muppet-medusa

[muppet-medusa]

JACK ABBOT + PRAISE The Pitt | Season 1

[muppet-medusa]

˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚ Haunted ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

insp by haunted by beyonce; my haunted lungs / ghost in the sheets

summary : A heavy summer night, a cracked window, a man who never knocks. Across the street, he watches—quiet, bruised, unmovable. Inside, you rearrange furniture like it might settle something in your chest. But some hauntings don’t knock, and some doors don’t open for just anyone.

word count : 4,430

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!! explicit sexual content (unprotected penetrative sex in the hallway, rough), intense sexual tension, emotionally charged smut, age gap (reader late 20s, Jack 40s), trauma references, smoking, alcohol use, haunted eroticism, power imbalance, intense longing, obsessive undertones, slow burn

South Side Flats, Pittsburgh – The Duplex Across From His – Sunday, 8:12 PM

The air is heavy. Not warm—heavy.

The kind of heat that doesn’t just sit on the skin but wraps around the lungs, thick and honey-slow, like you’re meant to choke on it. Somewhere a freight train moans against the spine of the city, low and dragging, and you wonder��not for the first time—what it would take to leave this place. To get in a car, a cab, a wrong bed, and keep moving until the heat lifted.

But then you remember him.

And you stay.

He’s there again tonight. Porch light off. Bottle half-drunk, label rubbed smooth beneath his thumb. Jack Abbot sits on the third step like it’s a habit, like the world tipped sideways one day and never bothered to set him right. He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even check his phone. You wonder sometimes if the whole man’s just a monument. Built to last. Built to rust.

You haven’t spoken in a while.

Not since the second time he helped you carry a dresser up your steps—solid cherry, mid-century, heavy enough to kill a man if you dropped it wrong. You remember how he handled it like it meant nothing. How his forearms looked with the sleeves pushed up. The way he didn’t ask questions, didn’t flirt, didn’t say much beyond, “Careful on the landing. Gets slick when it rains.”

He’d already been watching you before then.

Just like you’d been watching him.

Not openly. Not in a way that’d get talked about. But in the quiet ways—the ways that haunt. Your curtains pulled just enough to see the glow of his TV flickering blue across his living room walls. The way he always parked his truck on the opposite side of the street, like he didn’t want to look at his own house when he left. How he smoked sometimes, only when the sky turned violet, as if dusk gave him permission.

And how he wore grief like it was sewn into the lining of his clothes.

You don’t know what happened to him exactly, but you know the outline. You’ve read it on his body like a map—scar on his knuckle, phantom hitch in his step, that strange off-rhythm gait that says something got taken, and he had to learn to walk without it. Not just the leg. Something deeper. Something no one could put back.

Tonight, he’s got the bottle but not the smoke.

Tonight, you’ve got the window cracked just wide enough to listen. Not that he talks. He’s not the kind of man who talks unless something inside him breaks.

You lean against the sill, bare thighs sticking to the wood, wearing nothing but a washed-out t-shirt and old sleep shorts that don’t hide much. You hadn’t planned to watch him again. You tell yourself it’s the breeze you’re after. The city hum. The nothing.

But then he moves.

Not much. Just the tilt of his head. Just enough to glance toward your house—your window—and pause. He doesn't linger. Doesn’t wave or smirk or nod. Just stills. Looks. Breathes.

Like maybe he knew you’d be there.

Like maybe he always knows.

You can’t see his eyes from here, but you can feel them. Somewhere between the soft of the streetlamp and the shadow line under his jaw, you swear something shifts. Like your whole body is being clocked. Accounted for. Recognized.

It makes your stomach flip.

You know better than to romanticize men like Jack. Men who carry weight like a second skin. Who drink quiet. Who look like they haven’t been touched in a long time—but don’t trust the hands that try. You’ve dated all kinds. Soft ones. Loud ones. Clever ones. None of them looked at you the way Jack does from thirty feet away, saying nothing at all.

Your phone buzzes beside you. Hannah, your roommate, out somewhere she shouldn’t be, half-drunk and emotionally reckless, as usual.

“Did u see him again?? porch man?? that man wants to know what ur bones feel like under his hands lol”

You don’t respond. Not right away. You’re still watching.

Still feeling it—whatever this is. Not a crush. Not desire, exactly. Not something warm. No. This feels older than that. Feels like knowing someone you’ve never met. Like your skin already remembers what he tastes like. Like the kind of man who was meant to ruin you, and somewhere inside you, that seed already sprouted. You just haven’t watered it yet.

You finally text back:

“He’s out there.”

You don’t say you are too. You don’t have to.

Because a second later, the porch creaks.

Your breath stalls.

He stands.

For a moment, you can’t move. Can’t breathe. You grip the windowsill with both hands like it’s going to anchor you. His silhouette shifts. Stretches. He drinks the last of the beer, sets it down beside the step with care—so quiet, so deliberate—and steps inside.

The porch light stays off.

And your whole body feels like it just came down from something you never climbed.

You pull the window shut. Lock it. Turn off the fan.

But long after you crawl into bed, you can still taste the metal of the screen on your tongue. The burn behind your ribs like you’re holding your breath too long. The image of him there—still. Solid. Silent.

You already know—he’s in your blood now.

And blood calls to blood.

Same Street, Two Nights Later — Tuesday, 11:46 PM — Your Side of the Glass

You weren’t looking for him tonight. Not actively.

You were just rearranging the living room again—shoving an Eames knockoff two inches to the left like that’d fix the weight in your chest, like geometry could soothe longing. It’s something you do when the world is too quiet. When your thoughts start to echo. You move furniture the way other people smoke or pray.

But then you caught him. Again.

Jack. Leaning against the railing this time. Arm slung over the top post, eyes low, unreadable. He’s not drinking tonight. No beer. No cigarette. Just him. Raw and undistracted. The kind of stillness that makes everything else look frantic.

You keep your distance.

Not out of fear.

Out of respect. The man moves like a wolf would if it lived too long and started remembering the names of things it used to kill. You don’t poke at something like that unless you’re prepared to let it tear you open.

Still—something’s different tonight.

His gaze flicks up, deliberate. Eyes finding yours with precision. Not the way men look when they’ve caught you watching and want to feel superior about it—but the way someone does when they’ve been watching, too. Long before now. Long enough to know when you move behind glass.

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do you.

Instead, you push the window open—not wide, just a few inches. Enough to let the air in. Enough to let him know you’re listening.

And then, as if on cue, his voice—

“Your light’s been on since seven.”

You blink. The first thing he’s said to you in days. Maybe ever, depending on how you measure real speech. Carrying a dresser up the stairs doesn’t count. Not when this feels like an invocation.

You don’t raise your voice when you answer. You don’t need to.

“I don’t like the dark.”

Jack nods once, slow, like he understands. Not like he’s pitying you, but like he’s survived it himself. The dark. The nights that don’t end. The flickering shadows of a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

He shifts—just barely—a quiet redistribution of weight as he braces his good leg against the porch post, the kind of practiced movement that slips beneath most people’s notice. But you catch it. The way his body tilts, compensates, steadies. He’s facing you fully now, not hiding the way his eyes track the light spilling out of your front window.

He’s been watching. Clearly. Closely.

His gaze drags over the interior—the soft lamplight, the worn rug, the chair you’ve moved three times this week and still haven’t committed to. The one you told yourself you’d repaint. The one sitting right there in full view.

“You said you were gonna repaint that chair,” he says finally, voice cutting through the heat. “But you just keep moving it around like it means something. Like it belongs there. Like it’s not broken.” He pauses. “I can see it every night. Always in a new spot.”

You glance at the chair in question. Rust orange velvet, fraying at the arms. You found it on a curb three weeks ago and decided it deserved a second life. You don’t know why he remembers that.

“I like things with a little damage.”

Jack exhales—half-scoff, half-laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I figured.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s heavy, but not unbearable. Like the moment after thunder. That fragile space where nothing dares to move yet. You lean your forearms against the sill and feel the wood warm under your skin. He watches your arms, your wrists, your mouth when you speak.

“You always out here this late?” you ask.

“Not always,” he says. “Just when I can’t sleep.”

“And you can’t sleep a lot?”

His jaw shifts. A tic of tension, then release. “Enough.”

