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abbotjack · 2 months ago

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can u pls write a fic where the reader absolutely adores going down on abbot because she gets to have him at his most vulnerable and feral, all because of her own undoing

you know what… yeah. there's something about the way jack falls apart when your mouth is on him—quiet at first, trying to hold it together, and then suddenly he's gone. voice rough, hips twitching, all restraint out the window. and the best part? it's not because he's asking for it. it's because you wanted to. because he let you in, and now he can't hide from it. anyway. here you go!

content/warning : explicit oral sex (m receiving), praise kink, military past mentions, emotional vulnerability, established relationship intimacy, Jack is feral and in love. 18+ MDNI!!!!!

words : 1,755

Jack’s hard to catch off guard.

He’s trained for chaos. Built for pressure. Keeps himself wired tight because it’s the only way he’s ever known how to survive—by staying ten seconds ahead of the worst-case scenario, especially if that scenario has anything to do with losing you.

But sometimes, without even trying, you manage to catch him unprepared.

And tonight, he doesn’t see it coming.

It’s past ten. The rain’s steady against the windows, casting shadows that shift across the floor. You’re curled up on the living room couch, half-buried under a fleece blanket, flipping through a worn medical journal you’ve read twice already. You’re not even pretending to be interested—just waiting. Watching.

Jack’s in the kitchen, sleeves shoved to his elbows, scrubbing a pan like it’s got something personal against him. His movements are steady, practiced. Rooted in a rhythm he’s long since made his own.

He hums under his breath, soft and shapeless. Not a song, not really—just a low, quiet pattern that lives somewhere deep in his chest. The kind he slips into when he’s too tired to realize he’s doing it.

He’s already showered. Hair still damp, curling at the ends. A black t-shirt clings to his shoulders, worn soft with time. Grey sweats sit low on his hips, the waistband knotted like an afterthought. One sock. The prosthetic stays on—seamless, familiar, just another part of how he moves through the quiet of the evening.

And something in you pulls tight.

Because no one else sees him like this.

Not the hospital, where he’s all orders and intensity. Not his old unit. Not even his family, who still talk around things like they’re too fragile to touch.

But you do. You get this version of him—the quiet one. The one who moves like the day hasn’t touched him yet. The one who doesn’t have to perform toughness or control.

And you watch him, not for the first time, and think—without warning, without fanfare—God, I love you.

Not in the loud way. Not in the kind you say out loud just to hear it back. Just in the way that settles in your chest and stays there. Heavy. Certain.

He rinses the pan. Dries his hands. Looks up just as you shift your weight on the couch.

And that’s when it catches up to you—quiet, all at once. How much you want him.

Not just the sex. Not just the weight of him on your tongue or the sound he makes when he loses control.

But this. The unraveling.

The chance to take him apart, slowly, just because he lets you. Because he trusts you to.

“Jack?”

He turns, still toweling off a spot on his wrist. “Yeah?”

You slip off the blanket. Pad across the hardwood barefoot.

He watches your approach with that look—careful, measured. The one he wears when he's trying to read you before you speak.

When you reach him, you slide your hands under his shirt, palms smoothing over warm skin. He’s still damp near the collarbone. Still smells like unscented soap and the body wash he only buys because you like it.

You press your mouth to the corner of his lips, soft and slow.

He leans into it before he can stop himself.

“What’s that for?” he asks, voice low.

You shrug. “Just felt like it.”

He doesn’t speak, just studies you—like he’s trying to figure out what changed, what storm might be coming.

You tilt your chin up, fingers still tracing lazy circles on his ribs.

“I want you.”

His brow ticks up. “You have me.”

You shake your head. “Not like that.”

And then, quieter: “Let me take care of you.”

He stiffens—just barely. You feel it before you see it. That split second where instinct kicks in, where he almost says no, almost laughs it off, almost makes it about you instead. Because that’s who he is.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he nods.

And you drop to your knees.

The tile is cool against your shins. Jack shifts his weight—one foot grounding, the other adjusting with practiced ease. You place your hands on his thighs and look up at him, steady under your touch.

He’s already breathing harder.

“Let me have you like this,” you whisper.

He exhales—tight, measured. “Fuck. You sure?”

You smile, pressing a kiss to the base of his stomach. “I’m already on the floor, Jack.”

That gets a low huff of laughter. But his hand settles on the back of your head anyway, fingers threading through your hair.

He watches as you undo the knot in his waistband, tug his sweats down just enough, and take him in your hand.

Already half-hard. Heavy. Familiar.

You lean in and press your lips to the head of him—soft, reverent.

And then you open your mouth.

