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Rebel Cowboy

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 6.5K Rating: E

Summary: You are a lawyer representing Jack after a patient's mother files a lawsuit on claims of misrepresentation and ethical misconduct. Initially, your focus is solely on ensuring that your client’s reputation remains intact. However, over time, the lines start to blur between your objectivity—and personal attachment to your client.

Warning: minor spoilers for 1x4-1x7 (Kristi—teen girl medical abortion storyline), slow burn (forbidden romance vibes?), mentions of abortion, workplace stress, reader is friends with Frank (they have know each other since college), implied age gap, frustration with healthcare system, angst (emotional argument), yearning, language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation (f), mutual pining, flirting, feelings, did i mention sexual tension?

A/N: This is going to be a quick 2-parter. Smut in the next part. The amount of research I had to do to write this was actually insane. Reminder, I am not a lawyer, so blame Google if any of this is inaccurate. A lot of people always say that they were fascinated by Jack fudging the numbers for the teen girl, and I thought writing a fic about the aftermath could be interesting. Lastly, I know those episodes are about a sensitive and controversial topic between the debate on medical ethics and whatever a viewer's feelings may be about abortion in general—so my intention was to handle this with the utmost care and respect. However, feel free to just keep scrolling if this just ain’t it for you because of the topic at hand.

Forehead smooches to @ozarkthedog, who made this story possible with gifting me the above GIF.

Jack Abbot Masterlist

IN THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE WESTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA

Eloise Wheeler, Plaintiff, v. Dr. Jack Abbott, M.D., and Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, Defendants.

Case No.: 2025-CV-785431

COMPLAINT FOR MISREPRESENTATION AND ETHICAL MISCONDUCT

Eloise Wheeler, on behalf of her minor daughter Kristi Wheeler, alleges that Dr. Jack Abbot, a physician employed at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center engaged in misrepresentation and ethical misconduct concerning the medical diagnosis and treatment of Kristi. Specifically, Kristi was pregnant, and ultrasound measurements conducted at the facility indicated that she was past the gestational limit for medical abortion procedures in the State of Pennsylvania. Despite this, Dr. Abbot purportedly falsified or manipulated the ultrasound data for the medical abortion to proceed. The plaintiff claims that these actions constitute a breach of medical ethics, patient trust, and professional standards, and have caused significant emotional distress and potential health risks to Kristi Wheeler. The lawsuit seeks appropriate remedies for the alleged misconduct, including damages and injunctive relief.

"Would your firm pick up this case?" Frank asked you, taking a long swig from his beer as you both sat at your usual booth at his favorite dive bar.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the thick stack of papers in front of you. "Frank, I need to finish reading this. The complaint’s about a million pages long—give or take."

Frank rolled his eyes slightly, a hint of impatience crossing his face. "That’s not answering my question."

"Why this case? You’ve told me about lawsuits at the hospital before, but never once have you come to me about my firm providing legal representation for anyone there."

He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It’s just… this guy, Dr. Abbot, he’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years, and he’s my mentor’s best friend. But I’m worried hospital leadership might throw him under the bus if this blows up. I don’t want him to get ruined over this."

You took a sip from your beer, considering.

"Well, if this complaint is accurate, then Dr. Abbot could be liable for misrepresentation, ethical misconduct, and medical malpractice. And the hospital might even be vicariously liable for his actions. That’s a serious situation, Frank." You paused, your tone turning more analytical. "If the allegations hold up, there’s a lot at stake for this guy."

"Come by the hospital tomorrow. Just…meet him and the board."

You hesitated.

"Frank, I need to review all the details first. I can't just jump into anything without knowing the full scope."

He nodded, sensing your reluctance but eager to push the point. "I get it, I get it. Just… consider it. No commitments, okay? But the sooner, the better. This thing’s moving fast."

You took a deep breath, weighing your options.

"Alright, I’ll come by tomorrow. But I’m not promising anything,"

"Next round’s on me," he said, pushing his chair back with a slight groan.

You watched him go, then reached into the folder of papers in front of you. Carefully, you began flipping through the twenty-page complaint, your eyes scanning the detailed allegations.

Lowballing measurements to help a teen girl get an abortion?

Well, you couldn’t lie—you were definitely intrigued.

Count I: Fraudulent Misrepresentation

A week had passed since that night at the bar, and you had taken the case after meeting with Dr. Abbot and the hospital board. You had gone through the complaint thoroughly.

Every detail.

Every allegation.

"Dr. Abbot," you began, sitting across from him in some hospital conference room, "I want you to know I’ve reviewed everything. The complaint is structured into several counts, but for now, I want to focus on the first one." You paused, making sure he was following. "This count alleges that you provided falsified ultrasound data indicating a smaller gestational age, thereby enabling Kristi to qualify for the medical procedure. Therefore, her mother is claiming the falsification of your data led to Kristi receiving an abortion under false pretenses."

He nodded slowly.

"Now," you continued, "her mother, has demanded a trial by jury on all issues so triable. I’m going to fight like hell to make sure that doesn’t happen. But, if it does. That means this case is heading toward a full courtroom confrontation, with witnesses, evidence, and the chance to challenge every aspect of the allegations." You paused, letting that sink in for him. "So, we need to prepare for a serious fight, especially if a jury is involved."

"A jury, huh?" he said nonchalantly.

You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on the table, giving him a no-nonsense look.

Sharp.

Direct.

Eyes locked on his.

"Dr. Abbot," you said, voice measured but unwavering, "before we go any further, I need to remind you of client-attorney confidentiality. Everything you tell me is protected under law. It’s crucial for me to do my job right. So, I need honesty—full disclosure. Now, tell me—was the ultrasound data manipulated?"

He hesitated, his brow creasing.

Thinking.

Weighing.

You didn’t rush him.

Just kept your gaze steady, the kind of look that left no room for games.

After a beat, you pressed gently but with purpose. "Remember, clear and honest communication is what gets you the best defense. I need the truth."

Finally, he looked up, eyes cautious, "Yeah," he said softly. "That’s what happened. What she’s saying is correct."

"Good," you said, my voice level and confident.

He blinked, puzzled. "Good?"

You gave a small, deliberate smile—nothing showy, just enough to let him know you meant business. "Yes, I’ve had clients who lie, and it doesn’t work if you lie to me. Transparency is key. We can only build your defense if I know exactly what went down."

He exhaled slowly.

"Start from the beginning," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out your laptop. As you powered it on and typed, you kept your focus on Dr. Abbot, whose words began to flow. His hands rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly—almost subconsciously—as he recounted what happened.

His posture was upright, shoulders squared, a stance that spoke of discipline—a trait no doubt honed during his military service. Every now and then, he glanced down briefly, eyes narrowing in thought.

You kept your fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard, capturing every detail, every nuance, every flicker of emotion that flashed across his face. You noticed his features—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a hint of stubble—he was handsome in a way that was almost distracting. In fact, at one point, you didn’t realize that he had finished speaking.

Dr. Abbot took a steadying breath, his Adam's apple bobbing as he cleared his throat softly.

"So… what do you think?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for some sort of reassurance. Then, with a hint of concern, he added, "Am I in complete shit here?"

You bit your lip. "I think… you didn’t intentionally falsify ultrasound data—any discrepancies could be due to genuine measurement errors or technical issues."

He raised his eyebrows at you.

You continued. "And we can present expert testimony from radiologists or medical professionals who can testify that ultrasound measurements can vary and that any inaccuracies can occur—unintentionally."

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

With eye contact you had never really experienced before.

The attention was driving you crazy.

"In fact, I think you acted in good faith, believing your measurements were accurate and within legal limits."

He fell silent, and you could tell that he was gathering his thoughts and planning his words carefully.

"Are you being sarcastic?" he said maintaining, eye contact.

"No. I’m being your lawyer. And the strategy here is that you relied on standard medical procedures and that any conflicting data was a result of an honest mistake, not ethical misconduct. You have historically shown adherence to hospital policies—" he scoffed when you said that, "and you acted within the scope of your authority and professional standards."

He muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

He smirked. "That’s an interesting interpretation."

"Well, things aren’t always black and white, Dr. Abbot. You should know that better than anyone,"

"Jack’s fine, by the way," he grunted, his eyes never leaving yours.

You decided to break the tension with a bit of lighthearted honesty. "You know, Jack," you said, tilting your head with a small smile, "I feel like doctors usually prefer when people use their titles. Like, it’s a sign of respect or something."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "When Frank graduated from medical school, he was insufferable about it. Still is. He loves telling everyone he's Dr. Langdon."

Jack chuckled softly, a warm sound that didn’t quite fit the serious tone of the conversation. "Well, I only need my patients calling me that." Then his brows tilted slightly, his gaze shifting away, and he swallowed nervously. "Fuck, they may not be calling me that by the end of all of this."

"You’re not going to lose your medical license," you assured him. "That’s not going to happen."

He opened his mouth to speak, then annoyance flickered across his face.

"And, how do you know that?" Jack finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Because I’m damn good at my job. Didn’t Dr. Langdon—" you rolled your eyes, "tell you that."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"So, how do you know Langdon?"

You closed your eyes and thought back to the first frat party you ever attended, and the moment you came face-to-face with Frank for the first time.

"Since freshman year of college. Frank kind of… helped me out when one of his friends asked me to do a keg stand," you snickered.

"Well, did you do the keg stand?"

You couldn't help it, you giggled. That hadn't been at all what you were expecting to share about yourself. "No, I was too chicken shit." You admitted.

He lifted one shoulder. "Or maybe you were just smart,"

A few moments of awkward silence passed as you stared at each other. Your heart rate had slightly picked up now. You looked away while your fingers traced a pattern on the surface of the table.

Jesus, this man was good-looking.

"You know, I shouldn’t say this—" You swallowed tightly, "But, I wish more people were more willing to challenge the status quo," you whispered. "Kristi traveled from another state, likely due to restrictions, lack of resources, or limited access to reproductive health services. And you chose to prioritize Kristi’s autonomy and well-being. You helped a patient in a vulnerable position. That’s fucking brave."

As the words left your mouth, a subtle pause settled between you and Jack. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the weight of your admission lingering in the air.

His eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t speak, his tongue running over his bottom lip.

"The line between right and wrong often blurs. And sometimes, the hardest part is accepting that. It’s an uncomfortable reality. But—" you stopped yourself short and cleared your throat awkwardly before continuing, "you’re a good man."

Jack’s eyes burned holes into you. "I’m fucking not."

You frowned and pursed your lips. "You are."

Jack’s eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher whether you were offering him sympathy, understanding, or perhaps a shared sense of the moral gray area you’d just acknowledged.

Count II: Ethical Misconduct and Medical Malpractice

A few months had passed since your initial consultation with Jack, and during that time, you had been meticulously building your case. You knew that a straightforward motion to dismiss on the grounds of insufficient evidence would likely be too weak—especially given the gravity of the allegations and the stakes involved. Instead, you completed a comprehensive investigation: interviewing hospital staff, reviewing medical records and policies, and securing expert testimony to support Jack and the hospital's claims.

Everything was going well… until it wasn’t.

After Dr. Collins interview, you realized that you needed to explore settlement options with the opposing counsel.

She disclosed that her fetal measurements did not match the measurements recorded by Jack.

This was new fucking information to you.

You had reviewed Dr. Robby’s ultrasound images and logs, which corresponded closely with Jack’s original notes—suggesting that Dr. Robby’s independent measurements aligned with the official data.

Yet, given Dr. Collins’ discrepancies, it strongly implied that Dr. Robby’s re-measurements were performed specifically to confirm or 'fit' the official reports that Jack had previously documented.

Which meant that Dr. Robby had committed an illegal act.

If this went to trial—he and Dr. Collins would be put on the stand.

And, lying under oath just wasn’t a fucking option.

So, you were engaging in negotiations with opposing counsel aimed at resolving the dispute amicably, seeking to avoid the uncertainties of a courtroom.

Opposing counsel was being downright stubborn, refusing to budge on the settlement and insisting they were ready to take this to trial. Their refusal to consider a reasonable resolution was making your stomach knot up—every day that dragged on felt like walking a tightrope, and you were starting to feel the weight of the stress piling up.

Honestly, you were fucking overwhelmed.

You had never cared this much about the outcome of a case before.

Why did this one matter to you so much?

The pressure to handle this delicately, to avoid a disastrous courtroom showdown, was getting to you. So, you found yourself at a bar after work, just trying to drown out the chaos for a little while. Frank was there, chatting away, asking questions about the case—probably trying to get a sense of what was really going on. You had to remind him, firmly, that you couldn’t tell him anything.

You couldn’t tell Frank that his mentor had committed a crime, too.

Fuck.

So, it didn’t take long before you were back to pounding back drinks and stressing over what the hell was going to happen next.

"Abby wants a Birkin for her birthday," Frank told you, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

A smile tugged at your lips. "Birkin bags have an average annual increase in value of 14.2%, outperforming the S&P 500."

He sighed. "I could buy a small island with that kind of money, or at least a really nice used car."

You glanced at your watch, the faint glow of the dim bar light reflecting off the face. It was already nearing 11:00 PM. You grimaced slightly, realizing you had an early meeting tomorrow, and the last thing you needed was to drag yourself into the office exhausted.

"Alright, dude," you said, pushing your chair back and gathering your purse. "I should probably head out. Got an early start tomorrow."

You reached for your wallet, sliding a few bills across the table to cover both your drinks. "On me tonight. You need to save up for a Birkin," you teased.

He grinned as you gathered your things. "You good? You don’t usually drink this much."

"I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about," you quickly waved him off, a little too casually.

You didn’t feel drunk.

Tipsy at most.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he nodded and gave you a quick hug. "See you at Tanner’s birthday this weekend, then?"

"Definitely," you replied, forcing a smile.

As you stepped out of the bar, the cool night air hit you, and you instinctively reached into your purse for your phone to order an Uber. The city hummed softly around you—distant car horns, footsteps on the sidewalk, the faint glow of streetlights. You were just about to tap my screen when a voice stopped you, and you heard your name.

You blinked, turning toward the sound. Standing a few feet away was Jack. He was dressed in his black scrubs.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, a little surprised to see him here, especially at this hour. "Jack," you said, "What are you doing here?"

He didn’t answer you.

Instead, he took a slow, steady step closer, his tone even and calm. "How’re you getting home?"

You gestured to your phone. "Uber. I’m just waiting for the ride."

He studied you for a beat.

"I’ll drop you off."

"No, that’s okay. I’ve got it—"

He gently raised his hand, cutting you off.

"Let me take you home," he said softly but firmly.

You hesitated, glancing at his scrubs, then back at him. "You just got off—"

Jack reached out, his hand taking yours.

His grip was firm but not aggressive.

It was reassuring.

His eyes met yours. "Let’s go."

Without waiting for a response, he motioned with his head toward his car—a sleek, clean vehicle parked just a few feet away. He was already walking ahead. When you followed, he opened the passenger door smoothly and gestured for you to get in.

"Thanks," you mumbled, climbing into the seat.

Jack closed the door gently, then moved around to the driver’s side with a composed grace. He slid into his seat, his eyes already focused on the road ahead. As he started the car, he looked over with a slight, smirk. "So, where do you live?"

You gave him your address.

