leaned back and swat at his chest immediately before pressing into his pecs with your palms.
“Cruel,” you gasped. “You’re just evil.”
“I don’t know about that.” He removed his hands from you and placed his on top of yours. “But I don’t think a measurement exists for how much I really do.”
Not cruel. Just utterly adoring beyond comprehension.
You leaned in, kissing him again and again and each one ended longer than the last. He brought your hands back to his hair and encouraged a rougher grip. Jack’s tongue was the first to ask for silent permission to which you welcomed it with your own.
You couldn’t remember the last time you made out like teenagers on the couch.
And for ten minutes, you did only that.
Lips swollen and blood rushing in your body, there was something exhilarating about having waited so long to have sex this week. Five days wasn’t a world record for either of you but it felt like a necessary end to it.
Only you were expecting to feel something after ten minutes.
One of your hands slipped from his shoulders and entered the few inches of space between your bodies to grope him above his sweats. You had felt that simply being on top wasn’t enough—you would have felt his erection if you did—but this was the second time in three weeks that grinding on him didn’t work in getting him aroused.
Jack’s attention broke away from your lips and to your neck. His stubble grazed your skin with a roughness you’d only accept from his face. He lathered and sucked, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you feel his desire through his lips.
As you met his groin, you felt the outline of his cock still limp between his spread legs. Gently trailing to the head, you molded your hand around it and rubbed to the base. Jack’s forehead fell to your shoulder and you couldn’t help but be satisfied, leaning your own into him.
Jack. Your Jack.
Your hand never stopped going. Slowly, you felt the minutes pass and you put more pressure in your grip and the air around Jack began to change. His kisses stopped, your fingers intertwined with his curls at the base of his head weren’t met with the same sighs, and his own hands loosened their grasp.
On the inside, Jack was having an existential crisis.
He knew it was going to happen.
It was the same goddamn thing from three weeks ago and he’d wrote it off as some kind of fluke. He was tired. He’d worn himself thin from a bad night and three weeks ago, sex wasn’t in the cards he’d been dealt. But now? Again?
Jack dug his forehead further into your shoulder to think—which was practically impossible for him to do in this state. Yet he tried. He thought back on any changes to his body and any signs he might have missed but the only possibilities he could think about were his age and his meds.
If it was his age, he was just about ready to croak off now. 50. Jack was only 50 fucking years old and he never imagined what the hell life would be like with erectile dysfunction at this age. He’d take it to his grave, he swore to God, but there was one other problem that he just couldn’t shake.
Those meds.
A switch from his therapist a few appointments ago to Zoloft, which was what he was supposed to be taking for years. But just like good medicine, sometimes finding the right balance was hard and it took time.
His therapist had warned him, right?
He was a doctor—of course he read the side effects of his pills. Right?
Right?
God. Jack could barely think for himself let alone think what the fuck was on the prescription label. He especially couldn’t think straight when you were on top of him, fingers carding through his curls and your chest pressed against his own.
Everything would be fine. Everything is fine.
It wasn’t fine. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him and when Jack Abbot’s internal alarm bells went off, anyone in a ten mile radius could hear them. All it took was one look, a not fully present kiss, and you knew something was amiss.
“Jack?” You murmured softly in his ear. He loved the feel of your breath; the warmth your body brought to his.
He swallowed hard. His jaw tensed as his chest shuddered in immediate nerves and your hands moved to cradle his face instead. Jack’s eyes avoided you like the plague, sticking to a spot over your shoulder in the direction of the tv.
“Yeah?” He barely whispered.
“Are you okay?”
Oh, goddamnit. Shit.
Everything was really not fucking fine.
He was falling apart. Jack couldn’t even look you in the eye because now he couldn’t have sex with his beautiful fucking wife and the world was basically ending.
“Yeah,” he barely squeaked out.
You saw through him and he could feel the pity in the way your thumbs rubbed softly on his cheeks.
“I think I need to use the bathroom,” he blurted out and discarded you to the side of the couch.
In his first attempt to stand, Jack struggled to gain momentum off the couch and the redness of embarrassment from another one of his problems inched up the back of his neck like a rash.
Holy shit, he thought. This is the worst day of my life.
He tried harder the second time to avoid your helping hands and rushed off to the bedroom, shutting the door so hard it reverberated throughout the house. Beelining for the sink, Jack’s hands strained the edges of it until his knuckles were white.
“What the fuck!” He scolded himself in a brash whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
This wasn’t happening to him. This was all a dream. A really, god awful, terrible, no good dream that would be over in a matter of minutes. He’d wake up, sun shining, and never deal with this again.
He slapped a hand across his face. It was not a fucking dream.