You don’t ask why. You already know. Maybe not the details. But you’ve seen the way he startles at backfiring engines. The way he stands when a siren passes—still, alert, waiting for it to name someone he knows. You’ve seen the ghost in him. Hell, you feel it like a twin flame—your haunted lungs to his haunted heart.

“Thought I saw you watching,” he says suddenly, eyes back on you.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The air tightens between you.

Not threatening. Not sweet.

Just charged. Like the street itself is holding its breath.

Jack pushes off the railing then. Steps down—once, twice. He doesn’t cross the road. Not yet. But the movement alone makes something inside you coil tight.

He stops at the bottom step, hands in the pockets of his zip-up, shoulders slouched like he’s spent. Like the day dragged him by the throat. And still, he says it:

“I don’t sleep. You don’t turn your lights off. We could pretend that means something.”

You tilt your head. “And if it doesn’t?”

He shrugs. “Still means I noticed.”

It’s then that the heat shifts. The porch light behind him flickers—burned out bulb, probably—and the whole block dims by a fraction. Enough to make the night feel close. Intimate.

And Jack?

Jack takes one step off the curb, like he might come closer. Like he’s thinking about it. Testing the weight of the choice in his chest. You see it in the way he rolls his jaw, the way he glances once at your window like he’s looking into something—not through.

But he doesn’t cross.

He lingers—still, certain, waiting. And you know, instinctively, he’s the kind of man who won’t take a single step until he’s sure it’s wanted. The kind who doesn’t chase. The kind who waits to be summoned.

So you leave the window.

Not because you’ve decided. Because you were always going to.

Because something in you already crossed the room hours ago—maybe days ago—and now your body is just following through.

You walk slow. Barefoot. The boards shift under you like they recognize your weight. Past the orange chair you keep repositioning, trying to make it mean something. Past the cracked tile at the edge of the hall. Past the wall that still smells faintly of old paint and regret.

You reach the door.

And you don’t open it right away.

You stand there for a second—fingertips grazing the deadbolt, your pulse tapping behind your ribs like it’s waiting to be let out. The porch light is already on, humming above you like a fever dream. The metal under your palm is warm. The silence outside is full. Watchful. Like the night’s holding its breath to see if you’ll go through with it.

And then you unlock it.

Not like you’re letting someone in.

Like you’re unlatching your own chest. Like you’re releasing the thing that’s been pacing the cage of your body all summer long.

You open the door just enough for heat to press in against your skin—thick, heady, electric. Then you step into the doorway. Not beyond it. Not inside either. Just there.

Barefoot. Bare-armed. Lit from behind. Your shadow spills out onto the porch, long and feminine and unavoidable. You don’t wave. Don’t beckon. You just stand still.

Like a flame someone dared to touch. Like you’ve been burning quietly all this time, waiting for him to notice the smoke.

That’s it. That’s your answer.

Not the porch light. Not the door unlocked. Not the silence. You. Standing in your own light, refusing to flinch. The porch light was never the invitation. You are.

You are the haunting now.

And Jack—still across the street, still standing on that same goddamn step—answers like a man who’s already lived here. Like his body knows this moment down to the bone. Like he’s spent weeks watching for this exact sliver of space to open, just wide enough to slip through.

He sees you. Full. Unhidden.

And he moves.

One step. Then another.

Measured. Steady. Not hesitant, but heavy. Like every inch closer to you costs him something. Like he’s felt this before. And lost it.

The fourth step lands him at the base of your porch, and he pauses. Just long enough for your breath to catch. Just long enough for you to realize he hasn’t blinked once.

Then he climbs.

Three steps.

And now he’s standing in front of you. Not across the street. Not on the porch. At the door. In your light.

His shoulders fill the frame. His chest rises slow. His eyes are darker than they were the last time he looked at you—hotter. His zip-up is still open, clinging to him like it’s afraid to fall. His hands stay loose at his sides, fingers flexing slightly like they don’t trust themselves. He smells like steel and skin. Like rain before it hits. Like whatever’s been following him for years finally let go.

He doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

He just looks at you, like he’s taking inventory of something sacred. Like he’s seeing you for the first time—not across the street, not through glass, not as an echo—but as a doorway.

His voice, when it comes, is low. Gravel rough. Pulled from somewhere deep and private.

“You opened it.”

Not a question. A statement. A confession.

You don’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, you take one step back. Slow. Deliberate. Leaving just enough space in front of you for a man to fit.

Your hand stays on the knob. Your breath stills.

It’s not a plea. Not an ask.

It’s a line drawn in light: Come in if you mean it.

And Jack steps over it like he’s done pretending he doesn’t.

He crosses the threshold slow—broad shoulders first, then the rest of him, heat and shadow and breath. The porch gives a small groan beneath his weight. The air shifts around him like the house is reacting to his presence.

And when the door swings shut behind him—quiet, certain—you don’t flinch. Because he’s already inside.

He’s close now. Closer than he’s ever been. The soft whir of the fan overhead does nothing to cool you down. His presence is a furnace, and your skin is already learning the shape of his.

Jack looks around once—slow, deliberate—then back at you. His eyes drop to your mouth. Linger.

“You always open the door like that?” he asks, voice rough with something that could be amusement but feels more like hunger barely restrained.

“Only for ghosts,” you say, soft.

Jack’s eyes narrow. Not suspicious—curious. Like he’s trying to read the rest of that sentence in the shape of your lips.

“I’m not good at haunting,” he murmurs. “I tend to stick.”

You take a step toward him.

“Then stick,” you say.

That’s what breaks it.

Jack moves fast. Not rough, not cruel—sure. Like he’s done waiting. Like he’s done pretending this hasn’t already happened in a thousand ways, in a thousand glances, over a hundred sleepless nights. His hands are on your waist in an instant—large, calloused, steady—and he backs you against the door so hard it rattles on its hinges.

His body presses full to yours. Not tentative. Not exploratory. Claiming.

You gasp—not in fear, but relief.

Jack’s mouth finds yours with unnerving precision—like he’s been studying it for weeks from across the street. Maybe he has. He kisses the way he works: like an ER attending in the middle of chaos—steady, practiced, deliberate. No wasted motion. Just pressure, breath, purpose. He’s not rushing. He’s not asking. He’s learning you.

The kiss is hot and unrelenting, all tongue and teeth and quiet surrender—like he’s pulling something from your chest that was always meant for him.

His lips break from yours just long enough to breathe against your cheek.

“You’re hot,” he murmurs, almost dazed.

You laugh, breath hitching. “So are you.”

“No—your skin,” he says, dragging his mouth down your throat, the words more breath than sound. “Jesus. Burning.”

You arch into him, gasping. “I told you—I don’t like the dark.”

His mouth pauses at your clavicle. You feel the smile there. Then:

“Then let me make it bright.”

Your fingers twist into the fabric at his chest and you pull him closer—harder—until his breath stutters against your skin. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him again, open and demanding. That sound shatters something inside you. You chase it, bite his bottom lip, taste the edge of him.

He breaks just enough to whisper, forehead pressed to yours.

“You want this?”

You nod, fast. Sure. “I wanted this the first time you said my name."

Jack’s hand splays wide at your hip, fingers curling like he’s claiming territory. His other arm braces beside your head, trapping you. He moves like he’s used to working around damage—his or yours.

“This isn’t gonna be clean,” he warns.

“I’m not asking for clean.”

He exhales like that answer undoes him. Then—“I haven’t done this in a while. Not like this.”

You reach up, palm cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble there.

“Then let it be new,” you whisper. “We’ll haunt each other clean.”

Jack kisses you again—slower this time, deeper. His mouth explores yours like a reckoning. His hands find your thighs, lift you against the door like your weight belongs in his arms. And in that moment, you realize:

This isn’t just lust.

It’s ache. It’s need.

It’s a man trying to come home to something that doesn’t hurt.

He carries you down the hallway without a word, shoulder nudging the wall to guide his way. Your legs wrapped tight around him, hands buried in the hair at the base of his neck, mouth at his jaw, teeth grazing a scar you’ve noticed before but never let yourself linger on—until now. The kind of mark you don’t ask about, but suddenly ache to memorize.

He doesn’t take you to the bedroom.