As Jack navigated the car through the dark streets, he cleared his throat softly, a subtle but deliberate sound that drew your attention. He glanced over briefly, his eyes flickering with a hint of hesitance before he spoke.

"You look nice," he said. There was a pause, and then he added. "Were you on a date?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A slow, genuine laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. "A date?" you echoed, shaking your head with a chuckle. "Come on, Jack. I don’t really have a life like that. How would I even find the time?"

You looked down at your outfit—business professional, as always—your blazer, crisp blouse, and tailored skirt. For a moment, a wave of insecurity washed over you.

Did he think you dressed like this for dates?

Or was it just habit?

You couldn’t help but wonder if he thought you were boring.

Predictable even.

Your cheeks warmed slightly as you shifted in your seat, your eyes briefly dropping to your clothes again. Maybe he thought someone like you was the kind of person who’d wear this kind of outfit out on a romantic evening.

Or maybe he just thought you never had fun.

Why did you care what he thought?

"I was with Frank."

Jack scratched his chin, his gaze scanning in front of him.

"Langdon's been pretty concerned about you," Jack said softly, glancing over. "He told me you’re up for partner. Said he thinks you’re running yourself into the ground."

"What?" you snapped, a surge of anger rising. "He told you that?"

"Yeah. He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. You’ve been pushing too hard, working crazy hours, not taking care of yourself."

A flicker of bitterness crept into your chest as Jack’s words sank in. His concern sounded genuine, but it felt hypocritical coming from him—especially knowing how often Jack worked long, grueling hours. He was always at the hospital, late into the night, running on empty, just like you.

Your jaw tightened. You feel a flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or frustration. "So that’s your way of saying I look like shit?" Your voice cracked slightly, bitter. "What, you think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know I’m burning out?"

His eyes widened in alarm. "That’s not what I’m saying—"

You cut him off sharply, voice rising. "Then what the hell are you saying? Because I know what’s running me into the ground. This fucking case. Because Frank tells me about the shit you’ve been doing recently in the OR—bending rules, cutting corners, doing whatever the fuck like some arrogant man. I just don’t get it. Why? You literally have a fucking lawsuit on your hands."

He pulled the car to a stop in front of your house. The engine idled as he turned to face you fully. "Look—"

"No," you cut him off again, voice sharp. "You don’t get it. You’re worried about me? Well, when you’re deciding to play 'rebel cowboy', it just makes my job harder. If this case goes to trial, they are going to analyze everything you’ve done. They will scrutinize everything—everything that happened before Kristi’s case and everything that came after. They’ll dig up every mistake, every misstep, every questionable decision, in an attempt to find anything they can use to disqualify you or pin something on you. They won’t stop until they’ve torn apart your record and left you with nothing. So right now, you need to be doing everything strictly by the fucking book."

You were breathing heavily.

Your head was throbbing.

Your chest ached.

Your throat felt tight.

His brows knit together like he was in pain, and it broke your heart a little. "Look—if you’re telling me to stop being a doctor, I can’t do that."

"That’s not what I’m asking. I’m telling you, there’s a way to push back against the system, to challenge it, while still respecting authority and the law and—"

He scoffed, frustration boiling over. "That’s bullshit. You either follow the rules or you don’t—there’s no in-between." His voice was sharp, angry now. "You think the system cares about fairness? About justice? All they care about is making sure they win—by any means necessary. Just last week, I had to tell two parents that their insurance wouldn't cover the surgery their daughter needs to stay alive. A simple procedure that could save her life, but the hospital won’t do it pro bono, and the insurance company refuses to pay."

Jack’s eyes suddenly grew glossy, the shimmer of unshed tears gathering at the edges but never spilling over. His gaze flicked away for a moment, as if he couldn’t bear to meet yours fully. Then, voice trembling with quiet despair, he whispered, "That little girl is going to die. And I can’t fucking do anything about it."

He paused, swallowing hard. "So…if sometimes I 'bend a rule' or 'cut a corner' when I can, it’s because I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut.

Jack was a man who’d weathered storms and still stood tall.

"I’m sorry," you said after a long, tense moment. "I’ve been drinking tonight. My outburst was totally uncalled for."

"Don’t apologize," he said while licking his bottom lip. "Even though, I have to admit, there's something about seeing you all riled up that’s really entertaining," he said with a playful tone, causing your cheeks to flare with heat.

"Well, I’m glad you find this side of me entertaining. Maybe I’ll have to show you more of it sometime," you replied with a sly smile.

"I would love that," he breathed. His expression suddenly was unreadable, his eyes dark and intense. "Listen, if this goes to trial. It goes to trial. I’ve made my peace with that. I did what I did, and I would do it all over again."

"Aren’t you nervous at all?"

You looked into Jack’s eyes, a mixture of curiosity and vulnerability flickering across your face.

He smirked, leaning in just a little closer, his hand lightly brushing against your arm. His voice was confident but teasing. "No," he replied with a grin. "I’ve got a damn good lawyer, haven’t you heard?"

You smiled back, a little shy but flattered by his words. He grinned wider, leaning even closer, his hand now gently pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering briefly against your cheek, and he looked like he was about to kiss you.

But just as that moment seemed to tip toward something more intimate, a wave of clarity washed over you. Your senses sharpened, and reality snapped into focus. You gently placed your hands on his shoulders, your breath catching in your throat as you steadied yourself.

"Wait," you whispered, your voice filled with longing yet tinged with regret. Your eyes searched his, pleading silently for him to understand. "We can’t do this. You’re my client."

He paused, a flicker of disappointment passing over his face. His hand slowly rose, fingers gently clasping yours, "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, voice heavy with frustration, as if he too knew that crossing this line was dangerous.

He breathed roughly, lifting one of his hands to your cheek. "You know at first, when Robby told me Langdon had a recommendation for a lawyer, I didn’t think much of it. Just another name to add to the list. But then you walked into the room."

He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips as he remembered.

"The moment you stepped in, I swear, I thought, god, who is that beautiful woman? There was something about you—how you carried yourself, the way you spoke with confidence but also kindness."

His eyes softened, and he pinched your chin between his fingers.

"And I realized it was more than just beauty. You’re incredibly smart—sharp as a fucking blade. You listen, you think, and you don’t just speak to fill the silence. The hospital board, they were visibly intimidated by you. Their egos—mostly male, of course—couldn’t handle someone like you challenging them, questioning everything. They tried to keep you at bay, but you just pushed through, unshaken."

His voice grew warmer.

"You know, it might sound crazy, but one of the reasons I don’t regret what I did—what I had to do—is because it led me to you. And honestly? That’s a fucking privilege. Just having you in my life, even amidst the chaos and the mess, it means more than I can put into words."

You felt him hum, the sound rumbling against his broad chest. "You’re not just someone I hired. You’re someone I want to get to know better. Someone I want to trust with everything. And I hope I get that chance one day."

Then he was silent.

His breath slowing, chest rising.

It was the nicest thing somebody had ever said to you.

And you knew he meant it. Every single word.

It was the first time you had ever seen him look truly vulnerable—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that made you want to kiss every inch of him.

Even though you didn’t say a word in response.

You could feel the weight of his words lingering between you.

Your silence wasn’t indifference.

It was an acknowledgment.

A silent understanding that his words had reached you deeply.

You traced his jaw with your finger, your touch delicate and loving, and his muscles tensed like he was bracing for something catastrophic.

You leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot."

Jack’s eyes lingered on you. He nodded softly, a small, genuine smile curling his lips. "Goodnight, counselor,"

You stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your skin. As you closed the door behind you, you hesitated for a moment, then turned back toward him.

Your eyes met his across the distance. The sight of his flushed face and heated stare had you feeling something down there, and it took every ounce of strength you had to not invite him inside.

"For the record," you called softly. "I want to get to know you better, too."

A slow, hopeful smile spread across Jack’s face as he watched you walk inside your home.

Count III: Breach of Medical Duty and Standard of Care

The room was tense.

Eloise Wheeler and her lawyer, Robert, sat stiffly around a long conference table at the hospital.

Jack was right there beside you.

Quiet but alert, like a coiled spring.

Frank had been correct—in the beginning, the hospital board was trying to throw Jack under the bus. They fucking sucked. You reminded them that the hospital was being sued for vicarious liability. That meant, at the end of the day, the hospital was responsible for Jack’s actions. So, instead of trying to distance themselves from him, they needed to support him. Because if they didn’t, they were only hurting themselves. The allegations were about more than just data manipulation. They were also about the health and emotional well-being of Kristi.

"Objection," Robert said, cutting in, voice a little too quick. "That’s irrelevant to this case."

You shot him a sharp look, cutting him off before he could get any more snippy. "With all due respect, Robert, what’s relevant is the way Kristi’s health risks aren’t being communicated. You refuse to let us speak directly to Kristi or consult independent medical experts who can testify about her current condition. That’s telling—it’s retaliation, plain and simple. This isn’t about Kristi’s health; it’s about punishing Dr. Abbot."

Robert's eyes narrowed slightly, and his tone hardened. "Kristi hasn't been seen because she's choosing to keep her distance. She’s a minor, and she's under a lot of emotional distress right now, and I think we should respect her privacy."

Jack stared straight ahead, patiently waiting for the argument to settle.

"You don’t want us to speak with her because you know she’ll say that Dr. Abbot and this hospital did nothing wrong." You turned directly to Eloise. "Eloise, I have to ask—what is your end goal here? You say you’re concerned about your daughter’s well-being? Yet, you’re blocking access to unbiased medical opinions. Why? Is it because acknowledging that Kristi is healthy, alive, and safe, because this hospital performed a procedure you approved, undermines your narrative of misconduct?"

Before Eloise could respond, Robert quickly raised his hand, signaling her to hold back. "Eloise, I advise you not to respond," he said sharply.

"This case isn’t about medical malpractice—it’s about control… and regret," you pressed on.

Eloise’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to respond. "My concern is for my daughter’s well-being. We’re concerned about possible risks—"

You quickly interrupted. "Risks that you refuse to fully understand or disclose. Kristi made her choice, and Dr. Abbot followed the standard protocols designed to safeguard her. Unsafe abortions happen across this country every day—women seek them, sometimes in dangerous, unregulated environments. Kristi trusted this hospital, trusted her doctors, and she made her decision with your consent. Now, you want to tear Dr. Abbot down because you’re unhappy with her choice?"

Eloise finally broke.

Shouting at Jack with raw emotion.

"I want my grandchild back!"

The room plunged into an unsettling silence.

Her words hanging heavily in the air.

For a moment, not a single sound broke the stillness, and everyone in the room seemed to freeze.

Even Jack.

His gaze was fixed on Eloise as if trying to process what she’d just said.

Robert’s eyes flicked to hers, a sharp warning flashing in his gaze—she had said too much. He quickly straightened, standing up abruptly. Gathering his papers, he cleared his throat, his tone firm but tinged with urgency.

"Eloise, that’s enough. Don’t say anything else." Robert said, voice steady but commanding. "We’re done here. We’re leaving," signaling them to gather their things. Without waiting for further discussion, he turned and strode swiftly toward the exit.

Jack slowly pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on Eloise as she hesitated in the doorway. With a quiet, expression, he looked at her and softly said, "I'm sorry."

Eloise, her cheeks streaked with tears, reached up with trembling fingers to wipe them away.

Then she simply nodded once and exited the room without a word.

You watched Jack carefully, then rose to your feet as well. He turned toward you, concern shadowing his face. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

You paused for a moment before replying, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Frustration edged into your voice as you continued, "Also, why did you apologize? Apologizing shows fault."

He took a slow step forward.

"Just because I don’t agree with her," he said, "doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting. She’s allowed to feel what she feels. Sometimes, the most honest thing we can do is just acknowledge that people are hurting, even if we see things differently."

You felt a strange flutter in your chest.

The sudden quickening of your heartbeat caught you off guard.

He was so genuine.

Unguarded.

You just stood there, realizing how rare and precious that kind of understanding truly was.

His hand twitched subtly, a telltale sign that he was holding himself back from acting on an impulse—perhaps from reaching out, touching your arm, or closing the space between you.

"Want to grab lunch?" he asked.

You glanced at your watch. “I wish I could, but I’ve got to get back to the office.”

He nodded, disappointment flickering across his face.

It had been a few weeks since he dropped you off after what almost happened. You hadn’t intended to be standoffish. But you had been less frequent in stopping by the hospital, fewer phone calls, less of the casual contact that once felt so natural. It was just... easier to keep a bit of distance.

That night, after he almost kissed you, you did something you honestly hadn’t done in a while. You laid in bed and dipped two fingers inside of you as you touched yourself and circled your clit. You fell off the edge quickly because you imagined his fingers inside of you. Coming down from your orgasm, you realized that your feelings for Jack were dangerous.

Engaging in any form of sexual activity with a client was a violation of professional conduct.

His unrelenting gaze seemed to size you up. "Haven’t seen you in a while."

"I’ve been busy," you said, looking down at your shoes, unable to look him in the eye

He clicked his tongue, frustration flashing in his expression. "You’ve been avoiding me."

You looked up.

Blood pounded in your ears. "I’ve just been busy," you repeated.

His expression hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. "Bullshit."

He slowly closed the distance between you. His tall frame loomed over yours, each step deliberate, almost predatory. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air thickening with unspoken tension.

You could barely breathe. You needed to say something, but unfortunately, he spoke first. "Give in already."

His face was just inches from yours now.

You hesitated, your breath hitching as your mind screamed at you to resist, to keep your professionalism intact. You knew if you did what you wanted, there would be no going back. But the pull was undeniable, and your lips parted slightly as you considered his words. Your body tensed, then relaxed just a fraction.

"Just give in," Jack pleaded, his eyes dark pools of lust. "It’ll feel good."

You opened your mouth to respond—maybe to push back, maybe to accept—but suddenly, the sharp, commanding voice of the hospital’s legal counsel cut through the charged atmosphere.

You heard your name as the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was the hospital’s legal counsel, a composed figure in a tailored suit, clipboard in hand. "How did it go?"

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then quickly composed yourself. "It went well," you said, clearing your throat. "I think there’s a very good chance we can negotiate a settlement after today's events. The hospital and Dr. Abbot’s position is strong, and I believe we’re on the verge of resolving this without going to trial."

The legal counsel nodded, extending a hand. "Good to hear. I’ll let the hospital chair know. Thanks for the update."

You shook his hand briefly, then looked around, realizing Jack had already stepped back from you, his posture reverting to neutral, almost as if nothing had happened. You caught a fleeting glimpse of the door closing behind the legal counsel as Jack exited the conference room without looking at you.

You drove to work with hot tears finally trailing down your cheeks.

You couldn't shake the ache of frustration that settled deep in your chest.

It felt so unfair.

Why him?

Why Jack Abbot, with his intense eyes and his dangerous charm?

You hated how easily you’d been drawn in, how your mind replayed his words, his touch, as if they’d etched themselves into your memory with cruel precision.

You wondered why he couldn’t just be some guy you met at a bar.

Someone ordinary.

Why couldn’t he be a stranger in a crowded room, someone you wouldn't have to analyze, second-guess, or worry about?

He was chaos and complication.

You remembered your mother once telling you that sometimes feelings could sprout in the most unlikely, inappropriate places.

And no matter how much you wished it, you couldn’t unfeel what had already taken root.