“Holy shit,” Jack’s words were now nothing but saddened, pathetic whimpering. “This is not fucking happening to me right now.”
From outside the door, you leaned against the frame and let him wallow. Those little blue pills in the back of the cabinet had been pushed away out of spite and this time, you knew he just needed to face the reality of his situation. But that reality was hard to fathom after a lifetime of one activity never having been a problem. He couldn’t have just this one thing?
Jack opened the cabinet and pulled out his Zoloft bottle. Unraveling the prescription label, his eyes raced down to side effects and right there “Erectile Dysfunction” laughed at him. He tossed the bottle in the sink.
“Jack?” You knuckles rapped against the door. “Are you alright in there?”
“Fine!” He replied too quickly.
“Can I come in?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d rather you not.”
“You’re not gonna dump your meds are you?”
“No,” his tone was still sad. “That’s probably a bad idea.”
Jack could hear your hum. He imagined the look on your face and how you’d probably kick him to the curb now that he was completely defective.
“Jack, I think you need to talk to me about this.”
“No,” he drug out the word. “I don’t think so.”
“Honey.”
He said your name firmly in return.
“I’m coming in.” You didn’t give him any time because as soon as he got a syllable out, the door was open.
Jack’s eyes caught yours in the mirror.
“It’s okay, Jack.”
He shook his head. “It’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well that’s easy for you to say,” he couldn’t help the attitude that slipped out. “You don’t have a broken fucking dick.”
“I don’t have a dick but I do have a libido.”
“It’s not that, baby,” Jack sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. I do. Very badly, might I add. But it’s like this—” he pointed to his brain “—just doesn’t want to work and tell the other parts of my body to do their jobs.”
Your brows furrowed in concern. “Is it the nightmares again?”
“No.” He shook his head and realized that you didn’t fully grasp it because of two things: you weren’t in healthcare and you didn’t have PTSD like he did. “They’re fine. They’ve been fine.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me, Jack.”
You approached him, settling for resting your hand along his back and feeling his tense muscles underneath the fabric of his tee.
“A side effect of the meds,” he gestured weakly to the bottle in the sink. “I can’t get it up.”
“That’s one way to put it,” you mumbled and picked up the bottle.
“My doctor gave me—“ Jack didn’t want the words to form.
Your rubbed soothingly on his back. He loved you so much.
“What did he give you?”
Jack reopened the cabinet and shuffled items to the side before landing on a small white bottle with VIAGRA plastered in blue on the front. His stomach lurched at the thought of needing to take one. Jack held it tightly in his fist in a refusal to show you.
You saw the bottle immediately when he brought it home. Jack was never as sly as he thought he was. He tried hiding your engagement ring for six weeks before proposing but you found it the day after the purchase because he stuffed it the garage where he kept all the spare keys.
He just hadn’t thought that maybe you’d lock your keys inside of the house one day.
Still, he clutched onto the white bottle as though if he dropped it, his problem wasn’t real. He could keep trying. Maybe it would just take a little bit longer than normal but eventually, he’d get hard and you could sail smoothly into the night.
“Are you gonna show me?” You asked patiently.
“I don’t really want to.”
“I’m not embarrassed if you need to use one, you know?”
His eyes pinched closed. “I feel like a fucking failure.”
You exhaled deeply, placing your hand over his fist, and dipping your head to better look at him.
“Look at me, Jack.”
He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
“Jack,” you pressed once more. “Look at me.”
“This has never been a problem,” he said lowly. Jack’s tone lingered on disappointment but aired a frustration that sounded sexier than he meant it. “I don’t know why I can’t be normal in this one fucking way but of course not! Of course not. No… the goddamn leg just wasn’t enough. The stupid fucking depression and the nightmares and my joint pain isn’t enough!”
Jack rarely yelled. He bottled everything inside until it was ready to explode and it was just leaking out of him like a dam bursting.
“None of that is your fault,” you assured.
“What does it matter if it was?” He loosened the grip on the bottle and it rolled into the sink beside the Zoloft.
“Jack. I don’t care if we have sex tonight, okay? It’s not the end of the world for me.”
“It sure fucking feels like it for me.”
“I know it does,” you empathized. “But if you’re not ready to try the pills, then we don’t have to do anything. I can wait for you.”
“I don’t deserve you,” Jack whispered. “This is so inconvenient.”
“What would life be without them?”
He breathed in as your hand continued to rub his back and calm him down. Jack glanced down at the bottle, cursing the elephant in the room. He mumbled underneath his breath and even though you were standing beside him, you didn’t catch it.
“What?”
“It takes…” his words were muffled again.
“Are you having a stroke?” You asked honestly.
“No,” he heaved. “If I take one… it would take around an hour to work.”
“Okay,” you replied cautiously. It was his choice, you made that clear.