He stops in the hallway—right there, two feet from the framed photograph of your parents, just shy of the corner table you thrifted last fall. He pins you to the wall with his body, one hand braced above your head, the other already sliding under your shirt.

“Here?” he asks, rough.

“Here,” you say, breath hot. “Start here.”

Because the hallway is narrow. Tight. Honest.

It’s not where people are meant to stay—but it’s exactly where they choose.

It's the place where people hang coats and leave shoes, where heat rises off hardwood and the walls are too close to lie about intention. The place where the weight of wanting becomes unbearable. Where proximity makes liars of you both.

Jack’s hands are on your waist. His mouth is still wet from kissing you. His body has you bracketed against the wall like you’re something he found and forgot how to let go of. You can feel the heat of him through his jeans, thick and hard where he presses against you, the slow grind of his hips making your breath go shallow.

You shift, slowly—deliberately—turning in his grip until your front meets the wall. The plaster is cool against your chest, grounding, unforgiving. Your palms flatten above your head, fingers splayed wide, bracing for what’s coming. The movement makes your shirt ride up slightly, exposing the soft curve of your lower back, and he’s there—right there—not touching yet, but close enough that you feel the heat of him bloom across your spine.

He follows, crowding in, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. One of his hands lifts—slow, deliberate—and drags up the hem of your shirt with the back of his knuckles. Not urgent. Not teasing. Just a study in restraint. Like he can’t decide whether to be gentle or ruinous. Whether to worship or devour. His knuckles brush bare skin, and you hear it then—that subtle, involuntary breath he pulls in, sharp like pain.

When he speaks, it’s low. Wrecked. The kind of voice that only exists in the dark, full of hunger he’s been trying—and failing—to quiet.

“Still want this?” he murmurs, like he needs to hear it again—just to be sure.

You don’t answer right away. You reach back, palm flattening over the swell of his cock through his jeans, a silent answer. He jerks in your hand, grits his teeth like it hurts to be touched.

“I’ll ruin you,” he breathes. “I’ll fuck you like I mean it.”

You push back against him, arch your spine, tilt your chin.

“Then mean it.”

That’s the end of his control.

His mouth is on your neck, teeth scraping, biting, sucking hard enough to mark. His hand slides between your thighs, drags your shorts down your legs so rough the elastic burns. You step out of them, bracing yourself against the wall as his fingers part you—wet, hot, already swollen from the friction of wanting.

“Christ,” he groans, middle finger gliding through slick. “You’re soaked.”

“For you,” you say, breathless, not out of performance, but truth.

Jack groans again—deep, from his chest. He rubs himself through his jeans, and then you hear it: the zipper. The metal rasp that makes your mouth go dry. He tugs his jeans down just enough, and then the weight of him is pressed against you—bare, flushed, throbbing against the back of your thigh.

You reach back again, desperate, wrapping your fingers around him—hot, heavy, thick. The kind of cock that feels like it was meant to split you open. Your breath stutters.

Jack’s hands slide over your hips, grounding you. He lines himself up—head of him slick, blunt, pressing into you—and he doesn’t ease in.

He shoves.

You gasp—loud, punched out of you like air, like prayer. The stretch is immediate, punishing. He’s thick, hard, so deep so fast you feel him in your gut. His hand clamps over your mouth, not cruel—cautious—but even that makes your thighs clench, makes your cunt flutter around him.

You swear he growls.

“God, you’re tight—like you’re trying to keep me out,” he grits, already pulling back and slamming back in. “But you won’t. You won’t, sweetheart. You fucking asked for this.”

And you did. You did, and you’d do it again. You push back into him, chasing it, loving the sting. The rhythm he sets is merciless—not fast, not sloppy—but deep. Purposeful. Like he’s rearranging you. Like your body is something he means to learn, inch by inch, ruin by ruin.

Every thrust lands hard. Precise.

His voice is in your ear now—low, fucked-out, reverent.

“You’re mine like this,” he says. “Like I could live inside you. Like I have. You feel that?”

You can’t speak.

All you can do is nod, moan, cry out with every sharp, devastating push. Your hands scramble for the wall, for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing. Just paint and breath and the echo of skin on skin. You brace your elbows, press your forehead to the plaster as he fucks you like a man possessed. Like he’s waited years. Like he’s afraid he’ll never get to again.

He’s grunting, teeth gritted, sweat slick between your bodies. His prosthetic leg anchors him, and you feel the way his body compensates—shoulders shifting, balance tilting. He doesn’t apologize for it. Doesn’t slow.

“You feel like goddamn velvet,” he growls. “Gripping me like you want to keep me.”

“I do,” you pant. “I want to hold you—fuck—keep you.”

He groans into your shoulder. “You are. You are.”

He reaches between your thighs again, fingers sliding over your clit in tight, practiced circles. You jerk, whimper, body thrashing back into him.

“Come,” he murmurs. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm takes you like violence.

You clamp around him, clenching hard, pulse strobing in every limb.

You cry out—loud, raw—and your knees nearly give, but he catches you, holds you up, one arm around your waist as he keeps fucking you through it.

His thrusts stutter.

His breath breaks.

And then he growls.

He buries himself as deep as you can take, cock twitching as he spills into you, hips jerking, voice low and guttural against your skin. He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, as he empties himself inside you, groaning like he’s come home.

You both stay there, still panting, pressed to the wall.

Sticky. Shaking. Stained with sweat and come.

Jack doesn’t pull out right away.

He keeps himself inside you, hand still firm on your stomach, his weight a shield. You feel him soften slowly, but he doesn’t step back.

He just breathes.

Like if he moves, it’ll end.

Like this is safer than anything else.

Eventually, he shifts—gently, carefully—and pulls out with a low hiss. You feel his release drip down your thigh, hot and slick. He groans at the sight of it.

Then his hands find your waist again.

He turns you.

He looks at you like a man standing in front of a fire he doesn’t want to put out. And then he kisses you. Not hungry. Not rough. Just real.

“I don’t want this to be once,” he says quietly. “Don’t let it be once.”

You reach for him, still wrecked, still pulsing.

“I opened the door,” you whisper. “You’re already inside.”

He’s not haunting you anymore.

He’s staying.

[muppet-medusa]

two bros lookin' at a pelvic x-ray, 2 inches apart cause they're gay

[muppet-medusa]

when would jack stutter, have to catch his breath? whether it be something he sees, hears, smells. what makes him take pause?

Jack Abbot doesn’t stutter for effect. He doesn’t lose his words in arguments or get flustered in tension. He was trained—trained—to speak clearly through chaos. To radio for medevac while pressure-wrapping a wound with one hand. To give the date, time, and morphine dose to a nineteen-year-old he was holding together by sheer will while bullets cracked overhead. Words, for Jack, have always been tools. Precise. Tactical. Controlled.

So when Jack stutters, it’s never performance. It’s never dramatics. It’s malfunction. It means something short-circuited so violently inside him that all his practiced scripts—the field medic instincts, the ER attending cadence, the gallows humor—all of it collapses under the weight of something real.

It’s not trauma that makes him pause. He’s acclimated to that. It’s gentleness. It’s earnestness. It's the things no one ever trained him to survive.

It starts small.

You’re in his kitchen one morning, still in sleep clothes. No makeup. You open the fridge and mutter, “We need more eggs.” Not he needs. Not you need. We.

Jack freezes.

Just for a second. Just long enough that the corner of the coffee filter burns.

Because he’s spent years learning how to survive alone. Alone is safe. Alone is math he can do. But we? We is dangerous. We has loss baked into it.

So when you say something that sounds like permanence without even realizing it, Jack looks down at the mug in his hand like he forgot how it got there.

“You okay?” you ask, still rummaging.

“Yeah, I just—” He exhales, blinks. “I—uh, it’s—fine.”

It’s not the word he’s fumbling over. It’s the feeling.

Then it escalates.

You wear his sweatshirt to the grocery store and complain about the sleeves being too long. You say it in passing—no agenda, no performance. Just an offhanded “How the hell do your arms fit in this thing?”

Jack laughs. He nods. He goes quiet.

And later, when you’re brushing your teeth, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like he’s never seen anything more disarming.

“You know you, uh—” He pauses. Swallows. “You look good in that.”