You stepped out of your car, your heels clicking softly against the pavement as you headed toward the building. Going up the elevator, you pressed the button and waited briefly, then greeted the janitor along the way with a friendly smile. Upon reaching your floor, you stepped out and made your way down the corridor, and pushed open the door to your office.

Inside, you settled into your chair, sighed deeply, rubbing your temples as you scrolled through the latest updates on your cases. As you sat amidst the clutter of papers and flickering screen, your mind drifted to another case that had been weighing on you all day—you needed to check in with Alex, your junior associate on the case.

Frowning slightly, you reached for my phone and pulled up his contact, then tapped the message: Hey, just wanted to confirm you filed the paperwork for the Johnson case. Let me know when it's done.

A few moments later, your phone buzzed with a reply from Alex: Yes, I submitted the paperwork this morning. All set on my end.

You read the message and nodded slightly, feeling a bit of relief. You quickly typed back: Thanks, appreciate it.

With that confirmed, you turned your attention to the upcoming court prep for another case. You pulled out the relevant files, spread them out on your desk, and began reviewing your notes.

A few hours later, the office was almost deserted. The only sound was the quiet tapping of your fingers on the keyboard. Just as you were about to wrap up, there was a soft knock on your door. You looked up, blinking tiredly.

"Come in," you called out.

The door opened, and your boss, stepped in. He was also the partner on Jack’s case, and he was holding a piece of paper in his hand. His face was serious but controlled.

"Hey," he began. "I know it’s late, but I wanted to let you know—Wheeler’s lawyer just faxed over something. Thought you’d want to see it before you headed out."

You sat up straighter. "A fax? Who even faxes anything anymore?"

He smirked faintly. "Apparently, some people still do. Anyway, you probably want to look at this."

He handed you the piece of paper. You took it, glanced at the top—your eyes narrowed as you read the hurriedly typed heading. Then, you unfolded it and started reading, your brow furrowing deeper with every line.

"Holy fucking shit," you whispered under your breath.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

If you are interested in part 2, comment below, and I’ll tag you! Feel free to reblog your thots 😘

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valentinevirgo · 3 days ago

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𐔌 𖹭 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐 ˖ ࣪✧

ᡴꪫ. part 2 & oral, curse gave him accidental aphrodisiacs oh nooo 𖹭 f. reader ˖ ࣪ꮽ˳

˖ ࣪ 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕. ۫ ۶ৎ the reception for part one was pretty good so I made this a lil longer. eat up ૮𐔌ᡘ ´ ˘ `๑꒱ა !

satoru gojo still won't let you suck him off.

you're on plan f after yet another failed attempt of tending to his morning wood. or maybe it's plan g if you include your attempt at sixty-nining? maybe plan h for thinking handcuffs could hold him? your pussy's still aching after that one. you're starting to lose hope.

but who thought help would come in the form of overworking and curses. two banes in your relationship with the strongest sorcerer — ended up being the ace up your sleeve.

the front door shuts. you brace yourself for warm arms and hearty kisses all down you neck. instead - slump. a sudden weight nearly bucks your knees and you push back to stabilise.

"satoru?" your eyes flutter wide and you spin to the boneless mess that is your boyfriend. blindfold pushed further into tousled hair. no grin, only a low pout. his face warm, bright pink. blue eyes like murky oceans as his forehead slumps into yours.

you don't quite notice the tremble on his lips, or the hitch of his breath when you press closer.

"baby . . . "

"oh toru, you look exhausted."

your tender hands become his sanctuary. his face buries into them while you stroke your thumbs along his cheekbones. dinner would have to wait, your boyfriend needs a shower and sleep.

he's panting, he must be beyond fatigued.

it's what he adored about you; how you took care of him. he — a behemoth next to you, and yet you so dutifully ushered him into the bathroom, helped him into comfortable clothes and laid him on his side of the bed.

"I'll be right back, yeah?" your hand strokes through his hair to lay a kiss on his forehead, before you're off. so blind to the way his fingers thread along your shirt's hem as you part. almost pleading, needing.

satoru groans and tucks his face into the pillow. he feels every breath, every twitch. it's far too warm in these four walls for winter. he just showered but his skin feels clammy. the air in his lungs shallows.

your pillow - your scent. that expensive floral perfume he insisted on buying for you. it does more harm than good. he barely even realised that he'd slowly, sloppily shifted it between his legs. one small roll of his hips devastated him. his head falls into the sheets. another groan. this is torture. how is he already so hard? how is he already throbbing into the fluff —

"toru?" that soft voice will be the death of him. he shakily casts a glance. tries to mouth an apology and fumble your pillow away, but you're over him in seconds. "are you okay? what's going on?"

so understanding. so caring. his throat bobs as he melts into your weight on his back and the thumb on his cheekbone.

"really weird curse today," another throat clear. "so tired. fuck, I didn't realise it even hit me. just feel s'hot, baby. so hot." as if he wasn't sorry for it in the first place, his hips stutter on your pillow again.

it clicks. how glad you are he isn't facing you. the grin you muster is both parts evil and mischievous. as if you cherry-picked the curse on his latest mission. perhaps the universe really is on your side.

"so hot, toru? let me help . . ."

his eyes snap open wide. he knew the second he felt your sneaky palm cupped over his bulge, he just signed his soul off.

and right now? he's too weak to fight you on it.

head tossed back. white strands strung over his sweat-glistened forehead. the pink dust painted into a hot, red blush over his face. every second breath warrants a gulp. wrists tied - frankly loosely - to the headboard. it didn't matter. satoru gojo didn't have his strength in this moment.

"shit - sweetheart - hah." your tongue traces on the lithe bump just below his cockhead. your lips join the mix in a slow suckle. coating his dick in gloss with every tentative movement of your mouth.

you giggle as his hips buck. nimble fingers squeeze around his dick's base you can just barely wrap your hand around. "yeah? you were depriving yourself of this all along, you know."

you smooch a sweet kiss to his tip. slow, sensual, before you start sucking down. from the angle you witness his pretty blue eyes flutter rapidly and nearly roll back. muscles tense as he tugs on his binds. how easy it would be to snap them. if every inch of his body didn't feel on fire. if every little lick and suck didn't have him spilling like a fountain.

"don't . . . 'ont, baby." he struggle through a taut jaw. your lips swiftly trace back down, along that one, throbbing vein on his underside. before your tongue presses flat and strokes a long stripe back to the tip. your hand follows the motion in a jerk. he whines.

"fuck. wait. don't - I — "

velvet wraps around his angry, hot tip once more. this time you take him deeper. push the plush head to the corner of your cheek then withdraw — then back again, this time down your throat.

satoru's eyes widen. pupils blown out. his mouth hangs agape as he focuses his remainder strength on not fucking his dick down your throat. his hands clench. his chest stutters. balls tighten as a release quickly builds, tight in his gut. every bob of your head is a sinful image. with your lips stretched round his girth while you gaze at him through sultry lashes.

fuck, he can't do this. he shouldn't - "babbyyyy," he whines, breathless, pitched. "gotta stop - fuck - gonna cum. please."

pop! you part with a pant while your hand mindlessly keeps a fluid stroke. "why?" airy, near-cruelly, sweetly. "why won't you let me? why are you stopping me?"

"want you t'feel good - wanna make. . . wanna make you feel good too -"

"I do feel good, satoru."

his breath hitches. you give him a glossy smile and trace kisses in a tender circle over his cockhead. together with a squeeze and a thumb stroking vertically onto that prominent vein, you croon.

"feel so good when I'm making you feel good. promise you're not selfish. please? I just wanna show you how much I love you."

another kiss. he's teary with need. it's the aphrodisiac. that damn curse. making him weak, making him vulnerable. but maybe . . . it's worth it, if it's for you,

maybe feeling good isn't such a sin, if it's you.

"okay," he gulps. throat tight. lips trembled. "okay, sweetheart. I'll — mngh!"

it's quite possible all six eyes rolled back. his hips jerk at the sudden warmth engulfing his dick. you took him back down your throat with ease. hand messily pumping on whatever you couldn't fit as you dutifully got to work. head bobbing, cheeks hallowing. how could you possibly be patient?

for months he denied you. half the year, even. deprived you of taste. of the satisfaction to make him feel good. his retribution will come in the back of your throat. his plush, throbbing tip hits it repeatedly and he squirms from the overwhelm.

"baby - fuck-!" snap. one bind falls from his wrist. instead of pushing you away this time, his fingers delve to your scalp and hold. tightly. hips fall into rhythm. he fucks your throat in a way you could only dream of for months. till your eyes are rolling back with his.

spit and slick drip to his thighs. down your chin. a mess you're proud of. you'll pull back to suck near-suffocation on his tip then dive back down when a familiar throb alerts you.

"gonna - g-gonna - shit - babbyyyyy," a small arch finds his back. his hips sloppily, pitifully try to match your pace. his balls throb again. tighten. his tip pulses. he aches in heat, in pleasure. jaw taut and head flung back as you take him higher - and higher — until finally,

"fuck, yes yes yes like that fuuckk."

he bursts. thick ropes of cum cream the back of your throat and your eyes flutter in a sinful display. whites clear with your irises rolled back, but you're still so eagerly gulping him down. every drop. you're sure as hell not wasting after finally getting a taste.

satoru limps. boneless. for once in his life he cannot see anything at all. only white, hot pleasure as his body reels from the intense, blissful tides. every muscle gives out. his hand flops over your head. his hips so needily grind up a few more times. he's lost. shattered.

and you still have the nerve to slowly part with the sweetest kiss to his tip. with a smile so angelic. like you hadn't just crawled from the depths of hell.

his gaze slowly eases to you; your tongue is awaiting. poked from your glossy lips with a glob of his cum trickled. his mouth parts at the sight. eyes crease and squeeze as he tries to catch his breath.

"finally." you croon, gulping down the final wad as you lean over and brush your lips to his. "see baby? see how good I feel when you're feelin' good?"

the wet patch on your panties flushed to his throbbing cock hitches his breath. he deeply groans. nods his head and weakly cranes into you.

"I get it now baby, I get it."

white lashes flutter. he looks at you as though you hung the sun, moon and stars. his lips pull into a tired pout.

"now can you get over my face? need my sweet pussy too."

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

ꘓ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @downpourz @unadulteratedtranquility @meosq @k0z3me @le0na2 ۪ ୧

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valentinevirgo · 4 days ago

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౨ৎ ⊹₊⋆ — MASTERLIST

ʚ stanford art

ㅤ♡ stanford art who . . .

ㅤ♡ standford art who is crazy inlove w u . . .

ʚ ex husband art

ㅤ♡ ex husband art who . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art dropping the boys off . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art who pt2 . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art finding reader at a party . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art finding out about readers new bf . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art groveling . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art finding out reader is ovulating . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art finding out you are pregnant again . . .

ㅤ♡ ex husband art getting reader back . . .

ʚ dilf art

ㅤ♡ dilf art who . . .

ㅤ♡ dilf art falling for his nutritionist . . .

ㅤ♡ dilf art and lily's friend mom . . .

ʚ husband art

ㅤ♡ domestic life with husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art during pregnancy . . .

ㅤ♡ easter with husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art and reader in their honeymoon . . .

ㅤ♡ ovulation with husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art fingering reader while pregnant . . .

ㅤ♡ late night cravings with husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art in mothers day . . .

ㅤ♡ needy husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ "brazilian wax" prank with husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art and the twins towards reader . . .

ㅤ♡ "current husband" prank on husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ "i got an oil change" prank on husband art . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art fucking reader in laundry room . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art getting baby fever . . .

ㅤ♡ husband art turning protective . . .

ʚ bimbo reader

ㅤ♡ introducing bimbo reader . . .

ㅤ♡ stalker dodge and bimbo reader . . .

ㅤ♡ riff and bimbo reader . . .

ㅤ♡ stalker dodge and bimbo reader pt1 . . .

ㅤ♡ stalker dodge and bimbo reader pt 2 . . .

ʚ stripper reader

ㅤ♡ introducing stripper reader . . .

ㅤ♡ dilf art and bimbo reader . . .

ㅤ♡ dilf art and bimbo reader pt 2 . . .

ㅤ♡ dilf art and bimbo reader pt 3 . . .

ʚ danny lyon

ㅤ♡ you and the vandals . . .

ㅤ♡ sex tape for danny . . .

ㅤ♡ rumors . . .

ㅤ♡ danny taking daily pictures of reader . . .

ʚ riff lorton

ㅤ♡ riff and puerto rican reader . . .

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ʚ nerd art

ㅤ♡ introducing nerd art . . .

ㅤ♡ stuttering problem . . .

ㅤ♡ getting used . . .

ㅤ♡ pretending to study . . .

ㅤ♡ janitors closet . . .

ㅤ♡ acing a test . . .

ㅤ♡ blah blah . . .

ㅤ♡ sensitive nipples . . .

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valentinevirgo · 4 days ago

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Writing advice from my uni teachers:

If your dialog feels flat, rewrite the scene pretending the characters cannot at any cost say exactly what they mean. No one says “I’m mad” but they can say it in 100 other ways.

Wrote a chapter but you dislike it? Rewrite it again from memory. That way you’re only remembering the main parts and can fill in extra details. My teacher who was a playwright literally writes every single script twice because of this.

Don’t overuse metaphors, or they lose their potency. Limit yourself.

Before you write your novel, write a page of anything from your characters POV so you can get their voice right. Do this for every main character introduced.

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valentinevirgo · 5 days ago

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she's a menace — jack abbot x fem!reader While celebrating a coworker's birthday at a bar, Jack Abbot gets distracted watching his girlfriend dancing and turning heads.

warnings: suggestive content (minors go away), spicy, we love a supportive king (jack) masterlist

It's girls' night.

Meaning your dress is too short, and your heels are too high—but you feel amazing. You and your girls had pre-gamed at a bar earlier, and now on your way to the 2nd bar.

You needed this. A night to let go. A night to dance and drink overpriced cocktails and scream-laugh in a bathroom stall with your friends over absolutely nothing.

The bar is crowded, pulsing with music and low light, and when you spot the familiar silhouette at the other end, your heart does a small, surprised flip.

Jack.

He’s here. At this bar. Of all nights.

He hasn't spotted you yet, but you can see he's having a great time with his co-workers. Langdon is there, Collins too, and for once Robby is laughing without a care in the world. You want to say hi, but your friends are already dragging you to the dance floor. Besides, you're curious what he’ll do when he finally notices you.

But Jack’s already noticed.

He’s been stealing glances since you walked in, pretending not to look too long as you twirl and laugh under the flashing lights. Your dress clings in all the right places, dipping perfectly to show your cleavage, hugging every line of your body like it was stitched for sin.

Jack’s heart stutters.

The way you move isn’t for anyone in particular, but it damn well feels like a siren call—slow, confident, sensual. The dress rides up slightly as you spin, and your thigh peeks out just enough to make his breath catch.

If it weren't for Langdon calling for his attention, he would've jumped you by now.

"Yo Abbot— Damn," he whistles, "Someone’s out to kill tonight."

"You're tellin' me." Jack mutters, a proud yet hungry smile etched across his lips, "My girl knows how to put on a show, alright."

"Wait, that's your girl??" Langdon follows his gaze.

Jack nods once.

"I don't believe it." Javadi says.

"And you let her dress like that when you’re not around?"

Jack’s expression doesn’t change. "I don’t let her do anything. She can dress however she wants."