“And it’s not like… magical. Plus we had a whole bottle of wine with dinner and that might make it worse.”
“Trying to get hard or the erection?”
“Both?” He said like it was a question. He’s the doctor. He should know.
“If you wanted to try it, and it doesn’t work out, then you never have to use one again.”
Jack hummed. “I might have to eat you out for awhile.”
“Jesus,” you laughed. “Don’t try to be sly about it.”
His lips quirked into a small smile, one you’d missed seeing in his despair. Jack picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap.
“I swear to God that if anything goes wrong, I will jump off the fucking roof.”
“You can’t say that,” you lamented. “You’re literally the last person who should joke about that.”
“I’m kidding.” He popped a pill into his mouth. “I can’t let you fall in love with someone else.”
“How kind of you to think about me.”
Jack flipped on the sink, cupped his hands under the faucet, and swallowed the pill in one gulp. There was no turning back now.
“Well?” You asked him as he wiped his mouth dry.
“Well what?”
“You want to finish what you started?”
He locked eyes with you in the mirror and opened his mouth to object to the statement. You climbed into his lap. You kissed him first. But he saw a glimmer of hope that maybe the little blue pill would be a good thing for the both of you tonight and forgot about it. Jack nodded instead.
“Get on the bed.”
Whatever the little blue pill did, it gave Jack an ounce of courage back and fuck, could you feel it.
Jack had been on you from the moment you laid down on the bed. In silence, he stripped off your clothes one by one and settled between your thighs ready to give. And for the past thirty minutes, you’d been close twice before he drew back and smiled at you as his cheek rested against your leg.
Every time he did, you had to look away.
He was so sweet. Jack, the man who does anything for anyone, looked at you like you held the moon.
You fought a grin by biting down on your lip and had your arm flying over your eyes to shield his own impenetrable stare from reaching you. And then his mouth was on you again, tongue lightly flicking your clit as he slipped two fingers inside.
You writhed, body shaking lightly in pleasure as his hands grew more firm around your thighs and minimized any distance between you. Jack figured if he could lay atop the mattress and grind into it that it would replace the need for you to jerk him off for five minutes, and he was right.
The combination of periodically rutting against the mattress, listening to your sweet sounds, and feeling you squeeze his fingers was sheer poison.
He curled his fingers up inside of you, sliding them in and out in the same direction until your moans turned into a whine that spelled out his name.
“Jack,” you breathed in heavily.
Your hand fell from your eyes and trailed over one of your breasts, squeezing it, pinching the nipple just hard enough before fanning out on the comforter. Jack removed his fingers to let his tongue sink lower, pushing into you softer and wetter than before. His mouth devoured you; a sickening slurp of his saliva and your wetness had your mouth falling open, silent in disbelief that not an hour ago, you didn’t think this was going to happen.
“S-shit, Jack.”
He slowed down, sparing a glance at your face before deciding to back off. His pointer finger replaced where his nose was grazing your clit. Jack pressed down there, moving in small circles as your hips moved with him.
“That feel good?” He asked softly.
“I think that fucking pill gave you superpowers,” you spat out fast. “Holy shit.”
“Magical” his ass. It was certifiably otherworldly.
“Might just have been a long time since we’ve done this.”
You agreed, moaning a “yeah” in reply.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said like a question. “I hate to do this to you…”
“What?” You sat up so quickly that you got a little dizzy. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Jack couldn’t hide his blush. There was no easy way to say “I’m hard now, let me fuck you” after having a meltdown.
His throat bobbed and you caught it.
“You ready?”
Jack nodded and you retuned it with a nod of your own. “Okay, yeah. Alright—”
“Why does this feel like I’m losing my virginity again?” He joked. His laugh barely sounded like one because the second he sat up on his knees, his erection was all he could look at.
Jack had never been embarrassed by his cock before.
“If this is how you lost your virginity, I’d be a little nervous,” you scoffed. “Sit back against the headboard.”
He didn’t argue with you which was a rarity it terms of control. Nothing was really in his control right now and it was making his anxiety shoot through the roof.
Jack shuffled back to the headboard and slipped off his shirt. He helped you pull down his sweats carefully and even though he didn’t feel like you had to be, he was grateful for your gentleness. At the sight of his prosthetic, you tipped your head knowingly at him.
“Why didn’t you take this off yet?”
“I forgot,” he feigned innocence.
“Mhm,” you judged and took it off for him. “Sure you did.”
With his prosthetic resting on the floor against the bedside table, you resumed your position in his lap and wrapped an arm around his shoulder while your free hand wrapped around him. You’d never been with someone who needed to take a Viagra before. Jack felt different and you knew how he felt in your hands.