And that stutter? It’s not nerves. It’s not lust. It’s ache. It’s how dare you look like home in my clothes when I never thought I’d have one again. It’s him tasting the fact that someone might love him with the lights on. With the ghosts still in the room.

But the worst of it—the deepest malfunction—is when you touch the part of him he hides.

It’s a Tuesday. You’re lying in bed. Jack’s out of the shower, towel around his waist, residual steam curling off his shoulders. You’re half asleep when he climbs in, careful, always careful. The prosthetic is off. His right leg ends below the knee, the skin there pale, uneven in tone, scarred in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

You roll over, press your face into his chest, and—without thinking—run your hand down his thigh and stop at the point where flesh becomes absence. Where history lives in muscle memory.

He draws in a sharp breath—sudden, ragged—like it knocked the wind out of him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back.

But he grabs your wrist. Not to stop you. To ground himself. To hold the moment in place.

“No, I—” His voice cracks. The words don’t follow. “It’s not—I just—” He blinks fast, jaw twitching. “I wasn’t—expecting that.”

Because what you touched wasn’t just skin. It was the thing he’s ashamed of needing love through. The thing people look at and get polite. The thing strangers pretend not to notice. The thing he never believed could be part of desire. And you just touched it like it was his. Like it was safe.

That’s when Jack stutters.

When you make the part of him he’s spent years compartmentalizing feel not just accepted—but wanted.

But maybe the most dangerous kind of stutter—the kind that ruins him—isn’t even about touch.

It’s when you fight.

Not over something petty. Something real. Something that threatens the fragile trust he’s learning to build. Maybe you accuse him of shutting you out again. Of pulling back every time things get too close. And you’re right. You’re so right it guts him.

He raises his voice. Snaps something defensive. His default. Control the room. Win the logic. Out-talk the fear.

But then you say it.

“Jack, you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

And that sentence? That sentence breaks him.

Not because of what it is.

Because of what it isn’t.

It isn’t a demand. It isn’t a plea. It’s grace. Unconditional. Unflinching. And it makes no goddamn sense to a man who’s only ever been valued for what he can fix, what he can endure, what he can sacrifice.

So he stares at you.

“You don’t—” His voice falters. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you whisper.

And he stutters. He turns away. Rubs his jaw. Blinks hard.

Because he wants to believe you. More than anything. But his nervous system doesn’t know how to file that truth under anything but threat.

He says, “I just—” and never finishes.

Because he can’t.

Because it’s too much.

Because your love is louder than his guilt, and that is a sound Jack Abbot doesn’t know how to live through.

That’s when he stutters.

When you say something that unravels the wire he’s been holding himself together with since the war. Since the job started asking more than he had to give and he gave it anyway.

When you look at him like he is not a burden. Like he is allowed to stay.

That’s what makes Jack Abbot forget how to speak.

Not blood.

Not death.

But the unbearable mercy of being loved anyway.

[muppet-medusa]

Does it help? The Pitt - 9:00 P.M.

[muppet-medusa]

i decided to start planning this to see what I could come up with and now i'm a dozen chapters deep in the outline for it, so........... this may actually be happening. cross your fingers.

poly omegaverse au starring alpha!michael robinavitch x omega!reader x alpha!jack abbot

is that anything

[muppet-medusa]

THE PITT Taylor Dearden as Melissa King

[muppet-medusa]

starving | j.a

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader warnings: smut, nsfw [18+ only], touch starved!jack, loneliness, slight sub!jack, clingy!jack, call girl!reader, male moans/whimpering, dry humping, making out like handsy/horny teenagers, jack's a mess and makes a mess of you, cowgirl, jack begs, dirty talk, desperation, squirting, word count: 5585

summary: in which jack's loneliness causes him to reach out to someone he's surprised is very understanding

author's note: further continuation of this piece. i took so long to write this because i didn't want it to be rushed. i wanted to do his character justice and i hope i achieved that. i hope y'all enjoy

oneshot | masterlist

It started with a phone call, like always. New clients had to be screened, they had to form a working relationship with you. 

You’d had your fair share of sketchy clients. Some who had tried to push you past your limits, others refusing to pay. You’d made a new rule that they always had to pay half upfront, and show they had the rest of the cash on them when you met them. If they wanted to extend the booking, they had that option, but the charge always varied depending on what they wanted to do. 

Some wanted to cuddle, engaging in pillow talk. Some wanted to prove they could make you finish again, if only to gloat. Some simply wanted the time to shower together, helping you to clean up. 

Nothing was ever free. 

There was one client you had who simply liked to talk. The company of watching a movie together, of talking about his day. 

Needless to say, Jack had become one of your favourite clients. You looked forward to his texts, asking for your availability. You always made sure to get a nice hotel. Somewhere with a comfy sofa, a huge bed, and a spectacular view. 

Jack always praised the view. 

At first, you’d assumed it was a compliment for you. He’d said it while staring out the window, watching the sun set over the city. Still, he’d looked at you—looked through you—in order to stand in front of the window. 

You stood alongside him. Muttering something about the city and the night, the peace it brought you, and the smile that had tugged the corners of his mouth had been worth it. 

One of the first things you’d noticed about Jack was that he wore a wedding band. Most of your clients weren’t as obvious with their cheating, opting to take it off, but the tan line was still there. Jack had seen you staring. Hell, he saw everything you did. He was always watching, always paying attention. He hadn’t mentioned it, but you had. 

“She passed away a few years ago,” he had confessed quietly, voice thick and gravelly like he wasn’t used to talking about her. “Can’t bring myself to take it off.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” you had assured him softly. 

Something about him told you everything you needed to know. The faraway look to his eyes, the weight he carried on his shoulders. From the initial phone call, you hadn’t been sure what to make of him. Now that he was in front of you, it looked like he needed a friend more than anything else. So you’d suggested a movie, something easy to watch, and he’d joined you on the bed. 

Jack had sat upright for most of the movie, and you’d made yourself comfortable lying beside him. Head near his lap, his hand aimlessly playing with your hair—like it was muscle memory. His fingertips had scratched your scalp and you’d sighed, enjoying the feeling. The comfort. The familiarity. 

Over the next few months, your meetings had been much the same. Sometimes he made a few comments, thinly veiled jokes to break the tension. Most of the time, he preferred the quiet. Knowing someone was there with him when he was stuck in his head. 

You never pushed for him to talk. Never made him feel guilty for needing a friend to sit with him, even if that friend was being paid to spend time with him. 

You enjoyed it. The break from the norm. The ease you settled into once he picked a movie to watch. 

One time he brought dinner. Something he’d made earlier in the day. He’d been chatty that day, something you noticed he did when he didn’t know how to process what was going on in his head. 

“It’s her birthday,” he’d told you. The weight of his words, the anxious fiddling with his wedding band, the meal. It all made sense. 

He’d watched you pick up the phone to call room service. You’d ordered a bottle of bubbles with three glasses, as well as three slices of cake. You did it so effortlessly that he got a little choked up. No hesitation, no awkwardness, just a patient understanding. Acknowledging the woman he was still in love with, with grace and poise. 

He’d seen you in a new light that day. Over the toast you’d made to his wife, and the care you’d shown him. The understanding that grief was a process. Healing was a process. That you saw him as a friend, not just a client. 

Jack started to talk a little more with each meeting. About his day—you’d learned he was a doctor. About his wife—his smile was always a little brighter each time. About your day—you tried not to reveal too much, but talking to him was easy. He didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. Didn’t push for details like some men did. He let you tell him what you were comfortable revealing. 

Hell, you’d even told him how you got into your line of work. He’d never passed judgement, or made you feel like you deserved better. He never suggested a change in career, but you’d told him you were taking classes and hoped one day to become a licensed child psychologist. 

“You’d be good at that,” he’d said with a smile. “There’s something about you that puts me at ease. That’s not an easy thing. Those kids would thrive with your guidance.”

“You really think so?” You’d asked. 

“I do.”

There was no doubt in his voice. It was firm, assertive, reassuring. Something you’d needed to hear but didn’t know how to go about getting it. And the fact that it came from Jack meant a lot more than you were willing to admit. 

Your body ached as you lowered yourself into the bath, iPad sitting on the tray hooked over the sides, along with a large glass of wine and some snacks. You pressed play on the screen, the intro to your comfort show starting within seconds. 