Langdon raises a brow. "Alright, modern man."

Jack sets down his glass and says calmly with a smirk, "Besides, she knows who she belongs to."

The table goes in waves of "oooh"s and whistles for half a second before someone murmurs, "Damn, okay," and they all take another shot.

Back on your side of the bar, you’re oblivious to the murmurs about you, caught up in the music and the high of the night. You wander to the bar for another drink, separated from your group for just a moment, when an uninvited man decides to make his move on you.

A guy—tall, clearly drunk, and way too confident. "Hey, beautiful," he slurs. "You look like you could use some company."

"No thanks." You say curtly.

He laughs and leans in closer anyway, eyes dropping to your dress. "You whores always try to play hard to get..."

Then his hand reaches out—fingers grazing your lower back.

He doesn’t get far.

A hand closes around his wrist, firm and alert.

"Hey, buddy—" the guy starts to protest, turning slightly, only to find himself face-to-face with your lover.

"You should walk away." Jack says with the kind of presence that makes everything in the room feel suddenly still.

The guy scoffs. "And who the fuck are you, old man?"

"I'm her man." Jack says proudly.

The guy lets out a sharp laugh. "You??"

Jack tilts his head, smile slow and cool. "Yeah. Me."

He steps in like he’s trying to size Jack up. "Why don't you go play hero somewhere else?"

"Last chance." Jack exhales once. "Back away."

Instead of listening, the guy sneers and reaches to you again—like he’s about to brush against your hip.

That’s when Jack moves.

He grabs the guy’s wrist mid-motion and twists. Not enough to do damage. Just enough to send pain shooting through the idiot’s arm.

The guy chokes out a curse, dropping back, eyes wide now.

Jack leans in slightly, stares at him like looks could kill. "You don’t want to find out what I’d do next. Now walk away."

And this time, he does. Muttering while rubbing his wrist, vanishing into the crowd.

"Hi, hero."

"Hey, trouble." He smirks, hands draping around your waist, making sure he covers the area that asshole tried to touch you. "You okay?"

"Mm-hmm," you hum. "That was kinda hot."

Jack chuckles, "Oh, honey, you're drunk."

"Yes I am," You confirm. "So what are you doing here, handsome?"

"Donnie's birthday," Jack explains, "we're celebrating. Wanna come say hi?"

"Of course." You smile.

As you approach the table, conversation dips for a beat before Santos lets out a low whistle. "No way. This is your girl, Abbot?"

Jack doesn't answer, just gently pulls you closer and kisses you to make a point. His hand settles just above the curve of your ass, thumb brushing slow circles while you lean into him.

Langdon raises his brows. "My mind is blown right now. How'd you convince her to put up with you?"

"He didn't," you say sweetly, crossing one leg over the other. "I just like a man who can handle power tools, bruised ribs… and knows exactly what he’s doing in bed."

Jack nearly chokes on his drink, and the group erupts with laughter and a few scandalized woo-hoos. He clears his throat, glancing at you with a half-smirk. “Remind me to keep you away from tequila.”

You say goodbye to Jack's coworkers and your friends—they all had their jaws on the floor when they finally saw Jack in the flesh. With screams of "you go get it girl" and "someone's gettin' some tonight" following you out, you finally leave the bar, ears flushed, heart hammering in your chest.

You take a deep breath, finally breathing cool, fresh air. Jack's given you his jacket, like the gentleman he is, and now you're walking home, hand in hand.

"You okay walking? Want me to carry you?" Jack asks, glancing sideways.

You shake your head. "Need to walk off the alcohol anyway."

He hums, "So how was your night?"

"Fun!" you say brightly, then wrinkle your nose, "Until that asshole tried touching me. Ugh."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Jack says, kissing your hand.

"It's okay, you were there to save me. And you made it all okay." You smile, draping his arm around your shoulders. "Though maybe it’s the dress. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this."

"No, no, we're not gonna do that." Jack stops walking. "You said no, and he didn't listen, he's an ass, and karma will get him one day."

You hum, though Jack can tell you're still not convinced.

Jack turns to you and gently cups your cheek, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Sweetheart. You can dress any way you like. You look stunning tonight. You always do."

You smile softly. "Okay."

His mouth curls into that slow, grinch-like smirk you know too well. "Besides... I love being the one to take off those clothes once you're done showing off."

Your gasp, then narrow your eyes playfully. "Is that a threat, Dr. Abbot?"

"Oh, baby," he says, sliding his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck, "That’s a promise."

----

a/n: kill me now || side note I have like 5 drafts all wip about this man, so help me god

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valentinevirgo · 5 days ago

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scar tissue

dr. jack abbot x female!resident!reader

wc: 2k

summary: an unexpected patient arrives in the er and turmoil arises

warnings: medical inaccuracies, mentions of injuries and medical procedures, mentions of alcohol abuse aka reader has a shitty alcoholic dad who yells, mentions of brief sexual content but nothing explicit (mdni!), power dynamic in relationship/reader is a 3rd year resident jack is an attending, unspecified age gap, wrote this at 4am

a/n: this is soooo inspired by greys specifically the scenes where meredith's mom is a patient at sgh and then the mark and lexie (deleted?) scene of them after the shooting. i struggled a lot with the ending of this one so sorry if it sucks lol. hope you like and enjoy and thank you guys for all the love

Tonight’s shift hadn’t been too wild, but you would never risk speaking the words aloud. Jinxing the remaining 3 hours would only ruin the night you’d had so far.

A few random cases had come through and one drunk driver who was already stable and moved up to the ICU. One of the more chill night shifts you’d had in a while.

Glancing up from your seat at the nurse’s station, you watch him move from South 15 to the curtain over- checking on patients.

Your cheeks heat unprofessionally and unintentionally at the sight of him. A habit you needed to kick soon for you worked with the man 4 nights a week. That, and your flustered appearance was becoming more obvious than you’d realized.

Dr. Abbot has been your attending for over 2 years now. Starting as an intern on an emergency med rotation and thrown to the night shift due to scheduling conflicts- you found yourself working closely under the army vet.

His dynamic teaching and advantageous reassurance drew you to the emergency department. Deadset on surgery, you completely pivoted after working with the doctor. Declaring your specialty, you were now well into your third year of residency in the pit.

You felt confident when you worked under Abbot. He gave you the room to make decisions and he trusted your opinions- only stepping in to assist during especially challenging moments.

He glanced at you as his eyes passed over the board above your head. You shifted your gaze away, crumbling under the slightest look from him.

This was new. This nervousness. You had always thought Abbot was attractive, harboring a small crush, but he was your superior and that was a boundary you would never feel comfortable crossing.

Or so you thought.

It happened 11 days ago. Not that you were counting.

Your shifts had aligned that week to where you had three days off in a row, a rare occurrence.

Since residency had put your social life on the back burner you took the opportunity to call up a couple of friends and go out.

By some means of the universe, you had ended up at the same bar as Jack that night. How you ended up in the back of his car was a blur. Skirt bunched around your waist, hips thrusting roughly into yours, hands pulling and grasping at anything they could touch, his mouth whispering dirty words and kissing soft desperate kisses against your skin.

It was the heat of the moment. That’s what you kept telling yourself. It was a one-time thing. A mistake that wouldn’t happen again. Despite how much you secretly wanted it to.

So you glanced away. You kept it professional. You avoided him like the plague and spent as little time as you could in his presence.

You even traded a day shift with McKay to get a night away from him. You didn’t feel guilty or ashamed, you just didn’t want Jack to treat you differently. To see you differently.

The calm of the ED was short-lived as the charge nurse shouted out, “Incoming ped versus vehicle. 3 minutes.”

You stood from the desk and Jack stepped out of the room he was in. You reached for gloves and moved much slower than you should’ve.

The ambulance doors opened in a rush and the paramedics pushed in the patient on a stretcher. You were focused on snapping on your gloves. One tore as you pulled it on and you cursed under your breath, reaching for another. You listened to the paramedics as you grabbed a new one.

“Male. 64. Was hit by a driver. Multiple femoral fractures and a blood alcohol level higher than I’ve ever seen.” The paramedic huffed and the patient slurred aggressively in response.

You glanced up, approaching the stretcher, and your heart fell out of your chest. Your throat closed up on instinct. The patient was spewing nonsense but his demeanor was obvious. He was angry and drunk. And he was your father.

Abbot calls out your last name, voice sharper than normal as he motions for your frozen self to come help. To do your job.

You don’t move. Your heart races uncomfortably. You hadn’t seen your dad in a few weeks. He was a drunk who had treated you like the biggest regret of his life from as far back as you could remember.

You avoided him and only checked in on him every once and a while. Mostly to see if he was still alive.

Even in his drunken state, your father recognized the last name Jack had spoken. The one you shared with him.

Your father stopped squirming enough to glance up, directly at you.

“Look who it is.” His sneer was exaggerated and he threw his head back on the gurney.

Abbot’s brows furrowed and he looked between the man and you.

“You know this guy?” He spoke as they moved the gurney to the trauma bay.

The nurses tried to ask for his name and information but your father was shouting nonsense- mostly about giving him drugs to stop the pain.

You swallow harshly and follow into Trauma 2.

You feel like you’re in a dream. Watching your worst childhood memories clash with reality.

“I need your help here.” Jack snaps at you, his eyes searching yours.

They’re already working. Moving your dad to the bed, cutting his clothes. And you’re useless. Watching and trying not to break down.

Your dad shouts and you flinch involuntarily. He yells at the nurse for morphine. Jack is frustrated at your lack of help, but more so concerned about your behavior.

Your dad’s head snaps up and he glares right at you. “I’m talking to you! Give me something for the fucking pain-” His words are a jumble, but you understand him loud and clear.

“Sir-” The nurse starts and your dad shouts over her.

He keeps his head up, his gaze and words directed at you.

“Do you know him?” Abbot repeats his question from earlier, harsher this time as he works over the chaos.

Your dad answers for you unintentionally, shouting your name, “Give me something here. I’m your father for fuck’s sake!”

The room falls quiet for a beat and your stomach twists.

“This is your dad?” Abbot’s eyebrows meet his forehead.

“Is he an addict?” The nurse asks you.

“Only alcohol. That I know of.” Your voice is a whisper.

Abbot sighs harshly and the nurse moves to give your dad a stronger painkiller.

“Right, get her out of here and send in Ellis, please.” Jack nods to another nurse.

She grips your arm softly and you watch as your father finally stops shouting and lays his head back in a morphine-induced haze.

The nurse squeezes your arm and sits you in a chair before rushing off to get the other resident.

You watch numbly as Ellis goes into the bay. You don’t know how long you stare at the wall for, your mind seeming to shut off.

You hear Shen’s voice behind you and it sounds like he’s asking you a question but you’re not registering anything.

Your stomach lurches violently and you stand, walking to the ambulance bay doors.

They slide open and Shen calls out to you.

You stagger to the bushes and the contents of your stomach come up.

You cough and wipe your mouth, catching your breath.

You grip the wall, needing something to stabilize your influx of emotions.

His voice comes from behind you after a moment.

“You okay?”

You turn to him and nod.

He stands across the bay, hands on his hips. He’s unconvinced.

He approaches you carefully, like a wounded animal, and you hate it.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.” You call back.

You turn away from him and run a hand over your hair, gasping for a breath.

His hand finds your elbow in a gentle grip and you glance his way. He doesn’t say anything. He just grabs your arm and slowly moves you to the curb outside the building.

He sits you down and moves beside you, his knee brushing yours.

Your eyes well up despite your best efforts. Your breath wracks and your head sags.

You wipe at your tears as they begin to fall and try to hide your face in your shoulder. You feel his arm come around you, wrapping you in warmth.

“You’re okay.” His voice is so steady and reassuring that you almost believe him.

You nod, but the tears keep falling.

“I’m sorry.”

You feel his head shake beside you. “Don’t apologize.”

Tears stream down your face and his arm squeezes you closer. You let your head fall to his shoulder and let his comfort consume you.

Processing what just happened, you let Abbot ease your emotional toll. You feel his lips brush your hairline and your eyes squeeze shut.

Sniffling, you sit upright again. Abbot’s hand stays on you, sliding down to rest on your back.

“I didn’t know what to do. Or why I reacted like that. I didn’t- I wasn’t expecting to see him. Not here.” You wipe a stray tear away as you try to explain yourself.

“From what I witnessed, your reaction tells me there’s a whole other story to your relationship with that man. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You’re a good doctor, but everyone has their limits. Things that hit close to home- or things that come from home.”

He sends you a sympathetic look and you nod at his words.

“I can’t have my best resident freezing up again. Or avoiding me. Which I know you’re doing by the way.” He raises a knowing brow.

The sigh that escapes you is full of embarrassment and nerves.

“I don’t want to talk about it-”

“About the fact that we slept together or that your dad is an abusive drunk?”

“Jack.”

“Either topic is up for debate.” His lips rise slightly and you can’t help but shake your head at his persistence.

“I want to forget it ever happened. All of it.”

It’s silent for a moment and at his lack of response you turn your head to look at him.

His words are quiet, “If that’s really what you want, I’ll never bring it up again. But if it’s not, I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care deeply for you. In a way that I definitely shouldn’t.”

His words are a punch to the gut. A reality check.

“You do?”

He nods, “Have for a while now.”

He reaches up to brush a rouge hair off your forehead and you lean into the touch.

“I do too. I care about you.”

His smile is small, “I figured.”

“Was it that obvious?” You cringe.

He shakes his head, “You’re just easy to read sometimes.”

“It’s inappropriate. Us.” You state the obvious, though you know the words are a useless feat.

“Very.” Jack huffs a laugh.

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you.

After a moment you speak up again, “Is my dad okay?”

“He will be. He needs surgery, but he’ll live.”

You nod.

Jack runs his hand up your back, his lips meeting your head. He stands slowly, reaching down to grasp your hand. He pulls you to your feet gently.

“You don’t have to see him, but if you want to I can go with you.”

“Thank you.”

He nods and starts back towards the automatic doors.

“Jack.” You call.

He turns, eyebrows raised in question.

You step closer to him and repeat the sentiment.

“I’ll look after you.” He squeezes your hand and moves back inside.

He drives you home that night. And many more nights after that. Your dynamic changes. While still supportive and professional, it’s deeper and fervent- your relationship building a whole new layer of trust. You loved him and it was easy. No more glancing away or avoidant behaviors. You let Jack into every aspect of your life and he cherished it- nurtured it.

He was everything you needed and more. You accepted each other in whole, scar tissue and all.

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valentinevirgo · 5 days ago

Text

worthy

andrew “pope” cody x female reader

summary: you tell andrew you want to start a new life with him— away from the chaos of his family, and he agrees with another future promise on his mind

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, a sprinkle of angst & a dash of fluff but almost entirely smut, pope with a nasty breeding kink, lots of pregnancy talk, reader has hair but no explicit description of it’s appearance, gut wrenching intimacy, fingering, cum play, we’re doing cowgirl AND mating press buckle up baby!

word count: 3.4k

author’s note: hi hello, i am HEAVY on my pope cody shit rn, and i know we’re all longing to give that man a baby, so i thought i'd take one for the team and write this little fic. let’s just imagine this is some kind of alternate universe where pope gets a happy ending, and a family of his own.