His dick felt firmer—less like his own and more like one that was being controlled.
Your hand went from tip to base and back and he jolted.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s like my nerves are on fire.”
“Does it feel bad?”
His nose brushed yours as he shook his head. Jack didn’t tell you to stop so you kept pumping him mildly.
“It feels really fucking good, actually.”
“Yeah?” You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Jack kissed you with everything he could muster. He gripped your bare hips tightly, sinking his fingers into your skin until he felt like you weren’t going to disappear. You put more tension in your fist and he groaned, precum escaping him and making your job easier.
“Do you feel like you’re ready?” You kissed him lazily, pulling on his bottom lip enough for it to bounce back.
He chased your lips. “What if—”
“Honey,” you soothed. “We’ll get there, okay?”
“Okay,” he accepted. He nodded, looking you in the eye and giving you the reassurance he also needed.
Lifting up in his lap, you guided him to your entrance and sunk down slowly. The feeling was overwhelming and you both needed time to adjust. Jack’s head fell back against the bed frame as far as he could go, clenching his jaw enough where the muscles strained on his face.
“You’re fine, Jack,” you cooed in his ear. Soft pants met his cheek as his hardness was unlike anything you’d experienced. “Breathe, baby.”
Your nails raked the base of his skull.
“Keep going,” he bit out. “You’re squeezing me so tight.”
“I guess we’ve both been ‘rejuvenated,’ huh?”
Jack wasn’t overly appreciative of your humor but you moved anyway, testing the waters of your bounces and grinds before settling into a rhythm that suited you. His cock stretched you wide and every time you sank back down, it was as though he never filled you in the first place. A spark of exhilaration bloomed. This was so different, so minutely different, that it felt new.
Jack’s hands groped your ass to help ease the strain on your thighs the longer you went. His lips swapped duties between connecting with yours and finding the skin of your neck, collarbone, and chest peppered with affection. Jack listened to your soft mewls. He soaked in the whispers of sweet nothings and the shaky gasps you couldn’t help.
He wanted you close.
Jack needed you to mold into him like he was showered in rain. He pulled you close; arms wrapped up around you so tight there was no escaping his embrace.
He nipped at your chin. Low and rough, Jack spoke to you. “I love you so much.”
Jack’s nose trailed up your cheek, bumping into yours and seeking your lips again.
“You have no idea how much I love you.”
“Jack,” you whined with a grin. A shake in your legs had him running his hands over your back, soothing you now instead.
“I know you’re ready, baby.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “I’m close.”
“What do you need from me?” He asked willingly.
You shook your head. “I-fuck, nothing. I just—”
Jack bent his knees the best he could and the angle his cock was hitting changed on a thrust. Deep and unforgiving, your fingernails dug into his skin hard. Jack murmured appreciation, egging you on to the finish line and neglecting himself.
You were too wrapped up in the feeling. The building of a week, the racing of your heart, to think for a second that he was nowhere near close to his orgasm.
“Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He felt the falter in your hips.
Your orgasm shook you from Heaven to Hell and back—even if believing it was hard to fathom. Jack’s hand flew to the back of your head, holding you into him as the aftershocks of muscle spasms lingered seconds after your breathing began to settle. You returned his kisses with your own against his neck and shoulder. The freckles on his body were reminders of all the places he had ever been kissed and you were adding to that—on top of ones that already existed, beside them, and in the spaces that laid empty of any.
He wouldn’t remember them in every lifetime but you liked to imagine that all of his freckles were kisses from you.
As your brain recovered from the fuzzy glow and you realized that Jack was still rock hard inside of you.
“Do you want me to—”
“No,” Jack cut you off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just… I think it takes time.”
“But now you haven’t even…” you trailed your response with a flick of your eyes downwards. “I can’t leave you like that.”
“Baby, it could take an hour.”
You glanced at the alarm clock on his side of the bed. The time read 11:47.
“We’ve got time.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not gonna let you give me a handy for an hour.”
“Hey,” you tugged on his earlobe lightly. “I’ve got a mouth too.”
“It’s fine,” he reassured but you weren’t buying it. His mouth quirked to the side in thought. “Would you hate me if I asked you to clean up alone?”
You ran your thumb along his jawline.
“I could never hate you, Jack. I’ve lived this long, I think I can handle one less aftercare shower.”
“It makes me feel like an asshole.”
“You’re not. I promise you.”
Carefully, you lifted up from his lap and let him slip out. You avoided looking at him so he didn’t find another reason to be embarrassed about something that impacted millions of men—especially those who were on medication for concerns far more important than simply erectile dysfunction.
He watched you disappear into the bathroom and shut the door with a click before he put his pillow to his face and yelled into it.