The groan that breaks from him isn’t polished. It’s not restrained.

It’s raw.

Like it catches him off guard. Like he thought he could stand there and stay composed while you took him apart piece by piece.

But the second you suck him down, his composure splinters.

His thighs twitch. His hips jerk just slightly, then freeze like he’s trying not to move, not to hurt you, not to fuck your mouth the way he clearly wants to.

Your hands move instinctively—one braced on his stomach, steadying him, the other wrapping around the base of his cock as you work him deeper.

Jack’s head falls forward, mouth parted.

“Christ,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You—baby, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you murmur against him. “I love this.”

You swirl your tongue and take him deep again, and his knees almost buckle.

He adjusts—shifts his weight again, subtly, stepping back, his hand now braced on the counter for balance. You glance up. The way he looks at you—lips parted, eyes heavy, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to beg—you could cry from it.

And then, when you moan around him, low and slow, he loses it.

His hand fists tighter in your hair.

His abs twitch beneath your palm.

“You’re gonna fucking ruin me,” he groans.

You hum, dragging your mouth off him long enough to grin. “That’s the idea.”

You take him back in—deeper—until he hits the back of your throat, and when your nose brushes his stomach, he gasps. Like he can’t believe how good it feels. Like it hurts. Like he doesn’t know how to survive this kind of love.

His balance wavers again, and you feel it when he compensates—hip shifting forward, muscles flexing, the barest tremble in his thigh as he tries to keep still.

“Sweetheart—” he chokes out, “—I’m gonna—fuck—I’m close—”

You just keep going.

Let him have it. Let him feel it.

Every pulse. Every vibration of your mouth. Every second of you choosing to take him like he’s something sacred. Something you need like air.

And when he comes—it’s not quiet.

He groans, guttural and broken, hips stuttering forward, hand tightening in your hair, and your name spills from his lips like a confession.

You swallow. Gently. Like it’s a gift.

And then, slowly, you rise.

He’s still leaning hard on the counter, chest heaving. You just step into him. Rest your hands on his hips.

He pulls you in, eyes blown wide.

You kiss the corner of his mouth—soft, grounding.

“You okay?”

He exhales, a low breath that’s more laugh than anything else, but it breaks halfway out of his chest. “You’re gonna fucking destroy me.”

“You said that already.”

“Still true,” he mutters, tugging you in by the waist until you’re flush against him.

You lean in, forehead bumping his, nose brushing his cheek. His skin’s still warm from the shower. You press your lips to his jaw—gentle, reassuring—and whisper, “Come sit with me?”

He nods, but doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, arms wrapped around you like he’s trying to get his breath back.

Then, finally: “Yeah. Okay.”

You slide your hand down his back and tug lightly at the hem of his shirt as you pull away. He follows without hesitation.

When you reach the couch, you’re the first to sit—curling into the cushion with your knees tucked up, leaving space for him without saying a word. Jack lowers himself beside you, slow and steady, one hand bracing the armrest as he shifts his weight and sinks into the cushion.

He leans toward you, hand sliding to your hip. “C’mere,” he murmurs.

You go easily, letting him guide you as you swing a leg over his and settle into his lap. Your knees bracket his thighs. Your arms loop around his neck, and his hands find their place—one at the curve of your spine, the other curling into the fabric of your sweats at your thigh like he needs you close enough to breathe.

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just breathes. Forehead pressed to yours.

“You always do that to me,” he says eventually, voice low and rough.

“Do what?”

“Take the fucking ground out from under me.”

You laugh softly. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are still heavy, a little dazed, but there’s no edge in his voice. Just something raw. Open. “It’s not just the sex. It’s the fact that I—” He shakes his head, exhales sharply. “I never used to let anyone see me like that. I didn’t know I could.”

You rest your hands on either side of his face. “You don’t have to let go for me, Jack. You just do.”

His jaw tenses for a second, then softens as your thumbs brush his cheekbones.

“I love you,” he says.

You blink. Not because you didn’t know—but because it sounds different this time. Like it came from somewhere deeper.

“I know,” you say. Then you smile. “But say it again.”

His eyes flick between yours. “I love you.”

You kiss him. Slow, unhurried, like there’s nowhere else to be. And when you pull back, he leans in and kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then just stays there, arms around you, face pressed into the curve of your neck.

You stay like that for a long time.

Quiet. Still.

Wrapped around each other in the soft hum of your home. His heartbeat under your hand. His presence so familiar it aches in the best way.

#i have a lot of requests #but keep sending some in #i like reading what u guys have created in ur mind #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #shawn hatosy #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #the pitt #smut

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