Wet curls gather at your fingertips, as Andrew’s head burrows deeper into your chest. Your hand passes through his hair, absentmindedly following the pattern of his curls, as he concentrates on the sequence of your steady breath underneath his cheek.

“Long night?” A soft whisper leaves your lips as you continue threading your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

He doesn’t respond, just subtly nudges further into your touch.

You let a blanket of silence fall over the room.

He’d been gone most of the day, out on a job. When he finally got home he walked straight past your frame laying in bed, heading directly for the bathroom, barely acknowledging you before turning on the shower and filling the room with steam.

You gave him space, letting the water wash the remnants of his remorse down the drain.

Solitude played a pivotal role in Pope’s ability to process his actions after a particularly long day. You’d learned to give him time alone when he came home from a job, knowing he’d seek out your comfort when he was ready— when he felt worthy of your silent forgiveness.

He’ll always remember the first time his feet carried him up the stairs of your front porch in search of your nurturing exoneration. Him and his brothers had just pulled off an incredibly intricate heist, one that he should’ve been proud of— relieved by the success of their endeavors. Instead, he strayed from his family’s celebration, finding himself on the doorstep of the girl he’d been seeing for the past few weeks. A girl he had no business keeping in his life. In fact, every moment he spent with you up until that point had been laced with worry and hesitation, scared that he’d taint you with his unruly lifestyle. But you were unlike anyone he’d ever known, never running out of compassion and holding yourself steady with a soft disposition, it drew him to you. The magnetic field of your aura calling to him, as his heavy hand knocked on your door, still shaky from the adrenaline and regret coursing through his veins.

You didn’t ask any questions, just helped him get cleaned up and pulled him into bed next to you. His body fit perfectly beside yours under the thick fluffy linen of your duvet. All he could think about the entire night was that white comforter, and how it was far too pure to envelop someone like him.

Neither of you said a word, he just laid with his head on your chest while you ran your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Limbs intertwined in the same way they would be every single night after that.

Now your house was just as much his. His clothes in your drawers, his toothbrush next to yours by the bathroom sink, his shoes by the front door; it was his home too now- you were his home.

Pope never knew anything other than the life handed to him by smurf. His perception of the world was dark, hopeless, primitive. He’d been raised that way. Never thinking he could be anything other than a bomb on a detonator just waiting to self-destruct. He was destined for a life full of pain and deception— destined to be Pope Cody.

But then he became your Andrew.

Despite everything you learned about him— you stuck around. Never using the nickname assigned to him as a kid, instead exclusively calling him by the name given to him at birth, the name graced upon him when he was still undiluted, clean of the mess waiting ahead of him.

He’d never loved someone the way he loved you. He never even thought it was possible. But when he came home to you at the end of a long night, with his head on your chest, listening to the smooth beating of your heart as you graced him with your gentle touch, he found redemption. There was vindication in your forgiveness— an unspoken, yet absolute commitment to him.

“Maybe it’s finally time for us to get out of here.” Your voice was still quiet and your hands continued their movement at Andrew’s scalp as he laid on your chest.

“We could go up north, get a house somewhere…” You begin devising a plan as he relaxes further into your touch, his face hidden from your view, making it impossible to see his reaction to your words.

“maybe the mountains…” Your voice is mild, matching the soft rhythm of your strokes through his hair.

“Nothing extravagant, just two or three bedrooms. We could start over, on our own.”

The words trail out of your mouth, thoughts spewing as you look down at the man laying on your lap. You knew he thought about it— leaving. The two of you had talked about it before, yet here you were.

“We could be free from all of this. You deserve a normal life Andrew.”

He doesn’t.

That’s all he can think as you continue petting his hair, your touch keeping him in a trance, acting as a mirage of warmth and protection washing over him. Showing him a vision of a man deserving of love.

“I don’t know about the mountains.” His tone was gruff, words fighting against his throat as they slipped into the air.

“You don’t do well with the cold.” You couldn’t see his face but you knew there was a slight smirk on his lips by the sound of his voice.

“When should we go?”

His question was simply spoken— genuine.

For the first time that night, your fingers paused, intertwined in the deep auburn of his curls as you sat in silence.

The lull in your movements was rectified by his own fingers toying with the hem of your panties. It wasn't inherently sexual, but rather tender, as his fingertips traced the skin at your waist, dipping under the material just enough to coax a shallow breath from your chest.

“Andrew…” You whispered his name, spoken like a quiet warning underneath the gasp at feeling his touch trailing lower inside your underwear.

“Tomorrow? Next week?” The questions mumble from his lips as he keeps his face smushed into the material of your shirt.

With a hand inside your underwear, his middle finger comes to a resting position on your clit. You instinctively curl your fingers into his scalp at the feeling of him rubbing small, delicate circles in between your thighs.

“I’m ovulating.” Another warning from your lips as you sigh from the relief of his touch on your body.

You tracked your cycle religiously. It had become your primary form of birth control, definitely not the most foolproof, but it hadn’t failed you yet.

He didn’t stop at your warning, just kept pressing soft circles into your clit.

“We should stop.” You tug on his hair a little as the words leave your mouth, trying to confirm the seriousness of the situation.

“Yeah?”

He rustles in his spot until his face is peering up at you, wearing an expression of pride.

“So, just you and me in that two bedroom house then?”

His big soft eyes bore into yours with your hands still holding onto his hair, frozen at the implication on his lips.

The feeling stirring in his chest was foreign.

A sudden longing for something he’d never had.

A family. A baby. Your baby. His baby. Not given to him, not found, but born. A piece of him brought into the world in the most pure form, built from a place of unconditional love. A promise of what could be. It was so daunting- the idea of it, but he couldn’t shake the anticipation coursing through his veins as he stared intently, watching your eyes widen upon hearing his words.

“Are you serious?” Your lips curl into a smile at the implication— him wanting to get you pregnant. He’d never once mentioned having kids. Never once came in you with the intent of knocking you up, so the topic catches you off guard.

He takes your wonder-struck grin of infatuation as disbelief— possible amusement that he’d ever think you’d want to have a baby with him.

His eyes lose their hopeful glimmer, gaze suddenly growing rigid and darting away from you at the potential doubt lacing your words. Of course you didn’t want to have a baby with him. He was a mess— his life was a mess.

“Andrew…” You draw out his name in a soft, sweet breath as you attempt to get him to look at you, but he’s already lost, wandering the maze of remorse and self-doubt paved in his mind.

His hand slips from your panties, and his body pulls into a seated position against the headboard. He refuses to look at you. The disgust on his face is evident, and you know he’s angry— not at you, not at the situation, but at himself.

Throwing the comforter off your body, you sit up, crawling onto his lap, straddling his hips and sitting back on his thighs.

“Andrew?” The one word question lingers in the air as you cock your head to the side, your hands wandering up his bare chest, until they’re at his jaw pulling his gaze up to meet yours.

His stare is cautious as he peers up, leaning in to your thumbs rubbing back and forth at his cheeks.

“Do you want to have a baby?” You stare deeply into his eyes, your tone low and serious.

You search his expression, trying to gauge what’s going through his mind. His eyes hold a picture of bewildered hope before he’s crashing his lips onto yours. Kissing you like he’s starving. His hands shoot to your hips, gripping hard as his lips interlock with yours.

He’s nodding pathetically with his mouth against yours. Not capable of forming words through the adrenaline fueling his actions, he just kisses you harder, shaking his head to communicate the answer to your question. Yes, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wanted to give you a baby.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, pushing the material up until one of his hands splays out over your stomach, caressing the skin of your lower abdomen. His pupils are shot as he pulls back from the kiss to look between your eyes, and his hand resting on your skin.

“Is that what you want?” His stare is focused on his hand caressing your belly.

You nod.

“Say it.”

His demand is stern as his stare moves to your face- intense and rough.

“I want you to fuck me full Andrew…”

A soft groan leaves his lips.

“Want you to put a baby in me.”

His hands immediately find the waistband of your panties, fighting the urge to rip the thin material straight from your body.

He yanks at them until you’re hovering over his lap, aiding him in getting them down your legs. He pulls his own underwear off, and you're back on his lap. The only piece of clothing left between you is the shirt on your back, which he immediately peels off your torso.

Both of you are completely bare, and he pulls you back to him with his hands threaded through your hair, kissing you with the same hunger as before. Fueled by the thought of finishing in you, filling you with every last drop, and fucking you until it seeps back out around his cock through every thrust.

His hand comes down between your bodies, two thick fingers at your entrance, circling, but not daring to push in. He lets out a weak grunt, as he plays in the pool of slick threatening to drip down your legs. Amazed by how wet you are, his mind buzzes at the idea of you already being such a mess from the mere mention of him getting you pregnant. He has half a mind to push his dick into you right then and there— to thrust into you to the hilt and pull your hips down onto him over and over again until he’s cumming once, twice, maybe even three times, until you're full and leaking, practically crying from how good it feels, but he wont, not yet.

Andrew always makes you cum first. Always ensuring that you're shaking on his fingers, or seeping onto his tongue before he gets his dick wet between your folds. Not because it’s the chivalrous thing to do, but because he’s obsessed with it; watching how your body reacts to him, knowing exactly what angle of his fingers makes you twitch. The exact speed to circle your clit with his tongue to have you clenching your legs around his head. It’s the routine of it, the satisfaction in hearing you cry out his name, and knowing he can do it again and again. Treating your pleasure like a game he’ll always win.

But tonight, you grip his wrist, stopping him before you can feel the ease of his fingers sinking into you.

“Not tonight.” You move his hand from between your legs, bringing it up to your mouth and placing a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Just wanna feel you.” You mumble into the palm of his hand before guiding it to rest on your cheek. He’s holding your face carefully as you shift your weight until you feel his length nudging at your entrance.

Sinking down, your cheek pushes further into his palm, and he holds you steady, his chest heaving as he fills you inch by inch.

You wait for a second before you move, focusing on how deep he feels as you sit there with him pushed completely into you.

He always fucked you with reverance. Fucked you like he meant it— long deep strokes in purposeful positions where he could see your face, watching your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. But, in this moment, he was frozen. His hands holding your face, eyes locked on yours, mind echoing with your voice asking him to give you a baby. He lets you take your time, grinding down onto him with little whimpers escaping your throat as you rock your hips.

Your hands find his chest, bracing against his body as you move over him, keeping a steady pace. In a complete daze, you angle your hips a little differently to bury his dick even further into you, and he watches your face as it contorts in pleasure. Your hips have a mind of their own as they move in a perfectly calculated rhythm. Your eyes are on him, but glazed over with a distant fog while you mindlessly chase your release, riding him with a desperation he’d never seen before.

He knows you're close. He can see it in the familiar twitch of your jaw, and the focused furrow of your brows.

He brings a hand down between your bodies, flat at the base of his cock until your clit is gliding across his knuckles. Using the position of his hand to double your pleasure, he watches as you feverishly rub against him, using him for your own pleasure.

Your fingertips at his chest mount harder, and your head falls back, strangled moans slipping past your lips as your hips move faster. Snapping back and forth until they’re stuttering.

Andrew’s hands are still on your face, adjusting your head to make your eyes level with his. Making sure he gets to watch you cum.

Your mouth falls open, eyes zoned in on his as you cum around his cock. Your pulsing and shuttering, the only thing keeping your body from slumping forward into his are his hands still holding your head steady.

A current of pleasure washes through you, lingering in the spasms of your thighs, as Andrew watches. Giving you a moment to breathe, he lets his hands move from your face, pushing through your hair and trailing down to your waist.

With his dick still buried deep into you, he maneuvers your body until your back is on the mattress. He brings your legs up until your knees are practically against your chest, trapped under his weight as he hovers over you.

“What was that you said earlier?” His soft growl is just inches from your ear as he presses further into you.

“About fucking you full?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. Not with the way his dick is buried so far into you, grinding deliberately against the plush of your walls, tip threatening to kiss your cervix.

Something must’ve snapped in him while he watched you finish, because Andrew isn’t normally this vocal in bed. He’ll groan and whine, speak a brief praise, or quick command, but he’s not one for extensive dirty talk. Hearing him speak like this, looking you in the eyes while he pulls out slowly just to plunge back into you, is unlike him.

He’s completely entranced by your body under his control. Unable to think about anything other than giving you all of him. The need takes over his entire body, and he can’t help but vocalize it.

“Want me to fill you up?”

His head comes down to rest against yours, foreheads meeting as he bucks his hips into you hard.

“Want me to give you a baby?”

You nod with your head pressed against his, a pitiful, whining mess at his words.

Then he drives into you. Serving you deep, deliberate strokes as he keeps your legs folded against your body. Thrusting with a melody of raspy, breathless groans at his lips, his hot breath fans over your face as he fucks you. He loses all control, taken over by a primal need to fill you with his release— to see you carrying his child.

He’s relentless. Letting the way your nails drag down his back, spur on the sinful slapping of skin on skin that fills the room. It’s not fast, but intentional— purposeful. Each thrust a promise of your future as he keeps his eyes on you, Telling you he loves you in the intimacy of his body colliding with yours.

“Please Andrew.” The two words are whispered from your lips, begging to feel him soak into you, asking for him to give you everything. And It’s all you have to say for him to completely come undone.

He cums with a string of strangled moans, the weight of his body completely crumbling into you, his forehead still resting against yours.

His body is heaving, dick still buried inside of you- nearly quivering. You bring your hands to his hair, playing with his curls as he comes down from his high.

He pulls back after a few seconds, sliding out of you, and sitting up, freeing you from the weight of his torso on yours. You raise up onto your elbows, watching as he kneels between your legs.

He puts a hand on one of your thighs, prying your legs further apart while he watches your pussy, messy and swollen underneath him.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look up at you, just stares down between your legs, parted for him. Waiting. Standing by in anticipation to see himself dripping from your core.

You feel it, thick and warm as it seeps at your opening.

Before it can pool on the sheets beneath you, Andrew brings his thumb to your entrance, thick and sturdy, and pushing into you. His finger sinks in to the knuckle, a low moan leaving your mouth as you both watch between your legs as he fucks his spend back into you. Stroking a few times before making his way back up your body, hovering over you until you feel his dick, still hard and throbbing, gliding through your folds.

“Andrew…” You feel light headed as you pant out his name, and it almost sounds like a cry.

“Thought you wanted me to keep going till I knocked you up?” His voice approaches a playful tone as he raises his brows along with his words.

He doesn’t say anything else, just pushes all the way back into you, thrusting nice and slow, determined to fuck you through the night if that’s what it takes. All he knows, is that this time next month, you’ll be pregnant with his baby.

927 notes · View notes

valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

Text

taking it slow

Summary: having sex with Carmy for the first time. Somewhere along the way… he discovers he has a bit of a size kink.

Warnings: size kink, piv no protection, Carmy has a rlly big dick okay, praise praise praise, soft dom Carm vibes, minimally proofread if you’re reading day of posting.

Word count: 2690

Carmen is nervous. It’s not his first time having sex, but it’s his first time having sex with you—which is a really big deal to him. His heart beats a mile a minute inside his chest as he walks hand in hand with you to his apartment.

Although he’s teeming with nerves on the inside, he doesn’t let it show for a second. Quite the opposite, actually. He’s the definition of calm when you press your lips against his in the elevator. You’re too eager to wait for him to make the first move, so you take matters into your own hands.