You didn’t have much time for simple pleasures these days, so you basked in the opportunity. Bubble mixture and rose oil added to the tub, the hot water soaking your aching muscles. The wine going down a treat, and the snacks curbing your hunger. 

The second episode had just started when you got a message from Jack. 

I know this is late notice, but can I see you tomorrow morning when I finish my shift? I need something to look forward to. 

I don’t have anywhere booked. Is a café okay?

You’re comfortable with that?

Absolutely, are you?

I finish at 7am. Will you find us someplace nice? 

I’ll have coffee and breakfast waiting for you. 

You sent him the name of the café you liked to frequent. You knew he worked at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, and it was only two blocks away. It was also nearby your campus, and you had two classes tomorrow with the first one starting at 10. You didn’t think meeting Jack would be that long, but you’d at least be able to get some study done for a paper you had due. 

The bath worked wonders. You felt relaxed, a little tipsy, and had something to look forward to in the morning. Setting an alarm for six, to give yourself enough time to get ready and pack your study bag. 

By the time the morning came around, your alarm pulled you from your sleep, and you made an effort while getting ready. A little touch of makeup to feel put together, hair styled just the way you liked, and a comfy coat that tied your outfit together. You packed your bag, and then you were off. Making your way to the cafe with a few minutes to spare, knowing Jack sill hadn’t finished work yet, but that he would be there shortly.

Coffee and food was ordered, and you took up a seat at a comfortable little table near the back. Grabbing your phone to see if there were any new messages from Jack, and being delighted to see a text he’d sent half an hour ago.

Might be a little late. Had a rough night. Looking forward to seeing you.

Take your time, I’ll see you when I see you.

You sipped your coffee when it arrived, having put a hold on the food for the time being. Waiting until Jack said he was officially on his way to the cafe before you asked the staff to start on breakfast.

Jack walked through the doors a couple of minutes later, backpack hanging off one shoulder, still dressed in his dark scrubs from the hospital. He wore a soft smile when he saw you, one you easily reciprocated.

“Hey,” he greeted easily, looking like the night had tested him one too many times. Still, he dropped his bag to the floor and took a seat opposite you. 

“Hey,” you replied. “You’ve looked better.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled. “Thanks for meeting me, I know you don’t do this.”

“I had time,” you said simply. “You need a friend or a therapist today?”

Jack exhaled heavily, shifting in his seat and reaching for his coffee. “Neither. Both. I don’t know.”

You nodded sympathetically. “Do you want to talk?”

“Not about me,” he admitted. 

“You can be my sounding board for my research presentation later this week,” you decided, pulling your iPad out to flick through your notes. 

Jack looked more settled opposite you, and thanked the waitress for your meals. You gave her a polite smile, picking at a tomato before wasting no time starting your speech. 

You showed different graphs on slides to reiterate your point. Every now and then, Jack gestured to your plate, prompting you to pause and eat, but otherwise listened completely. He nodded along with facts and statistics, asked the odd question to continue along with your line of reasoning. 

When you were finished with your speech, he clapped politely, a smile gracing his face. 

“Any pointers?”

“Look more at whoever you’re giving the speech to,” he said. “Otherwise it was very good.”

You grinned as you packed your iPad away, reaching for your coffee and finishing it. Jack gestured to the empty mug. 

“Another?”

“Please.”

The remainder of your omelette had grown cold, but it was still good. When Jack rejoined you, you were finishing up your last bite. 

“So,” you started. “Bad night, huh?”

Jack sighed, scraping at the dusting off stubble along his jaw. “Yeah, something like that,” he agreed with a half-smile.

“Are you okay?” You asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you replied, giving him a pointed look.

He sighed. “No. We lost a vet. Young guy, did two tours overseas no problem, then gets hit by a drunk driver when he comes home. Just…hit a little too close to home.”

You nodded. He hadn’t told you much of his time with the army, but you knew that he had a history serving.

“Shit,” you cursed.  “I’m sorry. That must’ve been pretty early in your shift?”

Jack nodded. “Spent a few hours trying to contact the family. Eventually got in touch with his sister. It’s just…the worst news to receive over the phone, you know? It’s supposed to be done in person, but she won’t arrive until later today.”

“Will you be going back to speak to her?”

Jack shook his head. “I wrote a letter instead. Gave it to the dayshift to read on my behalf. That’s why I was running late; contemplating life and existence from the roof of the hospital.”

“Just don’t jump, yeah?”

He cracked a smile at that. “Would be rude, wouldn’t it?”

“That, and I don’t really have time in my schedule for a funeral,” you said, earning a genuine laugh.

“Robby said something similar.” He wore a smile. “Dayshift attending.”

“A friend?”

“A brother.”

“I’m glad you have someone who gets it,” you told him. “Thank you,” you said to the waitress who brought your coffees over. “How’s everything else going? I haven’t seen you in a minute.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “It’s been a bit existential.”

You didn’t say anything, giving him the time to decide if he wanted to. Instead, you sipped your coffee and watched him spin his in the saucer.

“Had a breakthrough with my therapist,” he said. “I guess I’ve been a little caught up in it.”

“You’re allowed to be,” you replied. “You look tired, Jack. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Just a crazy shift, is all,” he told you. “I’ll go home and sleep soon.”

“Good.” You smiled. 

“Are you free tonight?”

“For you, I can be.”

There was a slight tinge of colour that blossomed on Jack’s cheeks. “If you already have plans, I get it.”

“Jack, I don’t have any plans,” you assured him. “Go home, get some sleep. I’ll book the usual room, but I’m not watching Mission Impossible again.”

“Understood,” he said, chuckling softly. 

Your day had been busy. Between your two classes, you’d attempted to record your presentation to see how long it actually was. You’d done some shopping for this evening, a little care package you’d decided to put together for Jack. 

It was what friends did, right? Something nice for each other when someone was feeling down? 

You hoped he’d appreciate it. Some nice skincare products, nothing too extraneous. Something soothing, for the days his leg hurt. Something hydrating, for the excessive hand-sanitising he does working at the hospital. Some nice chocolates from the bougie shop in town, since you knew he had a sweet tooth. A knife, because you could never have too many. Lastly, a set of cotton pyjamas. Something soft that wouldn’t irritate him, or get too hot in the warmer months. 

The basket sat on the bed of the hotel, all ready to give to him when he arrived, as you watched the news, waiting to hear back from Jack. He’d gone back to the hospital, despite it being his day off, to help with the shooting that the news was reporting. Several casualties had already been reported, with a lot of critical patients being routed to PTMC. 

From the coverage you knew it was bad. You knew he was doing the right thing by going in to help. His friends, his colleagues, would need the extra set of hands. 

So you waited anxiously, already a glass of wine deep amidst the devastation being reported, and hoped everyone who made it to the hospital survived. 

Sorry to make you wait. Have you eaten? I’ll grab something. On my way. 

Food is a good idea, grab anything you feel like. In our usual room. Did you think of a movie to watch?

No, but I need something lighthearted or funny. Your choice. I’ll see you soon. 

The School of Rock was waiting for you to press play by the time Jack arrived. For the second time today, he looked exhausted, and was still dressed in his dark scrubs. 

Surprisingly, he brought you in for a hug, holding you tightly, as if he needed to know you were real. You rested your head against his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. Not thinking twice about the unexpected hug, or that he took a few shaky breaths. 

“Hey,” you greeted softly, only pulling back when he did. You didn’t notice he’d been balancing a pizza box in one hand, too wrapped up in the hug to register it. “Come in.”

Jack excused himself to the bathroom. He left the door open, splashing some water on his face, while you sat back on the bed and flipped the pizza box open. You were halfway through a slice when he joined you, dropping his backpack by the door and taking his shoes off. 

“Got you something,” you told him, gesturing to the basket you’d moved to the desk under the tv. Jack turned his attention to it, pulling it towards him. “Felt like you needed a pick me up, and that was before you went back into work.”

He chuckled softly. “Are those pyjamas?”

“Yeah. It was that or a teddy bear with some corny phrase embroidered onto the stomach,” you replied, earning another laugh. “You can shower if you want…change into them?”

“Later,” he promised, the smile still on his face. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t judge the movie you picked. In fact, he’s grateful for the choice. Settling in beside you on the bed, the pizza box between you. Slices slowly disappeared while it was still hot, and silence washed over you as the movie played. 