The prescription tag read as follows:
Prolonged erection greater than 4 hours and priapism (painful erections greater than 6 hours in duration) have been reported infrequently since market approval of VIAGRA. In the event of an erection that persists longer than 4 hours, the patient should seek immediate medical assistance. If priapism is not treated immediately, penile tissue damage and permanent loss of potency could result.
Jack had to put his readers on to even see the label.
“… if priapism is not treated immediately, penile tissue damage and permanent loss…” he repeated the label back to himself to make sure he read it correctly.
His eyes flitted to his phone, touching the screen to light up a big 7:30 AM and a picture of both of your smiling faces beaming back at him.
This might not have been the actual worst day of his life but it was second.
His crutches clicked against the floor as he approached your side of the bed. He hated waking you up when you were clearly dead to the world. Laid face first into your pillow, he rested a hand on your back and shook you gently.
“Baby?”
You barely bristled. He repeated the action, calling out your name louder.
“Hm?” You grumbled in slight annoyance.
Jack shifted uncomfortably on the bed, wincing as he turned wrong and made his sweatpants tighter than they already were.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he started and realized how quickly those were the wrong words. You sat up abruptly, face twisted in concern as he tried not to cry from the pain his fucking dick won’t stop causing.
“What!?” You searched his face for an answer. “What happened!?”
“You gotta calm down.” Jack moved his arm to block your view.
“About what? What’s wrong?”
“I seem to be having a little… complication.”
Your brows furrowed. “A complication?”
Jack clicked his tongue with a nod. Your eyes darted down too obviously to his pants and back to his face. His erection was blatant. It practically waved at you from behind his arm.
“Does it have anything to do with that?” You said above a whisper. “Why do you have such bad morning wood?”
Jack groaned, again, completely at odds with himself.
“Remember when we had that bottle of red with dinner?” You nodded. “Well it turns out that sometimes while meds can cause the problem, mixing alcohol with the little blue pill causes… other problems.”
“And this can’t be solved with an orgasm?”
“Not after more than six hours.”
Your eyes bugged out of your head. “Six hours!? Jack, what the fuck!”
“I thought it was going to go away!”
You swiftly moved out of bed and shrugged on a sweatshirt. Jack watched you pilfer the room for socks and shoes and leggings and just sat there helplessly on the edge of the bed with his crutches one inch from sliding off of it. You didn’t say anything and that made it worse for him.
“I’m sorry,” Jack spoke up.
“What are you sorry for?” You opened his drawer and pulled out a fresh tee. “It’s not your fault.”
“It feels like it is.”
“Well it’s not, Jack. So stop apologizing and get your leg on.”
“I can’t bend over.”
You tossed the shirt to him. “We’re going in.”
“Where?”
“The ED.”
“No,” he said with a nervous laugh. “No the fuck we are not.”
“You say that like you have a choice, Mr. Abbot.” Oh. He didn’t like that. “Turns out that doctors are truly the worst patients. Your night shift is gone, Robby’s gotta be—”
“I am not letting Robby see me like this.” The thought repulsed him so badly that it made his skin crawl.
“Then someone else will help us,” you clarified. “The longer we wait the worse I’ll assume it will be for you. I’m not driving you to Presby or Mercy when I know the ones that can help you the best.”
“I’ll never live this down.” His eyes filled with ashamed tears and every now and then, you’d seen Jack down on his luck.
A terrible shift, a long week, anniversaries he’d rather not have… but he stared at you from the bed and he looked so small. His salt and pepper hair was flat from restless sleep and the scruff on his face couldn’t hide the jumble of thoughts pouring out of him. You moved to stand in front of him, grasping his face between two hands, and forcing him to look you in the eye.
“You are the strongest, most resilient man I have ever met. You’ve taken care of me more times than I can count and now, it’s my turn to help you the best way I know how. This is bad now, yeah… it is,” you nodded in agreement, “but it’s not forever. After this, you’ll call your therapist and tell him what happened and we will try again when things are better.”
A tear steamed down his cheek and you wiped it away with your finger.
“It’s okay to be embarrassed, honey.”
“I’m gonna make this up to you,” Jack settled. “I promise.”
“Okay.” You didn’t need him to. However, if it made him feel better, sure. Your hands tapped his face twice before letting go. “Let’s go, Soldier.”
The PTMC Emergency Room wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, but it wasn’t one you frequented.
It bustled with far too much chaos and while your own career had its fair share, there was something about Jack’s place of work that made you feel ill just looking at it. Death, hurt, pain, and suffering wrapped up in four walls, some windows, and doors.
And now Jack sat outside of it in a wheelchair because he refused to go in on his crutches.
“Just go in and tell Dana I’m out here.”
“Someone is going to have to come and get you anyway, so just come with me.”