Carmen only pulls away from you for a moment when the elevator opens up. He deftly walks you backwards out of the elevator to the door of his apartment without letting his lips leave yours. After pining you to the door, he deepens the kiss, letting his tongue trace across your bottom lip while he digs in his pocket for his keys.

Once he opens up the door and guides you inside, you instantly try and pull him by his jacket to the first piece of furniture you see, the couch. He makes a noise of protest against your lips. “No—not gonna fuck you on the couch for the first time. Bedroom’s this way,” he says, holding your hand and leading you down the hallway.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, giving you half a second to take in your surroundings. It’s obvious he cleaned the place—there’s not a single article of clothing on the floor. There’s not much decoration, only a couple of—

“I can give you a tour later,” he smiles, interrupting your train of thought. “C’mere.” He pats his lap gently.

After you’ve settled on his lap, straddling his hips, Carmy takes your face in both of his hands and brings you in for a gentle kiss. It only stays gentle for a moment though. His thumb pulls down your chin, letting him explore your mouth with his tongue. He licks into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you, and you would gladly let him at this point. At the same time, he lets a hand drift to your hip, urging you to grind onto him.

Carmy’s touch is tentative—almost hesitant. His hands remain firmly planted on your hips. It takes a moment of grinding on his lap for him to finally nudge his hand underneath your shirt. “Can I take your clothes off?” he whispers against your lips.

“Y-yeah—yeah, please.”

Carmy doesn’t even realize how big of a tease he is right now. He’s treating your clothing with a slow and steady mentality. As each layer is taken off, he pauses to kiss at your skin.

When he takes off your shirt, he pauses to kiss your jaw. Your head instinctively falls back, giving him more room to move onto your neck, then your chest. He trades kisses for small sucks and bites on the skin as he grows more urgent. He treats your pants the same way, trailing kisses down your legs as he pulls the fabric down.

He does not treat his own clothing with the same care. The second your hands slide underneath his shirt to feel his stomach, he rips the shirt right over his head. While Carmy works on his own clothes, you hastily unclasp your bra and push your underwear off.

You're gazing back up at his figure as he’s pushing down his boxers, revealing his very hard cock. You don’t try to hide your staring. At first, your eyes start at his chest, wandering down to his chiseled abdomen. They finally end up on his, quite large, dick. Your eyes widen at the sight of it.

Carmy turns pink under your gaze, heat rushing to his cheeks. He breaks eye contact by opening his bedside drawer, starting to rummage through it. “Uhm—I think I got some in here…”

You quickly grab his wrist to stop his searching. “I uh—m’on the pill, so you don’t have to if you’re comfortable…” you trail off. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

His eyes dilate at your words. “Shit—yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah—that’s fine with me.” He’s nodding with those big thoughtless eyes as he speaks, and crawls over top of you.

His cock weighs heavy against your thigh as Carmy kisses you again. It’s a rough clash of tongues, leaving a string of spit between your mouth and his when he pulls away.

Carmy breathes heavy when he takes his dick into his hand, giving himself a few pumps. You gasp when you feel the tip nudge against your entrance. “I don’t know if it’s gonna fit—“ he mumbles.

“It can—I can take it.”

His eyes are locked at where he presses up at your opening, using his thumb to spread your fold apart to give him a better look. “I dunno, sweetheart. I think it’s too tight—I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Before you can voice a protest, he starts rutting his dick through your folds, instead. Every thrust bumps up against your clit, making you whimper. You’re thoroughly coating his cock in your wetness.

You can only stand it for so long. “S’not too big. I can take it. I promise I can,” you mutter. Your legs spread wider, eager to feel him inside of you.

Carmen zones out for a second, staring intently at your entrance. You’re pulsing around nothing, slick starting to make its way out of you and onto the bed sheets. It takes a whine from your throat for him to snap out of it.

“Carm—“ you pout. “Need you, please don’t tease me.”

“Sorry, baby. Wasn’t tryin’ to.” In the next moment, he’s lining himself back up. He can’t help the groan that leaves his lips as his tip makes contact with your hot, wet center. Carmen eases his hips forward, slotting the head of his cock inside of you. He fights the urge to let his eyes close at the sensation, but he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of your facial expressions.

Your mouth falls open as he presses inside of you. Your core pulses around his cock, wrapping him in warmth. He’s already losing his mind and he’s barely even inside of you.

Carmy’s over half way in when your hands jolt out to grab his where they hold onto your hips. A sharp whine stops him dead in his tracks. He takes a hand off of your hip to hold your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Shh—I know, sweetheart. You’re doing so good f’me,” he says in between kisses to your lips. He doesn’t press his hips any further. He pulls back a bit, not able to contain the low groan from the throat at the friction. “Already feels so fucking good. So fuckin’ warm and tight.”

“Just a little more, okay? You can take it—I know you can take it. Just tell me when you’re ready.” There’s no rushing tone in his voice, just pure sincerity. Carmen nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck while you adjust. He presses sweet, gentle kisses to the side of your face and your neck. After a moment, you nod your head. “You can move.”

Carmy presses in again, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. The only sign is your eyes squeezed shut. It’s a stretch for the rest of him to fit. He’s average length wise—maybe on the larger side, but his girth was more than you’ve taken before. It feels like he’s splitting you in half—in the best way possible at least.

When he bottoms out, he’s holding himself up by his forearms overtop of you. He presses kisses to your cheeks and your neck, mumbling praises. “Did so good, baby—feels s’good. So fucking perfect.” He struggles to keep his hips still, grinding into you.

The first true thrust makes your head spin. Carmy pulls out at a gentle pace until just the head of him remains inside of you. He pushes back in more quickly than before, taking your breath away. He’s just as affected as you are. His mouth is open, breathing deeply as soft groans tumble out of him.

He builds up the pace gradually, taking the time for you to adjust. It’s not long before you’re no longer wincing at the stretch. Finally giving you a chance to take in the sight of Carmen in front of you.

His hair is messily pushed back as a bead of sweat builds at his brow. His abs flex with every single thrust he takes. The gold chain on his neck swings back and forth, hitting his chest. You grab what you can of his body, one hand grabbing onto his bicep while the other holds onto the headboard for support.

Every thrust fans the flames building in your belly. You squeeze at his arm, nails digging into his skin. It’s never felt like this before, and it’s starting to make you dizzy. The sounds coming from the room are erotic—the sound of skin against skin. You’re so wet it’s practically dripping out from around his cock.

“I’ve never felt so full—you’re s’big, Carm.”

He pauses again, smiling at the way you whimper from the loss of movement. You can see the wheels turning in his head before he speaks.

“Can I try something?” He says breathlessly, and you nod your head frantically in response. He accepts the wordless answer for now, but he’s going to have to work on getting you to use your words later. Carmy sits up on his knees while staying inside of you and grabs your leg from around his hip. He has a dark look in his eye when he lifts your leg and throws it over his shoulder. He thrusts gently into you, testing the waters. There’s a choked groan caught at the back of his throat that you don’t miss. His lips press to your calve, leaving a series of kisses on your skin. “This okay? Too much?” His voice is thin, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Another moan slips out of your mouth when Carmy does another soft thrust of his hips. “Not too much—shit, Carmy. I think—I think I can feel you in my stomach,” you babble.

At the sound of your moans, he increases the intensity of his hips. It’s not too much more; he’s still trying to take it slow and let you adjust. The words you just said are getting to his head, though. “You serious?”

“Mhm.” You reach for one of his hands at your hip and tug it up to your stomach. Carmy looks at you with a furrowed brow, but you completely ignore it. You manipulate his hand so that the base of his palm rests at your pubic bone, and his fingers splay in the space between your hips. You lay your hand flat over his and push down. “Feel it? Feel how deep you are?”

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

Then he’s just keeping his hand there, making eye contact while he rolls his hips up into you. You can’t take it, closing your eyes in pleasure. That’s another thing Carmy was going to have to work with you. “Hey—keep your eyes on me, baby. Keep ‘em on me, yeah?”

Your eyes open immediately at his instruction, meeting his gaze. You can barely make out the bright blue of his eyes; his pupils have grown, making the color a thin ring. “S-sorry,” you blurt.

“None of that,” he grunts. He’s still continuing to roll his hips while talking. “Nothing to be sorry about. I j’st wanna see those pretty eyes.”

He gets distracted by the pout on your lips, leaning down to give you real kisses again. This inadvertently pushes Carmy’s cock even deeper inside of you, almost like he’s folding you in half. All the while, he continues fucking into you. A sharp whine leaves your throat again, and your nails dig into the muscles of his back. Carmy freezes in place, worried he went too far—worried that he hurt you. “Shit—I’m sorry sweetheart—“

You vigorously shake your head. “Feels good—holy fuck Carmy.” You cry out. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You beg.

“That the spot? Yeah?” He murmurs as his thrusts start back up again. This time he’s more calculated, like he’s trying to hit that spot and make you lose your mind. “Such a good girl for me—taking it like you’re made for it.”

“Fuck. Squeezing me so tight.” Slick pools out from around his cock with every thrust, leaving a white ring around the base of him. “Those fuckin’ noises—shit,” he mutters.

Your eyes flutter closed. It’s all too much. The heat in your stomach was going to consume you at this point. You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel Carmy’s hand on your jaw.

“Remember what I’ve told you? Need to see your eyes, baby. Keep lookin’ at me and I’ll give it to you, I promise. Just keep you’re eyes on me; I’ve got you.”

In the next moment, he’s taking his hand from your jaw, and sliding it down your body to rub your clit with his thumb. Carmy is fully resting his forehead on yours, keeping his eyes on you.

“C-Carmy I—I can’t I’m—“

“Let go, baby, let me feel you cum around me.”

Those words make the tight band in your stomach snap. You pulse around him as your orgasm washes over you. You’re probably drawing blood with how deep your nails are in his skin, but you don’t care at this point.

Watching you come undone under him gets Carmy even closer to his peak. Your cunt squeezing him makes him pound into you even harder.

He wants to be closer to you—needs to be closer to you. He drops your leg from his shoulder, and practically puts all of his weight onto you; your chest is firmly pressed against his chest. Both of his arms wrap around your back, keeping you tight to his body. Carmy buries in face in the crook of your neck, and begins a reckless pace that takes your breath away. He’s going to town now that you’ve cum, pressing kisses to your shoulder and collarbone to try and conceal at least some of his whimpering.

He still manages to mumble more about how fucking good you feel, and all you can do is hold onto him just as tight as he’s holding onto you. You wrap your legs around his back and interlock your ankles to him even deeper. He groans loudly, like the wind has been knocked out of him. Your hands are tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. You make a soft “uh” noise with every thrust of his dick. He’s on the verge of exploding. You’re all over him. Pulsing around him. Leaking around him. He’s convinced he’s died and gone to heaven.

He glances down and sees the ring of your arousal around his cock for the first time, and damn near loses his mind.

His hips start losing their precision, sloppily rutting up against you. Carmy lifts up his head from the crook of your neck to rest his forehead against yours. “C-can I—fuck—can I cum inside? M’so close.” His voice is filled with desperation and need.

“Shit—please. Please, please, please. Want it inside—please fill me up.”

A few more sloppy thrusts and Carmy spills deep inside of you with a whimper. His hips keep moving after his orgasm ends, lazily grinding his cum further into you.

He fully falls on top of you afterwards, trying to catch his breath. You muster enough strength to comb your hand through his curls. Your limbs feel like jelly. “Fuck, Carm.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard in my life—holy shit,” he replies with a laugh.

“No like, I don’t think I can walk. My legs feel like jello.”

He presses another kiss to your shoulder. “I can carry you to the bathroom and clean you up. How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

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valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

Note

Frank seeing you wearing HIS scrub top in the morning of your day off. Yea you have your own but he sees you wearing his by the kitchen counter as you prepare breakfast

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 – 𝐟. 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧 (𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝟏𝟖+) | hopping on the francis train with @ovaryacted! all aboard! he's sooo ugh. thank anon, for sending this in cause i'm thinking about him very hard. warnings for this one include: smut, language, unprotected sex, creampies, bodily fluids (mentioned), sex in the kitchen, undefined relationships, langdon being a fucking menace but also down bad for you, cooking (mentioned), me trying to use religious imagery (?) (@stellamarielu your turn 🫵🏾) w/c: 1.2k

“Frankie, the eggs–”

“Fuck the eggs,” he mumbles, the baritone of his voice a little thicker than usual thanks to the hours of well-earned rest. The man had slept like a rock next to you for most of the night, snoring off the exhaustion from his latest shift and how deep he’d fucked you in his bed afterward. One might think that Frank had satisfied his taste of you yesterday with the way he was babbling away in your ear while plowing into you from behind. This morning proves that fact is anything but the case.

Frank’s got his face buried into the skin of your neck, mouth attached and licking like you’re made of sugar. A groping tug at your sides drags you closer to him, and the cooling pan on yolk to your right is becoming but a distant recollection. He drags the kisses, wetting the skin from the dip of your shoulder to your jaw with thick laps of his tongue, and mewls with a little shudder at the way you tug his hair when his mouth slides back against yours.

When Langdon pulls away, it’s with a gentle grab of your bottom lip between his teeth. He has to smirk a little at how your eyes try to roll, and playfully nips the plush one last time before releasing the flesh.

“Fuck those eggs, turn around,” he breathes out, not waiting for you to respond before spinning you himself and pressing you into the nearest counter. Bunching up the fabric of his shirt–his fucking scrubs–he yanks it over your hips and pauses to throw his head back with a painful-sounding groan at the thong you’re wearing. It’s tiny and a shade pretty of aegean and finishes pumping his cock to a full length that bulges through the tight white of his underwear. “Christ, you’re fucking perfect.”

Frank’s compliment seeps out of him like a prayer, and he’s going to fuck you like you’re divinty itself.

He’s thick and aching as he sinks into you, and you can only whimper and grip the countertop as he clutches you with a crave-drive desperation. Frank’s thrusts start right away, his good friend impatience taking over to have its way with the man. Eyes clenching, he bends into a close hunch with a smushing of his front into you, your name tumbling from his lips in a way comparable to asking for forgiveness.

“Shit, Frankie…”

The falling of his name out of you forces Frank to grunt. Strings of his hair bounce in his face as he pumps himself into you, and both of your foreheads are starting to shine with a layer of sweat.

“Gonna let me come inside you this time?” Langdon questions, words uneven and mostly breath as his cock rams inside your pussy. Pulling back, he lowers his chin to his chest to watch the way you’re starting to cream around him, and the noise he makes has the audacity to fucking echo thanks to the steel appliances of the room.“Can even think of it as a–mmm–a souvenir, ‘f you want… n-nice little keepsake to remember me by ‘til you come back over tonight, and I get to–fuck–fuck‘til you’re seein’ five of me.”

Soon enough, you’re halfway folded onto the counter, and Frank’s already close.

His shirt. You were wearing his shirt, his goddamn scrubs, plus a thong in a shade of blue most people don’t know the name of while making him breakfast even though it’s your day off. And now, you’re letting him fuck you raw on his counter in the garment and drenching his cock in a mess that’s already running down to his balls.