Jack shuffled around to move the near-empty box, and you watched him remove his prosthetic and massage the stump as if it pained him. Brows drawn together, eyes closed, as if he did this all the time. 

Of course, it was the first time he’d done it in front of you. 

You reached for his free hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, it—”

“Leave it off,” you told him. “If it’s bothering you, leave it off.”

He stared like he wasn’t sure what to make of you. Like he was in over his head. Out of his depth. And maybe he was, just a little bit. It was you, after all. Always understanding. Always supportive, never judgemental. 

Maybe he did see you differently. Maybe the months of friendship had caused something to build—something real. He certainly felt like it, but the nagging voice in his head told him this was your job. That he was only a client to you. 

He hadn’t seen you for two months because the last meeting you’d had, you’d refused to take his money. 

“We’re friends, Jack. Friends don’t charge each other for their time,” you’d told him. 

There’d been no mention of money this morning. No talk of what tonight would cost him. You were throwing him off his rhythm. He felt uneasy, but not in a bad way. In a way that had his heart rate spike whenever he thought of you. 

The same way he felt when he first met his late wife. 

Jack swallowed thickly, trying to overcome the lump in his throat. “Okay.”

You smiled that sweet smile and patted the spot on the bed next to him. The spot that he shuffled towards, leaving no space between you. And still, you moved his arm to drape it around your shoulders, hand settling on his thigh, just above his knee. 

His pulse thundered in his ears, and he was looking at you. Still. Like you might disappear in front of him at any second. Like this was easy for you, comfortable, and yet you weren’t anywhere near as nervous as he was. 

Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe it had been too long since he’d held another person, that he was seeing signs that weren’t there. 

The thoughtful gift—he was a client after all. Maybe you did that for everyone when they were having a tough time of it. 

The ease you displayed physical affection—again, maybe he was still only a client to you. Maybe this was all just part of the services you offered. 

Jack was tense. He felt like he couldn’t relax, couldn’t enjoy this for what it was. His brain was telling him to be reasonable, to not make this a bigger thing than it was, but his gut told him to take the leap. Even if it didn’t pay off, he would then have a definitive answer. 

The tapping on his leg was distracting, but it was working. You knew what he needed and did something to distract him. To pull him back to the present after getting lost in his head. 

“Is that Morse code telling me to breathe?”

Jack’s bewilderment was genuine and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

“Yeah. Figured talking might spook you,” you replied. “You went all tense and stopped breathing for a second.”

“Really? Sorry,” he replied, making a point to exhale loudly. “Army brat?” 

You hummed. “High school wasn’t challenging enough, so I taught myself to read braille and communicate in Morse code.”

“Nerd,” he commented, earning a small laugh. 

“Shut up and watch the movie,” you muttered, playfully pinching his leg. 

You saw his smile soften in the corner of your eye, but he didn’t immediately turn back to the tv. You tapped out w-e-i-r-d-o on his leg, only for him to tap back on your shoulder I-k-n-o-w. 

He only turned his attention back to the tv when you smiled, resting your head on his shoulder, his fingers trailing aimlessly up and down your arm. It was comfortable. It felt good—natural. It made him feel warm inside. And that wasn’t something that happened often, so he allowed himself to enjoy it, if only for a moment. 

Jack’s hand found its way to your head, fingertips lightly scratching at your scalp. 

“Keep doing that and I’ll start panting,” you mumbled. “It feels good.”

He hummed, making no sign of stopping. You sighed softly, contently, and snuggled a little closer to him. Hand flexing against his leg as you shifted. 

He smiled at you cuddled into his side, and was pressing a kiss to the top of your head like he did it all the time. 

“You always smell so good,” he spoke softly, resisting the urge to take a huge, obvious whiff. 

“You smell like hospital.”

“What’s that smell like?”

“Sanitizer. And sandalwood, but I think that’s just your cologne.”

He tucked his chin, sniffing his chest. “That’s sandalwood?”

“That’s delicious,” you replied with a laugh. 

“Delicious, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you tsk’d, fighting back a smile. 

Jack hummed. “Too late.”

He was tapping out a message on your arm before he lost the nerve. 

I-w-a-n-t-2-k-i-s-s-u

You were turning to look at him before he finished his message, hand cupping his cheek and turning his head towards yours. Your gaze dropped to his lips, gasping as he cupped the back of your head and met your lips with his own. 

There was an urgency to his kiss, a desperation that leached into you. Your hand on his thigh gripped it a little tighter, your eyes closing at the rush that washed over you. The relief. 

You twisted a little more, trying to get a little more comfortable. Swinging your leg over his waist, his hand settled on your hip, aiding your movement as you straddled him. 

He groaned appreciatively, sinking deeper into the kiss. Into you, like you were a lifeline. You gasped as he tugged your hair, a sultry moan rumbling in your chest. His lips turned up, smiling against yours, only for him to gasp as you rolled your hips. 

Wicked, he thought. Struggling to gain composure as you did it again, nipping at his bottom lip. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, parting his lips so his tongue could meet your own. 

You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed you like this. Like the tension had built so much—grown so hot—that you felt frantic. Kissing Jack was as thrilling as you thought it would be. The way he cupped your head, tugged your hair. The way he gripped your hip, fingertips digging into your flesh as he guided your movements.

And he was just as into it as you were, his erection pressing against your core, straining against his scrubs.

You wanted him to be the one to initiate things further. He hadn’t mentioned any specifics, but from how raw his grief was about losing his wife, you assumed this was the first time he was even kissing another woman. You didn’t want to do anything to spook him—he deserved to be comfortable—to not be pushed, even if your body was begging your brain not to listen to itself.

“I want this to last,” Jack mumbled. “Fuck, it won’t if you keep this up.”

You giggled, cupping his face as you kissed him slowly. “We have all night, Jack.”

You slowly, deliberately, rolled your hips, watching his eyes screw shut as he groaned. Both hands settled on your hips, anchoring you in place, stopping your oh-so-sweet torture.

“God, you’re the devil,” he said breathily.

You hummed, sliding your hands down his chest until you were tugging at the hem of your own shirt. You were more than comfortable being the only one naked—or semi-naked. Jack watched with hooked eyes and bated breath as you pulled the material over your head, throwing it somewhere across the room.

You’d find it later, or you wouldn’t. Maybe Jack would take it home as an excuse to see you again. That thought made you almost giddy.

Jack moaned your name, hands skimming up your sides. Thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

“Jack.” You sounded desperate even to yourself, but he looked at you so hungrily, so ready to devour, that you lost your train of thought. 

“Say my name again,” he pleaded.

You slowly rocked your hips, placing your hands on his and moving them to cup your breasts. “Jack,” you repeated, feeling your nipples harden under his palms. He looked like he was going to pass out, fingers squeezing your breasts, head dipping to capture a nipple in his mouth. “Oh, fuck. Jack.”

He growled lowly, the vibration sending shivers to your core. You stilled, legs squeezing either side of his waist, hands flying to his hair to tug it as his teeth grazed your nipple.

You hissed as he lightly bit down, back arching your chest further towards him. He closed his eyes and hummed, lightly raking his nails down your back. You shivered, skin prickling at the sensation.

Jack smiled as you tugged his shirt, hitching up the black scrub tee, as well as his pale undershirt. Your fingers trailed over his abdomen, his lips seeking yours once more as you worked his shirts higher. Jack groaned, briefly breaking the kiss to tear the shirts over his head.

His chest was spotted with freckles, a mixture of dark and light. You trailed your fingers over his collarbones, fingertips tickled by the hair covering his pecs. He leant back against the pillows, watching you curiously explore every protrusion, every defect. Evidence of his time in the military was more than just the prosthetic leg, but also the shrapnel scars and muscles.

God, he was magnificent—so fucking beautiful.

Your breath hitched as you felt his hips flex, cock straining desperately against his scrubs.

“Tell me what you want, Jack.”

It was a simple request,  yet one you weren’t sure was going to be answered. You thought for sure this was all that would happen, that his mind would win out and put a stop to this. You desperately didn’t want that to happen, but the ball was in his court—it had to be.

Jack’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, trying to process your words. Your hands settled around his head, fingers twirling his hair, scratching his scalp.