Jack begged, “please.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Luckily, Dana was talking with a young nurse at the hub when the ambulance bay doors opened wide. You kept in a straight line to her, not distracted by the sounds and the yelling coming from one of the many rooms. Dana was halfway through a sentence when she glanced over her shoulder and did a double take.
“Hey stranger,” she beamed. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
The young nurse beside her, Emma, smiled at you in the awkward way you did when you didn’t know someone’s friend.
“Hi Dana,” you greeted.
“Jack’s not here,” her eyes questioned you. Jack had been scheduled off for the next couple days so there was no telling where he’d be other than at his house.
“Well,” you let out a loose, barely amused chuckle, “funny you should say that.”
“Is he okay?”
“Not really… I just—we just—need this on the down low, alright? He really doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.”
She nodded understandingly and grabbed an iPad from the counter. “Where is he?”
“Out in the ambulance bay. I put him in a wheelchair.”
“Should I get Robb—”
“No!” You said loudly and shook your head. “God, no. Sorry.”
Emma jumped at the sound and her eyes darted to the bay. “Can I help?”
Your face scrunched. Jack would rather not traumatize a new nurse so early in the shift.
“Is Donnie around? Or Dr. Al-Hashimi?”
“Yeah.” Dana patted Emma on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em and we’ll put Dr. Abbot in Room 7.”
Dana rounded the hub and put a hand on your shoulder. As she stepped further away, she pressed about the situation.
“You know, you two aren’t getting any younger. You can’t go at it like rabbits.”
“Dana,” you scolded with a smile. “That’s—that’s not it.”
“What happened?”
All that was needed to be said were three little words:
“Little blue pill.”
Jack heard the hiss of the ambulance bay open and Dana walked up to him with a laugh buried in her throat. Jack was wearing a hat and glasses like a superhero in disguise and his backpack flipped over so no one could see the name angled in his lap.
“Don’t fucking say it, Evans. Don’t.”
“I’m not!” She held up her hands in defense.
“Dana said she’s gonna help. No one needs to know.”
You grabbed his crutches off the wall and followed closely as Dana wheeled him into Room 7 and pulled the curtains. She left still fighting amusement as Donnie entered with Baran.
“Dr. Abbot,” she said fondly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“I think we both had different ideas about how today would go.”
Jack took off his glasses and hat, passing them off to you. The bag stayed lumped in his lap.
“So, what brings you in today?”
There was a second of silence and then:
“I seem to have a bit of a… priapism problem.”
Baran’s eyes widened and Donnie hesitated putting on his second glove.
“And how long has the erection lasted?” Jack hated how she pronounced the word loud and clear. He looked at you, shrugging for a loose approximation of time.
“Maybe around… since 11 or so?” You informed.
“So somewhere around 8 hours?” She asked and motioned for Donnie to put the bed rails down. “Does that seem accurate?”
You both nodded. Donnie wheeled Jack over to the bed and he hesitated, looking at you to help him instead. You handed Jack his crutches and as he stood, both Donnie and Baran tried to be respectful and looked away from Jack’s body.
“Dr. Abbot, I’m going to have to ask you some questions about your medical history, medications, and so forth. Is that okay with you?”
“I think you can just call me Jack now,” he grunted as he shuffled onto the bed.
“Can you tell me what medications you take?”
“I-uh, take um, 100 mg of Zofolt, 3 mg of Prazosin for sleeping, and Cyclobenzaprine as needed, 5 mg three times a day, but I haven’t needed it lately.”
“And for the priapism problem?” She slipped on her own gloves.
“I took one Viagra.”
“Have you taken one before?”
“No,” Jack admitted. “My therapist changed one of my medications to Zoloft two months ago and ordered it as a precaution.”
Baran nodded in understanding and as she sat down on a stool and rolled closer, Jack’s hand shot out to yours and squeezed tightly.
“Did he explain the side effects of taking those medications together?”
“Yes,” Jack recalled. “But we must have had… three glasses of wine last night and I’m pretty certain that’s the reason it won’t go away. A reaction, if you will.”
“You’re not wrong.” She smiled at him kindly, then to you.
“How long have you been married? I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“Six years,” you told her. “And it seems we’re always finding something new to experience together.”
“It’s a good thing,” Baran assured. “Imagine living a life where it’s normal and boring all the time. At least you’ll be able to laugh about it later.”
Her eyes found Jack’s and he knew she needed to look at him more closely.
“What happens in this room, Dr. Abbot, stays in this room. Got it?”
He nodded and focused on a spot across the wall as Donnie hovered behind Baran. Your hand covered his, rubbing gentle circles to ease the discomfort.
“Was this a special occasion or something?” Donnie asked Jack. “Or just a regular Saturday night for you two?”