“Oh, my God,” you’re forced to croak out when Frank quickens his pace, and you don’t have to see him to know what expression is gracing his face. You’ve seen it more than you thought you would when you’d started your residency at the PTMC; the hazy-eyes and glistening forehead. Browline pinched and jaw dropped like he’s closer to tears than he’ll ever admit. “How am I so fucking wet already? Jesus…”

Frank exhales with a laugh, not bothering to move the hair that’s starting to stick above his eyes. Steady in his pounding, he smirks.

“Oh, that’s just the Frankie Affect, sugar,” the man boasts, using the shirt he’s gripping to rut you back onto his cock, and you’d roll your eyes in annoyance if his tip wasn’t thwacking against your spot every two seconds. You can tell he wants to keep joking but a throaty moan interrupts him. Good.

“Gonna need an answer to that question soon,” Frank heaves, flushed cheeks puffing with the blow of a quick breath. “Very, very soon, darlin’.”

It takes you more than one attempt to answer him, as a wail beats your words every time you open your mouth. Core flooding with a pooling heat, you can just barely squeak out your repeated response of yes.

That’s all you manage to get out, mouth falling open in a silent scream when Frank’s waist surges with a new sense of drive. His thrusts grow sloppy as he starts to chase it, broken moans streaming from the man while you join him in a wash of unruly cries.

“Mmhm?” He checks one last time, his legs starting a shake he knows is only going to get worse. One last nod from you is all it takes for him to grit his teeth, keeping his angle perfect long enough for you to start squelching out your orgasm around his cock.

“That’s it,” Frank purrs out, squishing you in between himself and the counter, arms wrapping you in a strong embrace as you tremble powerless against him. “Mmm, right there… fuuuck, just like that.”

When Frank comes, it ruins him. At least, that’s what it sounds like.

He stiffens and holds you tighter, sobs falling loud upon your ears as he explodes inside you. You’re flooded with rope after rope of his thick spend, his hands disoriented and unsure which part of you they want to grab. Frank bawls your name, slurring out unintelligible stammers of unashamed curses while his sack pulses with mind-numbing twitches.

“Holy fu…,” Langdon whispers loudly with a few hitches inhales, remaining pressed into you as your hole milks him stupid. “You cannot be real.”

When you shake with a short but spent giggle, Frank nearly growls at you to not do that until he pulls out or he might faint.

Once his breath finally returns, Frank slides from you slow. His lips almost quirk up at the whimper he hears from you. Peeking down, he sniffs at the way some of his cum spills back out of you, painting his cock with a pretty pearl hue. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you nod, twisting to pull Langdon into a tender peck. He stops you when you pull away, grabbing your chin and kissing you once more, letting it linger until he’s satisfied. “Except for the fact that now I wanna shower but I don’t think my legs will let me make it there without giving out first.”

Face brightening with a grin, Frank loops an arm around you.

“Another ramification of the Frank Affect–”

You shut Frank up with a finger to his lips and shake your head.

“Mm-mm,” you hum out, and he ignores the urge to bite your finger, smiling wider.

“What? It’s a real thing! You just experienced it firsthand–”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Francis…”

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valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

Note

goodnight to jack abbot who, physically cannot, take his eyes off of you when you ride the exhaustion out of him and audibly groans when you tease and tug at his salt and pepper curls when he leans in for a kiss 😵‍💫

OHHHHH????? i’ll do you one better… how about dry humping on the couch because he’s just oh so tired, but nothing will stop him from letting his princess do what she pleases

Exhausted and almost falling asleep, he’d be sitting next to you on the couch, eyes barely open wide enough to watch whatever movie is playing on the screen. Your fingertips trace little patterns into his thigh through the thick material of his sweatpants— higher and higher until,

“Sweetheart, i’m falling asleep over here.”

His lazy gaze reaches over to you, a raspy chuckle following his words as you palm him through his pants.

“Alright, I’ll stop…”

You lean over, lips meeting his neck as you kiss the words onto his skin.

“so you can go get some rest.” the ease of your voice is a warm and sweet, melting underneath his jaw.

The breathless grunt that escapes his throat as you kiss down his neck, paired with the way his dick hardens under your touch, sends one of your legs swinging over his thighs. You straddle his lap, letting your weight sink onto him, and feeling his bulge press directly against your core.

Jack’s hands are gripping your hips, pulling greedily at the fabric of your pajama shorts, pressing you further into him. A strangled growl rumbles through his chest at the friction of you grinding against him.

“I mean it baby,” You move slowly, placing a hand on his chest for leverage as you rock your hips. Your movements have him in an obvious daze, his jaw slack as he leans in, suddenly desperate to feel your lips against his.

Your hands find his hair, tugging at his grey curls just enough to keep him at bay. With your fingertips gently tangled in his hair, you pull his head back, causing his eyes to meet yours.

“You should go to bed.” Your head cocks to the side as the suggestion pours from your mouth in a sickly sweet whisper, your clothed pussy still gliding over him.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that sweetheart?”

His grip on your hips loosens only to find its way to your ass, grabbing and yanking you further into him. A quiet yelp of surprise leaves your lips but immediately melts into his, as you stutter forward, meeting him in a deep and hungry kiss as he guides your hips back and forth over his.

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valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

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hi idk if you're taking requests but could you write smt with art (could be dilf or stanford) and dacryphilia/choking/dumbification... just something freak nasty! i love your writing btww <3

husband!art fucking wife! reader in the laundry room . . . ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

"boys! dinner is ready!" you called out from kitchen, humming to yourself as your two little boys run from their room to the kitchen.

"what do we say to mommy?" art's deep voice cause the twins to fix their posture, putting their big smiles on and saying "thank you for the food, mommy!" that earns a small laugh from art, who approaches you from behind.

"thank you, 'mommy'." art whispers against the nape of your neck, his hand gently pressing against your tummy. "daddy!" samuel's voice cause him to stop midway from kissing your neck. "are you not going to eat?" art smirks, nodding softly.

"ofcourse i am, but my dinner is in the laundry room." "what-" before the twins or you have any questions, he's dragging you to the laundry room, and locking the door. "your food is actually on the table-" he shuts you up with a kiss, caging you against the washing machine.

he's being rough, manhandling you for your stomach to press against the washing machine, taking your jeans off with a rip. "i been waiting all day for you," he groans, his fingers rubbing your folds before he takes his pants down, his cock springing out of his pants against your ass cheeks.

you gasp, back arching like a cat as you bite your bottom lip. "you're already dripping, i beraly kissed you." he teases, rubbing his tip against your slit. "baby pleasee... the boys are just a few-" he once again interrupts you, pushing himself in. your mouth opens to moan, but nothing comes out. you're already so fucked out.

he always had that power over you, with just the slightest touch you would start drooling and trembling. "shh." he whispers against your neck. 4 of his fingers going inside of your mouth, it causes you to gag, eyes rolling back.

"that's it, you're milking my cock so good baby," he groans, his hips stuttering but he keeps his relentless pace, his cock hitting the deepest part of you. you bite into his fingers, chest heaving as you grip his wrists.

"does it feel good? i bet it does doesn't it?" he cups your jaw, making you look at him. "open your mouth." and you do, you always listen to him. the sight of your face, how fucked up you look, aching to be claimed again and again. his hands wrap from your jaw to your neck, restricting your respiration.

he grins, biting deep into your lip. "fuck fuck-" he whimpers, fisting your hair. "im gonna come inside of you, make you swollen and pregnant with my baby." he grins, burying his face into your shoulder. long cock stopping his abuse to your hole.

with a synchronized moan, both of you come, his seed filling you up with cause your legs to fail. "i gotchu sweetheart, i gotchu." he whispers, his hands going under your legs to hoist you up. "im gonna clean you up, then we'll go eat, yeah?" he doesn't pull out of you just yet.

relishing the warmth your inside give him. "you would look super sexy with another baby. or maybe another set of twins?" that earns a small jab at his ribs, your cheek resting against his chest. "maybe."

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valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

Text

SOMEONE, SOMEDAY, SOMEWHERE

MICHAEL ‘ROBBY’ ROBINAVITCH x F!READER

Summary: The evening before you start your fellowship at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, you meet a man in a bar and spend a single, incredible night in his bed.

What was supposed to be a fleeting moment turns into something much more intense and extremely inconvenient when you arrive at the trauma center early the following morning.

Turns out that the charming older man with the sad brown eyes is an attending at the very same hospital.

Warnings: slow burn, typical medical gore, fellow!reader (neuro specialty), boss/employee dynamics, age gap (30, early 50s), past heather/robby, power imbalance, workplace tension, forced proximity, lovers -> idiots -> lovers (again), angst, robby is kind of a dick sometimes, eventual smut, ensemble cast, side relationships, specific tags at the beginning of each chapter

reader traits: cis-fem, pretty soft-hearted but with a touch of sass, shorter than robby & easy for him to (eventually) pick up etc., able to put hair up somehow, a little bit of backstory, jesse’s cousin!

A/N: well, well, well, here we are again. this fic is an ambitious undertaking, and i make no promises of finishing it, but i’m gonna try my damndest.

*i have a bit of experience with neurology just due to being epileptic and having a pretty intense hyperfixation, but i am by no means an expert, so take everything i describe with a grain of salt.

─── ⋆⋅ general taglist form

i. i remember being younger

ii. my mother told me the truth

iii. find someone who grows flowers

iv. in the darkest parts of you

v. take heed when things get hard

vi. don't you ever turn around

vii. find someone, someday, somewhere

viii. that grows you to the clouds

ix. i've been living, waiting on the day

x. that the good lord willing

xi. send you out my way

xii. i've seen hard times, bad luck

xiii. all that in-between

xiv. sweetest of the sunflowers

xv. you're the sun to me

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valentinevirgo · 7 days ago

Text

You Knocked, I Let You In

summary : You’re not from his world—you don’t speak in vitals, don’t flinch at blood, don’t belong to the people who call him “Abbot” like it’s both a sentence and a survival tactic. But when he texts—too late, too clipped, too careful—you go. Because Jack Abbot never asks for anything, not really. And tonight, for reasons he won’t say, he wants you. A cherry-red dress. A quiet reservation. A man built to hold pressure, not affection. He’s never been good with words. But he’s about to show you everything he means.

word count : 6,839

content/warnings : 18+ only MDNI, emotionally intense sex, aftercare, oral (f receiving), protected vaginal sex, depiction of PTSD and emotional repression, grief, mention of a patient death (child), emotionally guarded older male character (Jack is in his 40s), younger female character (mid 20s), emotionally soft Jack Abbot, grounded realism, possessive tenderness, trauma-informed characterization, anddddd a lot of smut with feelings.

a/n: this one’s been collecting dust in my google docs for a while—wasn’t sure if it was any good, but figured someone out there might need it as much as I did.

You shouldn’t be here.

That’s the first thing you think when the cab pulls to a stop at the corner of 15th and Vine—where the pavement turns to gravel just before the sidewalk ends and the streetlamp hums like it’s about to go out. There’s no front porch light, no house number you can see, just a dented mailbox with the paint scraped off and a storm door that sticks if you don’t lift it by the handle.

But you’ve been here before.

Not often. Not enough. Just enough to still feel it in your legs.

The house is red brick and slouched. Duplex, probably built in the fifties. One of those old Allegheny Valley homes too stubborn to die. It leans slightly to the right, like maybe the foundation gave up a long time ago but the rest kept going out of spite.

You step out into the drizzle, heels hitting the concrete with a hollow click, and the cold April air clings to your dress like a second skin. It’s too thin for this weather, but you wore it anyway—slippery and low-backed, cherry red and just barely long enough to keep from being indecent. You don’t wear red. You’re not the kind of girl who makes a scene. But tonight you needed him to see you.

You’re still not sure why he texted.

You’re still not sure why you came.

You’re not a fixture here—you’re a flicker. The kind of girl a man like Jack Abbot never plans around. Just thinks about too often. Just calls when it’s too late to be polite.

And maybe that’s what you like about it.

Because you don’t live in a world of routines and rotas and rounds. You’re not in medicine. You don’t know what a central line is or how to read an EKG. You work at the city’s adult literacy nonprofit, helping people who slipped through cracks in the system big enough to bury them. You teach night classes in a fluorescent basement on the North Side, surrounded by broken chairs and stained carpet and students with parole bracelets and kids who need dinner by six.

It’s good work. Quiet work. Important.

But it doesn’t leave much room for wanting things just for yourself.

And Jack Abbot has never once asked you to be small.

You step carefully up the cracked incline of his driveway, heels clicking softly against the uneven concrete. Jack’s truck is parked just slightly crooked, like always—angled enough that the passenger side catches the streetlight, the front end turned a little too close to the retaining wall, like he pulled in fast and didn’t bother correcting.

You slow as you pass it.

The passenger-side mirror is fogged at the edges, streaked faintly from rain, but you lean in anyway, breathing warm against the glass to clear a patch. Your reflection stares back—lipstick still intact, not too bright, not too desperate. You smooth a hand down the front of your dress. It clings a little from the damp.

You don’t touch the mirror. You don’t need to.

Instead, you straighten your spine, cross the last few feet, and raise your hand to knock.

Once. Then again. Knuckles on wood, sharp and clean.

There’s a pause.

Then the soft clatter of a lock, then another.

Then silence.

When the door opens, he doesn’t say anything.

Just stands there.

Jack Abbot isn’t tall enough to tower, but he doesn’t need to. There’s something in the way he carries himself—shoulders slightly hunched, stance uneven from the prosthetic—that makes people instinctively give him space. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. Like they know he’s walked through something hard and quiet and didn’t come out clean on the other side.

He’s still in his black scrubs, the collar rumpled. Underneath, the cuff of a white undershirt is visible—stained faintly at the edge, like he’d wiped his hand on it without realizing. Could be blood. Could be iodine. Could be coffee. He hasn’t shaved in days. There’s a cut healing at his jawline, a bruise blooming high on one forearm. And his eyes—that slow, searching stare that never stays still—carry the quiet of someone who’s watched too many people bleed out under fluorescent light and learned to keep his voice steady anyway.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching you like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll flinch first.

He looks like he just got off shift.

He looks like he never left it.

“Hi,” you say.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

His gaze drops. Tracks the fabric. The way it clings to your hips. The slit at your thigh. Then climbs again, slowly, until he’s looking at your mouth like he’s remembering something that never should’ve been said out loud.

“I’m not in the mood for small talk,” he says, voice rough and clipped, like it’s meant to keep you at a distance.

You arch a brow. “Relax. I wasn’t planning to ask how your day was. You texted me, remember?”

“That was an hour ago.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He looks at you, unmoving. “I typed it an hour ago. Hit send ten minutes ago.”

You snort—just barely. “Jesus. You ghost me for a month, then get pissy I didn’t teleport here?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. Like he’s trying to count all the ways this is going to be a bad idea.

You step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. You feel the heat of him—his restraint like a wall you could kick in if you wanted to.

“I’m not here to coddle whatever brooding thing you’ve got going on tonight,” you say, casting a glance back over your shoulder. “If you wanted silence, you could’ve kept the draft in your messages.”

Jack shifts—just enough that you notice. Eyes steady, weight shifted, like he’s tracking something under your skin.

“You wearing anything under that?”

You smile with your teeth. “You planning to find out or just stand there being weird about it?”

He exhales through his nose—short, sharp. Glances down once, then back up.

Then steps aside and pushes the door the rest of the way open.

“You’re still late,” he says.