“You,” he eventually breathed out, like he was afraid of his own answer. “I want you.”

He sought your lips, slower this time—more calculated, like he wasn’t afraid to want. The desire still burned beneath your skin, one that was more intense, yet every bit as frantic—as dangerous.

The temperature in the room felt like it had been dialled right up. Perspiration dotted at your temples, Jack’s body just as hot beneath your touch. You rocked your hips slowly, gasping as he pinched one of your nipples, his hips rocking up to meet yours. 

“Jack.” 

Sinful, that was the only way Jack could describe it. The way you touched him, the way you kissed him. God, he was in over his head and about to cum in his pants like a starving teenaged boy. 

“Don’t leave,” he pleaded, watching you put distance between the two of you. 

“I’m not,” you assured him, taking a second to tenderly cup his cheek. “I’m getting a condom.”

Jack felt stupid, laughing deliriously as you grabbed a condom from your bag. His chest rose and fell heavily, watching your tits sway with each step. How they hung when you bent over, and how good your ass looked in your pants. 

The foil packet was taunting him as you walked back to the bed. His cock strained agonisingly against his pants, desperate for relief. He lazily palmed himself, watching your eyes drop to his lap. 

You bit your lip and he groaned as he watched you tuck your thumbs into the side of your pants, slowly wiggling them down your body. 

“You’re killing me,” he panted. 

Jack watched you crawl towards him on the bed, hand roughly squeezing his cock as he took in your soft, supple body. Each dip, each mark, all signs of a life lived. 

You reached for his pants, untying the drawstring that kept them cinched tight at his waist. Jack exhaled heavily through his nose, watching your face for any sign of hesitation. Any sign that this wasn’t something you wanted. 

He didn’t see it. 

He felt your soft touch ghosting over his pelvic bone. He lifted his hips, helping you remove his pants, before he was pulling you into his lap again. You grinned as you straddled his waist, nothing between you now as you rolled your hips. 

Jack was a goner. The heat of your cunt wrapped around him, the way you kissed along his jaw. His fingers flexed against your waist, digging into your flesh, as your arousal coated his hard length. 

“Fucking hell,” he cursed lowly, desperately trying to gain some self-control. He felt way too close to the edge, too far gone, but you were everywhere. You were everything. “Please.”

“Please what, Jack?” You asked softly, nipping at his ear. You hummed as he gripped your hips a little tighter, an arm snaking around your lower back and holding you still. Body flush against his own. 

“I need you.” 

His voice sounded foreign to him. So husky, so distraught, so wildly aroused, but you looked exactly how he felt. Horny, needy, desperate. God, and here you were, sitting in his lap, bare pussy sliding against his cock, and he couldn't think—couldn’t breathe. 

Your lips found his, frantic. Teeth clashing, mouths bruising, tongues tasting like there was no time left. Like this was the pinnacle—the crux—his be all or end all. 

You fumbled with the foil wrapper, Jack’s arm snaking around your waist to keep you still–pinned against him.

“God, listen to you,” he said. “So fucking wet.”

Sinful. Jack couldn’t even think straight. 

“Jack,” you whined. 

He took the condom from you. You shuffled back, drawing him in for a kiss as he rolled the rubber onto his length. 

His fingers sought the spot between your legs that was drenched. The sloppy wetness was like music to his ear, reiterating that this wasn’t just one-sided. That you were as far gone as he was. 

He raised you, hands firmly gripping your ass as he held your gaze. Your hands locked behind his head, bottom lip taken between your teeth as his tip nestled at your entrance. 

When you lowered yourself onto him, neither of you dared breathe. The air felt electric, your bodies anchored together. 

Jack’s groan rumbled in his chest, rippling up his throat. “Fuck, baby.”

Your head was swimming. You inhaled raggedly, pressing your lips to Jack’s in an effort to ground you. But he was moaning, a delicious sound that had you clenching down around him. 

“Fuck, move. God, please,” he begged, voice strained as he desperately tried to hold his orgasm at bay. “Baby.”

You rocked your hips, pushing him back further into the pillows so you could raise your hips and sink yourself down onto him again. Hand splayed against his throat, lips pressed to the corner of his mouth. He cupped the back of your head, the other arm still wrapped tightly around your lower back. His own hips bucked, desperately seeking your thrusts. 

You gasped, cradling his head to your chest as you rose to your knees and he fucked up into you, the sound of his balls slapping your slick cunt flooding the room. 

“Ja-aa-aack,” you moaned, a desperate giggling falling past your lips. “I’m so close.”

“Shit,” he cursed, hips stilling as the hand that cupped your head slid between your bodies. Thick fingers circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. “Come for me, baby.”

You were there. You were seeing stars, and Jack was relentless. His fingers, his cock, his words. Your head swam as you moaned, as your body reached its breaking point and he pushed you over the edge. 

Your body was a cacophony of euphoria. The tightness in your abdomen that snapped. The moans rippling from your chest from the man you cradled in your arms. The way he held you, even with your tidal wave of arousal surged from you. Unprepared. Unrelenting. Unwavering. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his hips stuttering as he held you tight, bodies joined together. And still, you throbbed around him. Body overcome with aftershocks—convulsions. The way you squeezed him just right as he spilled inside the condom, clinging to you desperately like he could lose himself if he dared let you go. 

It took a minute, maybe a couple, before your breaths calmed. Synchronised. His hand tenderly stroking your hair, bodies completely spent. 

B-a-t-h you tapped on his shoulder. 

Y-e-s he tapped back, pressing a kiss to your forehead, but neither of you making the effort to move just yet. 

[muppet-medusa]

DANA EVANS | THE PITT 1.08 "2:00 P.M"

[muppet-medusa]

I feel weird because there’s so much happening in the MCU rn and the avengers aren’t there anymore. Like what do you mean there’s no more Steve Rogers ? Where’s Natasha ? What’s gonna happen to Clint ? and Bruce ? And Thor who’s gonna be so alone ?

I can’t believe Reed Richards is never gonna meet Tony Stark because he’s dead.

They’re dead and nothing happened.

Like we had two avengers movies before civil war, before they just broke up and everything started falling apart.

Two movies, it’s nothing.

We saw them as friends, as a family, as a team for one movie. A single movie.

It’s not enough. It was nothing. So much potential and they’re just gone.

Don’t get me wrong, I love marvel movies, still do. I love our Captain America, I love Yelena and I think she’s going to be an amazing black widow and ofc I love Riri Williams and I loved her for years but I miss my avengers, I miss how different and fun and sad they were. I miss my team and I wish we had more of them.

I’ll stick to fanfiction and reread comics ofc but it’ll never be the same.

I wish they did more. I wish they were the found family we needed and I’m forever disappointed that they weren’t.

It ended too fast.

I’m watching the Thunderbolts trailer and the tower is empty. There’s no one there anymore as if they were never there before.

It breaks my heart it truly does.

I miss them, they deserved to be a family more than anything ❤️

[muppet-medusa]

The most important person that you're gonna meet today. This is Dana. She's our charge nurse. She is the ringleader of our circus.

Katherine LaNasa as DANA EVANS THE PITT (2025—)

[muppet-medusa]

i am armed with a google doc full of ideas and a strong desire to play with my blorbos like they're barbies. pray for me

[muppet-medusa]

i feel like there are soooo many pregnancy/parenting-of-a-small-child fics in the pitt reader insert tags, and obviously that kind of stuff lends itself well to a hospital/doctor show setting so i totally get it, but as an intentionally childfree 30 year old i absolutely cannot relate lol

[muppet-medusa]

DANA EVANS & JACK ABBOT THE PITT (2025)

[muppet-medusa]

⠀˖⠀⠀⠀✶⠀⠀⠀BACK TATTOO JACK ABBOT HEADCANON (wc : 1757) ˖ ✦⠀

Jack Abbot has one tattoo.

It covers nearly his entire back — thick black ink pressed deep into the skin, running from the base of his neck down the length of his spine. A gothic cross, built wide across the shoulders and heavy through the middle, the lines rough-edged from the start. Not sloppy — just deliberate. Meant to hold. Meant to last.

Behind it, broad wings stretch low and battered across the blades of his shoulders. No soaring angles. No graceful lift. The wings look like they've been dragged through hell and stayed standing anyway, snapped at the ends where scars have broken the ink, feathers ragged, blackening into the burn-scored skin.