“Just a Saturday night,” he said shyly. Jack, being bashful? You relished it.
“I gotta say Doc, your wife’s a lucky woman. Who knew Dr. Abbot hit the genetic lottery.”
The blush that overtook his body was a deeper red than his penis. Your hand flew to your mouth, covering the choked laugh before it could escape but Donnie was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and keeping it in was practically impossible. Baran bit down on her tongue.
But Jack knew how to bite back too. “If your idea of the genetic lottery is a guy with 1.75 legs, then sure. Whatever floats your boat.”
“Okay.” Baran finished her inspection.
“I have a feeling this isn’t a cold compress kind of procedure,” Jack wished.
Baran shook her head.
“We’re going to need to aspirate.”
Jack was back on his crutches after an hour with a soreness that would last hours.
“I don’t think I need to tell you what you can and cannot do in the next 24 hours,” Baran opened up the curtain and immediately Jack locked eyes with Dana.
“No, you don’t.”
“Maybe also speak to your therapist about the prescription the next time you go?”
Jack gave you a closed mouth smile. “I already heard that from this one.”
“She knows what she’s talking about it seems,” Baran nodded in approval.
The door opened up and Donnie held it for Jack to escape from. The RN held out his fist, asking Jack wordlessly to bump it.
Jack obliged.
“My man,” Donnie grinned. He slapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder before walking to a computer.
“I’m never filling in for day shift again, ever,” Jack told you over his shoulder.
“All good, Jack?” Dana asked from the hub as you both passed by.
“Never better.” Jack kept going towards the door.
“Thanks Dana for your help,” you said appreciatively. “If he never tells you, he’s thankful too. And I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
The doors to Trauma Bay 2 opened with a whoosh. Jack, still on the slow run on his crutches out of the ED never looked back, but Robby caught sight of him as he sanitized his hands.
“Woah!” He exaggerated. “What’s Jack doing here?”
“He’s going home,” Dana informed and you gave a small wave to Jack’s work wife. He hated when you called Robby that but it didn’t make it any less true.
“Just a little accident.”
“Jack!” Robby called after him but Jack didn’t care.
“Adios! Goodbye!” He said your name loudly followed by a “hurry up!”
You tapped the counter. “Sorry. The princess needs a ride home.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to call him that,” Robby laughed.
“It’s the least of his problems right now.”
They watched you trail behind your husband who, once through the second door, turned and waited for you patiently. You kissed him gently before walking out of view and inside of the PTMC, the world continued to turn.
Robby looked at Dana with a question and Baran walked away before he could ask her anything remotely related to Jack. But Donnie… Donnie just can’t keep anything to himself.
He turned to Robby in his swivel chair.
“Did you know Abbot’s packin’ heat down there?”
A/N: i wrote this straight over three days after not writing for about a year. crazy how that works, huh?
i hope the twitter divas find this.
comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated! it keeps us writing!
What if I told you that John himself wouldn’t want Francesca to grieve forever? There’s a two year time skip between s4 & s5, meaning Francesca had the socially acceptable year-long grieving period as well as another year to grieve. Mind you, there’s no timeline for grief or when it’s appropriate to move on because every person and relationship is different.
“UGH, I just really wanted Eloise’s season!”
In the books, Eloise is in her thirties by the time she gets married. She’s been “on the shelf” for a long time because she never felt the urgency of marriage nor did she care to marry.
In the show, Eloise is categorically, explicitly opposed to marriage and, it seems, men in general. S4 is the first time that she recognizes that marriage isn’t always something bad or constraining, but it can be quite wonderful when the right people find each other. While this is a good step, she needs to figure out how and why marriage might be something she wants.
Maybe Philip encourages the pursuit of higher education (the endorsement of a husband would likely allow her to enroll in a university especially considering her current social standing). Maybe she becomes a governess for his children and love blooms organically that way.
“But the infertility storyline…!”
Were you watching S4 with your eyes closed and with ear plugs in? We witnessed John and Francesca actively trying for children and failing to conceive. We witnessed Fran struggle with feelings of inadequacy for failing to provide John with a child (which she feels is her whole duty as a wife). In fact, I’d argue that the infertility has greater depth in the show because it’s less about the child and more about Fran’s grief.
I’d argue that Francesca doesn’t know if she actually wants children, but lives in a world where that is expected of her. With John, she can see that future because she loves him and knows he will be a good father. However, in the wake of his death, she doesn’t talk about wanting to be a mother but how much a failure she feels for not providing John with an heir. She grieves not having a child because it means that John is gone and she has nothing left of him, not even a child in which she might see his face or hear his laugh again.
“Michael was my favourite!”
Oh, the Michael that threatened to fuck Francesca until she got pregnant & would then HAVE to marry him. Sure thing, babes.
“It’s not historically accurate.”
Be so fucking for real right now.
Gay people have always existed. They lived with life-long “roommates” and signalled other queer people with fashion accessories or certain vocal inflections.
Not to mention that Fran’s a widow. It’s perfectly acceptable for her to never re-marry because she already did it. She fulfilled social expectations by having a husband until he was taken tragically. Michaela being her “companion” would be easily accepted by general society.
“Michaela can’t get her pregnant.”
First of all, believe in her a bit more. Second of all, pregnancy isn’t the only way to have a child, and by harping on this, you’re all perpetuating the idea that a mother whose children aren’t biologically hers is less than. An infertile woman is somehow broken.
“The book—“
Infertility is the least important theme in the book. Francesca is still struggling with her grief and struggling with what it means to fall in love again after the death of her husband. She worries that because her love with Michael/a negates the one she had with John because they were so different.
John was safety, a lighthouse in a storm, a source of peace and acceptance. It was a quiet love that warms like curling up next to a fire with a blanket and a good book.
Michael/a is an inferno. Challenging and at times, infuriating. There is comfort still, but more often, it’s the type of love that pushes you out of your comfort zone. Something that defies every idea you once had for yourself.
Neither love is more valuable than the other. Francesca needed to love John first—needed to live for the first time outside of her chaotic family in peace. Being with someone similar to her let her know that there was nothing wrong with her. With her routines and rigid expectations and puzzles, John took those things in stride, never making her feel embarrassed or uncomfortable to be that way.
Falling in love again means that Francesca needs someone like Michaela. Someone who will grieve with her and honour the love she held for John without letting her drown in it. Someone who understands her peculiarities because Michaela loved someone just as particular. Francesca needs Michaela’s chaotic approach to life because when someone you love dies, they take a piece of you with them. Fran needs to remember what it’s like to live again.
Well, maybe dinosaurs have more in common with present-day birds than they do with reptiles. Look at the pubic bone. Turned backwards, just like a bird. Look at the vertebrae. Full of air sacks and hollows, just like a bird. And even the word 'raptor' means 'bird of prey'.
My dad has rules, Marina. I can't risk pissin' him off. What rules? What are you talkin' about? Mind your fuckin' business, kid! Alright? Rocco! I want your opinion, I'll fuckin' smack it out of you, college boy! Alright?
LEWIS PULLMAN as Rocco Gauthier
RIFF RAFF (2024)— dir. Dito Montiel
Heey, I was the anon that asked for advice about a dance scene 🖤
I should've worded that ask better. I think I need advice or some prompts on how to describe dance moves without being weird, like describing a character copying a video with a choreography, but I didn't have an specif type of dance in mind.
I'm really sorry that the first ask wasn't clear, and thank you so much for answering 🖤🖤
Sure thing, my friend :)
How to describe dancing
Show emotions through movement
A character feels something when they are dancing. Let that emotion shape how they move.
Don't just describe what the character is doing ("She spun around"), describe with more detail into how they feel or how the reader should acknowledge their emotions ("The way she spun around looked nothing like her usual controlled movements. She was like a wild animal, caged in, dreaming of being free, but finding no exit.")
Use imagery and metaphors
Describe the dancing by comparing it to other imagery or use metaphors.
Examples:
- Their body moves like water finding its way through cracks, a force that couldn't be stopped.
- She moved like a marionette, forced by an unseen outsider to dance for him, but one whose strings are slowly being cut. One by one, they got loose and her movements become more open, like she was finally freeing herself.
Use specific, sensory details
Do you remember my How to describe an atmosphere series? That's what we are doing here. Describe what they hear, what they feel, what they see... Alternate between the big picture and some very small details.
Write about:
- The scraping of shoes on the wooden floor
- The sunlight coming through the window
- The pull of muscles in the dancer's body
- The tempo of the music
Examples:
- The rhythm of the music went through their body like a second heartbeat.
- When they spun around they were temporarily blinded by the sunlight coming through the big windows. They hadn't noticed how much time had gone by.
Use sentence rhythm
A fun fact about writing: you can use the length of sentences to pace the story and make the reader feel like they are stuck in time or in a rush. And you can also use that to mimic the dance.
- Use sharp and short sentences to show energy, passion, a fast dance with sharp movements
- Use longer and flowy sentences to show someone getting lost in a slow and graceful dance
Show interactions with their surroundings
Are they dancing with someone? Who else is in the room? Are they interacting with an object nearby?
Last tip: Don't use overly technical terms, especially if you're not specifically writing for a dancer audience. Using terms the reader doesn't know or use often can make the reading feel dry or pull the reader out of the story.