It isn't a decoration.

It isn’t a statement.

It’s a brand.

It’s a map of a man stitched together out of survival and failure and the kind of duty no amount of discharge papers can strip out.

He got the cross first.

Late 2003. Afghanistan.

Jack had just finished his first back-to-back rotation.

He was twenty-seven and already carried himself like someone older — shoulders squared against the weight of shit he didn’t have the time or the luxury to process.

He wasn’t a grunt, not exactly.

Combat medics never are.

His job was to keep people alive long enough to die somewhere cleaner.

Tourniquets. Decompressions. Chest tubes jammed through ribs slick with blood and dirt. Dragging men out of wrecked Humvees with their legs hanging by threads. Holding arteries shut with bare hands. Telling men who knew better that they were going to be alright even when Jack could already see it in their eyes — the knowing.

When they died, Jack made sure the bodies went home right.

Flagged caskets. Dusty salutes on the tarmac. Honor, at least, if nothing else.

But what nobody told you was what stayed behind — the blood that didn’t wash out of the sandbags. The personal effects that never made it onto the inventory lists. The things they never trained you to carry.

He didn’t go out drinking with the others when they got home.

Didn’t crash motorcycles or get in bar fights trying to feel something.

Didn’t call his family, not even once.

Didn’t tell them he was back.

Instead, he drove forty miles outside of Columbus, Georgia in the middle of the night, past the closed gas stations and darkened diners, until he found the place someone in his unit told him about — a concrete block of a tattoo shop, all flickering neon and cracked windows.

The artist was an older guy. Ex-infantry. The kind of man who looked Jack over once and didn’t say anything stupid like, “You sure about this?”

Jack stripped off his jacket. Turned his back to the counter.

Said, flat and unflinching: "Cross. Centered. Big."

That was it.

No explanation.

He sat down in the chair and took the pain without a flinch, the buzz of the machine burning low into his bones.

Three hours.

No breaks.

When it was done, Jack paid cash and walked out without glancing at the mirror.

He didn’t need to see it.

He already knew it was there.

For a while, the cross was enough.

It wasn't about God. Jack stopped believing in anything higher than the people bleeding out in front of him years ago.

The cross was a mark. A ledger.

The weight of every body he couldn’t save.

Every face he couldn't scrub out of memory.

Every time he held pressure over a bleeding chest and knew it wouldn’t be enough but stayed there anyway because you don’t let go until someone else makes you.

The cross is the line between standing and falling.

Between duty and despair.

It’s what he chose when he realized coming home didn’t mean coming back clean.

A reminder that there are weights you carry even when nobody else sees them.

He didn't talk about it.

He didn’t show it.

He didn’t even think about it most days — the way you don’t think about breathing when you’ve done it long enough.

It just was.

Then Iraq happened. 2005.

Jack had been attached to a mechanized unit, running convoys through streets that changed loyalty every two hours.

He wasn't supposed to be in the blast radius.

Wasn't supposed to be on that street at all.

But orders change, radios go silent, and Jack went where he always went — where the bleeding was loudest.

The explosion ripped through the front of the convoy, tossing the first Humvee into the air like a kicked can and sending debris raining down onto the asphalt. Jack was moving before the dust even cleared, tourniquets slapping onto stumps, IVs jammed into collapsing veins, adrenaline and muscle memory dragging him forward.

He didn’t make it out clean.

He doesn’t remember the blast that took his leg.

Just waking up in a field hospital in Baghdad, throat raw, leg missing below the knee, an unfamiliar medic looking down at him and saying:

"You're still here."

Like that meant something.

Recovery was hell. Not because of the pain.

Jack could take pain.

It was the slowness that killed him — the waiting, the crawling pace of days stacking up like bodies you couldn’t bury.

Learning how to walk again wasn’t heroic.

It was survival, stripped down to its ugliest parts.

He got his prosthetic.

Did the work.

Moved forward.

Because there was nothing else.

When he was cleared to leave, Jack didn’t go home.

He went back to the shop.

Same cracked concrete. Same flickering neon.

Different guy behind the counter this time — younger, trying too hard to look tough.

Jack didn’t explain anything.

He pulled off his shirt.

Turned his back.

Pointed once at the black cross burned into his spine and said, voice low: "Add wings. Heavy ones."

No more words.

The artist didn’t ask what kind. Didn’t offer designs.

He just nodded, pulled on gloves, and started building them straight into the skin.

The machine buzzed steady over old scar tissue, dragging new lines over broken skin.

Jack sat through the whole thing in silence.

No grimacing.

No posturing.

No fucking catharsis.

Just pain.

Real. Clean. Useful.

They spread low across his shoulders, broken at the ends, snapped where the ink drags over old shrapnel scars.

They aren’t wings built for flight.

They’re built for burden.

Jack never wanted to soar.

Never wanted to be lifted out of the dirt and the blood and the endless fucking work of keeping people alive long enough to break again.

The wings carry weight.

The wings remind him — every time the prosthetic clicks against the tile, every time he feels the stitch of old wounds under new movements — that some things you don’t escape.

Some things you live with, whether you want to or not.

When it was done, Jack pulled his shirt back on and left.

Now, twenty years later, the ink rides over every scar the surgeons couldn’t smooth out.

The cross still holds fast over his spine.

The wings still stretch wide across his back, battered and blackened, torn at the edges by old shrapnel wounds and skin grafts.

He never touched it up.

Never will.

The breaks are the point.

The fact that it held together — not perfectly, but still standing — matters more than any clean line ever could.

Nobody at the Pitt sees it.

Not unless they catch him stripped down in the locker room after a shift gone bad — the kind where blood stains deep into the seams of his scrubs and there’s no pretending you can just walk out without washing it off.

Not unless they’re careless enough, stupid enough, to glance over at the wrong moment — when Jack pulls his top over his head with the sharp economy of a man who doesn't waste movement, exposing the thick black lines burned into the wreck of his back.

Even then, most of them don’t realize what they’re seeing.

They look away fast.

Learn not to ask.

Jack doesn’t invite questions.

He doesn’t offer answers.

He peels the ruined scrub top off, tosses it into the biohazard bin, and steps into the biting rush of the locker room shower — washing off blood that isn’t his, wounds he can’t name, losses too old to mourn.

The water stings where the skin splits open again along old scar lines, where the ink feathers into the broken places, but Jack doesn't flinch.

Pain is familiar.

Pain is simple.

He scrubs until the pink water runs clear.

Pulls on clean black scrubs with his back turned to the rest of the room, working around the ache in his knee, the stubborn old prosthetic that never fits quite right when the humidity climbs high.

The tattoo isn’t about grief.

It isn’t about forgiveness.

It isn’t about the dead.

It’s about what you bear when no one else will.

It’s about standing up when every goddamn inch of you has been telling you to stay down.

It’s about the blood you wash off and the blood that stays under your skin no matter how many times you scrub.

It’s about the debt you can’t ever pay back because there’s no one left to take the payment.

It’s about surviving when surviving means dragging the dead with you — not out of guilt, not out of penance, but because it’s what they deserve.

Because they deserved someone to remember.

And Jack remembers.

He remembers every tourniquet that slipped under his fingers.

Every heartbeat that flatlined under his palms.

Every name he never let himself learn because it was easier to bury strangers than brothers.

He carries them all.

Quiet. Heavy. Without complaint.

The tattoo rides the same way.

Not a badge. Not a wound. Not a plea for understanding. Just a part of him. Fixed in the bone. Written into muscle and scar tissue.

Same as the limp he pretends isn’t there.

Same as the uneven thud of his boot against the tile — a sound no one dares to call out.

Same as the empty silences he leaves between sentences, where everything real still lives.

Jack carries it.

Has carried it for twenty years.

Will carry it for twenty more if that’s what’s asked of him.

Without complaint.

Without prayer.

Without hope.

Because that's what you do when the cost isn’t yours to decide. When you survive and you shouldn’t have.

You carry it.

You stand up.

You move forward.

And you never, ever forget.

Even when the rest of the world does.

[muppet-medusa]

hello writers.

[muppet-medusa]

I need a writing buddy since my bestie left tumblr 😭😭