“And you’re still full of shit,” you reply, walking in without waiting.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You shrug your coat off and let it hang on the crooked hook by the entryway. His silence follows you like steam—slow, clinging, heavy in the chest. You’re halfway into the living room before you realize he hasn’t moved—Jack is staring at you like he’s trying not to say the thing he’ll regret. Like he already knows how this ends and is still pretending he has a choice.

You turn.

You arch a brow. “You gonna hover all night, or…?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just moves—slowly—toward the coffee table. His movements are clipped, functional, like he’s still coming down from shift adrenaline.

“You hungry?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“I made a reservation.”

You snort. “At a place with silverware?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You—” you blink again, actually thrown for once, “—you made a reservation at a real-ass restaurant.”

“Look, I didn’t expect you to show.”

You tilt your head. “But you made the reservation anyway.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, not looking at you. “They had online booking. It wasn’t emotional.”

“So what? You were gonna eat coq au vin alone and pretend it was character development?”

He finally looks at you, deadpan. “I was gonna sit at the bar, drink overpriced scotch, and ignore the people having birthday dinners behind me. It’s practically therapy.”

You laugh. Actually laugh. And his eyes flick to your mouth like he forgot they do that.

“I thought we were walking,” you say.

“We are,” he says. “To my truck.”

“Oh, romantic.”

“You wanna walk through the Strip District in that dress?” he asks, not even looking at you. “I’m all for a dramatic entrance, but I’m not in the mood to commit a felony in public tonight.”

You smirk. “You think I need a bodyguard?”

“I think if anyone says the wrong thing to you,” Jack mutters, eyes flicking down the length of your dress again, “I’ll end up punching someone in the face—and I’m already covered in someone else’s blood.”

You go still for half a breath.

And he catches it. Like a pulse under your skin.

His jaw works once, then he exhales through his nose—tired, sharp.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.”

He disappears down the hallway, one boot clunking against the baseboard, prosthetic hissing faintly as it shifts with his stride. You don’t sit. You pace, slow and quiet, absorbing his house like it’s telling you something he won’t.

The walls are neutral. Medical journals stacked beside a box of ammo he hasn’t unpacked. Framed medals, yes—but not displayed. Tucked in a dusty cabinet beside an unopened bottle of whiskey and a Ziploc full of blood donation cards. There’s a water bottle on the counter with his name on the cap in someone else’s handwriting. There’s a sticky note on the fridge that says Don’t forget Friday—Robby.

You lean against the kitchen doorway.

There’s still a black bag by the door. Trauma pack. Half-zipped. Red tape on the handles. He’s always got one ready—even when he’s off.

When he comes back, he’s not dressed for candlelight.

He’s dressed like himself.

Black button-down, sleeves rolled halfway. Dark jeans. That same leather jacket you once saw him use to splint someone’s arm after a three-car pileup. His hair’s still wet, but pushed back now. He smells like cedar soap—something clean, sharp, bought on purpose—and something darker beneath it, like heat and metal and memory. Not cologne. Just him. The kind of scent that lingers even when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile when he sees you.

But he does stop. And look.

“You good?” he asks.

You grab your coat from the hook. “Better than you.”

“Doubt that,” he says, already at the door. “I’ve had three cups of hospital coffee and a fentanyl OD cough in my face. That’s called building resilience.”

“I think that’s called exposure therapy.”

“No, that’s what this is,” he mutters, opening the front door for you.

Outside, the rain softens everything—headlights, corners, voices. The kind of night that makes even the city feel like it's whispering.

Jack walks ahead, boots hitting the concrete with that uneven cadence you’ve learned by feel, not sound. You trail behind, pulling your coat tighter, watching his back, the broad line of his shoulders under the jacket. He doesn't glance back, but he doesn’t need to. He knows you're there.

He opens the passenger door to his truck. Holds it open without fanfare.

You hesitate, one foot still on the sidewalk.

“You really made a reservation?” you ask.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer. “So we actually have a table?”

He glances at you now, sharp and sure. “If I walk in with you in that dress, they’ll give us one.”

Then he shuts the door gently behind you, like he’s sealing something in.

The restaurant is warm and low-lit, the kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices and everyone talks like they’re trying not to wake a baby. A converted warehouse with exposed brick, matte silverware, and waitstaff in black aprons who glide, not walk.

You step in first, rain-slick and radiant under the vestibule light, and Jack follows just behind. His presence doesn’t just fill a room. It tilts it.

The hostess does a quick scan, eyes pausing on your dress, then on Jack’s face, then on the two of you together—like she knows better than to ask questions. She checks the list, but Jack cuts in, voice low.

“Abbot. Table for two.”

Her posture straightens. “Right this way.”

The table is small. Intimate. Tucked into a corner where the candlelight flickers just enough to make the shadows feel intentional. You slide into your seat across from him. The tablecloth brushes your thighs. Jack drops into the chair like he’s still trying to convince his body to sit still.

You watch him take in the room like a trauma bay—sizing up exits, memorizing sightlines, cataloguing who’s already drunk and who might start something. You’re not surprised. Jack doesn’t know how to be off-duty. Not really.

“I’ve never seen you eat anywhere with cloth napkins,” you murmur.

He lifts his eyes, deadpan. “I can evolve.”

You lean back. “Is that what this is? Personal growth?”

Jack unfolds his napkin like he’s done it a hundred times. “It’s carbs and a distraction.”

“And me?”

He looks at you for a long second. “A complication.”

You smirk. “Careful. I might put that on a dating profile.”

He doesn’t smile—but his eyes betray him. That flicker of something darker. Hunger, maybe. Or memory.

A waiter appears—tall, the kind of man who probably judges how you hold a fork. He hands you menus and starts his monologue, but you only half-hear it. Your eyes are on Jack. He hasn’t looked away from you once.

When the waiter leaves, Jack doesn’t reach for the menu.

You do.

“What?” you ask, without looking up. “You don’t read?”

“I already know what I want,” he says.

You freeze for half a second.

Then flip the page. “You always this forward in public?”

Jack shrugs. “Just forward enough.”

You glance up. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m trying not to,” he says quietly.

Silence folds in between you—soft, ambient, but charged. You can hear the clink of cutlery, low jazz humming from the ceiling speakers, the faint hiss of water being poured into someone else’s glass. Jack shifts in his seat—not restless, just recalibrating. You recognize that posture. He’s about to say something he’ll pretend didn’t matter.

“You look good,” he says finally.

You meet his eyes. “You already said that.”

“I didn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Thought you didn’t do compliments.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what’s this?”

Jack leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. His voice is quieter now, more grounded.

“This is me trying not to go home with your dress still in the seat crease of my truck.”

You’re warm now. Not from the wine. From him. From the way his gaze doesn’t drop, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t ask.

“I thought you wanted this to be civilized,” you say.

Jack exhales, slow and sharp. “I wanted it to be public. That’s not the same thing.”

You lean in, just enough that the candlelight touches your collarbone.

“So what happens after dessert?” you ask, sweetly.

Jack’s mouth curves—not into a smile. Something more dangerous.

“You think I’m gonna make it to dessert?”

Jack doesn’t touch his wine. Just traces the rim of the glass with the side of his thumb, like he’s giving his hands something to do besides reach for you.

You, on the other hand, sip yours slow. Watch him over the edge like you’re still deciding if you’re going to let this happen.

“You always this twitchy at dinner?” you ask, setting the glass down.

“I’m not twitchy,” he mutters.

You raise your brow.

“I’m alert.”

You grin. “You know what civilians call that?”

“Hypervigilance?”

“Therapy’s working.”

That gets him. Just a flicker—something behind the eyes, that half-breath pause he does when he’s almost about to smile. But he shakes his head like he’s brushing it off. Always brushing it off.

“You’re good at that,” he says.

“At what?”

“Getting under my skin.”

You blink—caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. He doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like it’s inevitable. Like it already happened.

“I’m not trying to,” you say, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Jack says, eyes locked on you. “That’s the problem.”

A beat. The waiter brings bread. You ignore it.

Jack leans back a little. Not relaxed—never relaxed—but more settled. Like whatever this is, he’s decided to let it stretch a little longer.

“You like what you do?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “That a real question or small talk?”

“Real,” he says, without missing a beat. “You do this thing where your shoulders drop when you talk about work. Even when you say it’s exhausting. I noticed.”

You go still.

Then—cautious: “You remember what I do?”

Jack meets your eyes, unwavering. “Adult literacy program. GED prep. Half your students can’t keep consistent hours because they work night shifts or care for their kids. One of them asked you to help fill out a DMV form last week and didn’t know how to sign their own name.”

You stare at him.

“I listen,” Jack says, voice steady. “Doesn’t mean I know what to say back.”

You look down for a moment. His words hit somewhere too soft, too unguarded. You weren’t expecting softness—not from him. But here it is, tucked under the barbed wire.

“I thought you were half-listening that night,” you say. “The one where you were icing your shoulder and bleeding into your scrub top.”

“I was bleeding into someone else’s scrub top,” he corrects, dry. “Mine was already ruined.”

You smile. “Still. I thought I was talking to the wall.”

“You were,” he says. Then softer: “But the wall has ears.”

You both fall quiet again—but not from discomfort. From weight.

Jack shifts forward slightly, elbows on the table now, posture subtly open in a way that would go unnoticed by anyone else. But you notice. Because you know how rare it is.

“You ever want to do something else?” he asks.

You shrug. “Sometimes. But I like that I get to be useful. And I like that it’s mine.”

He nods. Absorbs that.

“What about you?” you ask. “You ever think about walking away?”

His fingers tighten just slightly around the water glass.

“Every night,” he says. “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

Jack looks up at you then, sharp and tired and honest.

“Because the minute I stop showing up,” he says, “someone else has to hold the pressure. And I don’t trust most people to not fuck that up.”

You don’t reply right away.

Instead, you let your foot brush his under the table. Just barely. A whisper of contact.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back.

“You ever let anyone take care of you?” you ask.

He huffs a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You offering?”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“No,” Jack says, voice dropping a register. “You’re worse. You see through it.”

You look at him across the table.

Candlelight catches in the corner of his eye. He’s not looking at your mouth anymore. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing you in case this is the last time he gets to do it.

That scares you more than anything.

But you don’t look away.

“You want to get out of here?” you ask, voice low.

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not rushing.”

You swallow. “Why not?”

He leans in. Just slightly. His voice soft now. Barely a murmur.

“Because if I take you home right now,” he says, “I’m not letting you leave before sunrise. And I’m trying to be good.”

Your heart trips.

“But you’re not good,” you whisper.

Jack stares at you like you’ve already undone him.

“No,” he says. “But I want to be. With you, I want to be.”

Dinner’s done.

The plates are cleared. The wine is low in the glass. Whatever tension was humming earlier has now settled into something denser—gravity, almost. Like the weight of what neither of you is saying has taken up its own seat at the table.

You reach for your purse when the check comes.

Jack watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I’ll get it,” you say.

“No,” he says.

You blink. “Jack—”

He tilts his head—just enough to be a warning. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I invited you.”

“Since when do you play by date rules?”

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. The collar of his button-down is open just slightly now, sleeves pushed up. His forearms rest against the edge of the table—still, tense. You can see the cut healing along his knuckle, the way his jaw shifts like he’s chewing back a longer sentence.

Then he says, voice low and level:

“I had a kid code on me last night. No warning. Collapsed mid-handoff.”

You stop moving.

Jack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift.

“You ever do chest compressions on someone who still has their baby teeth?”

The air around you goes sharp. Quiet.

His voice doesn’t waver. “It’s been a long fucking month. And you—” he lifts his chin slightly, like pointing at you without pointing, “—are the first good thing to happen to me that I didn’t have to stitch shut or call time on.”

You don’t speak.

Not right away.

Jack exhales slowly. Not dramatic. Just tired.

“So please,” he finishes, softer now. “Let me pay for your damn meal.”

You sit back, lips parting—but the words don’t come.

He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t soften. He just looks at you like he needs you to let him have this.

So you nod. Once.

“Okay,” you murmur.

Jack signals the waiter with a tilt of his fingers and slides his card into the checkbook before the guy even finishes approaching.

When he turns back to you, his voice is lighter. Barely. “Thanks for not fighting me on it.”

“I figured you’d pull the dead kid card.”

“I didn’t,” he mutters. “I pulled the I care about you card. You just weren’t expecting it.”

You shake your head, smiling now. “I really wasn’t.”

Outside, the streets are still slick. Reflections of stoplights ripple in the puddles. You walk side by side in silence, coats tight, his hand resting near your lower back without ever quite touching. Not possessive. Just... present.

He unlocks the truck with a low beep. You slide in, silk sticking slightly to the seat.

Jack closes the door behind you, then rounds to his side. The interior smells like his jacket. Clean, worn-in, edged with cedar and something darker.

He starts the engine.

Doesn’t drive yet.

His hand rests on the steering wheel. The other on the gearshift.

You’re watching him. And you know he knows.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft now.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Just taps once on the steering wheel. Then again.

Then: “I haven’t had you in my house since Feburary.”

You tilt your head. “You keeping track?”

“I remember things that mess me up.”

You stare at him. “That what I do?”

Jack finally turns to look at you.

And it’s there—all of it. The restraint, the need, the fear, the ache. The thing in his chest he’s been keeping taped down with dry humor and trauma protocol.

“You make me feel like there’s a version of my life I don’t hate,” he says. “That counts for something.”

Your breath catches.

And that’s when he shifts into gear.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable. Just dense. His hand rests near yours on the console. The city passes by in wet blurs of neon and old brick and memory. And when you reach his street—familiar now, in that strange way trauma and attraction make things sacred—you realize you’re holding your breath.

He parks in the same crooked way he always does.

Then cuts the engine.

But doesn’t move to open the door.

You glance over. “You gonna make me sit here all night?”

He looks at you—long, measured.

Then says, “You sure you’re ready to come back inside?”

You don’t answer.

You just open your door.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the quiet feels thick. Like the space inside his house is closing around you both, absorbing what little restraint you walked in with. You’re in the same hallway you stood in earlier—same floorboards, same shadows, same air—but your pulse is different now. Everything is.

Jack tosses his keys into the bowl by the door. The clatter echoes.

He doesn’t turn around right away. Just stands there, head down slightly, like he’s bracing. Rain beads along his collar, catching in his jawline stubble. You can see the tension in the back of his neck, the way his hands flex once at his sides and then still.

You don’t wait for him to move.

You step up behind him slowly, the hem of your dress brushing your knees, heels soundless now on the rug.

“Jack,” you say quietly.

He turns.

And the way he looks at you—it’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s wrecked. Like you’ve been haunting him for weeks and now you’re finally standing here and he doesn’t know where to put the want.

“I think about you,” he says, voice low, raw. “Every fucking night.”

You stare at him. “Then why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because I knew I wouldn’t just want to hear your voice.”

That lands between you like weight.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other in the dark. And then, without warning, his hand finds your waist.

He pulls you toward him in one solid motion—not rough, just… inevitable. The kind of motion that’s been held back for too long.

Your bodies slot together like you remember each other. Like your hips already know where to rest against his. His hand stays at your waist, fingers firm but not possessive. The other lifts to your jaw, thumb skimming the edge of your cheekbone.

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He just looks at you.

And it’s too much.

“Say something,” you whisper.

Jack swallows hard. “I’m trying not to fuck this up.”

“Then don’t.”

His fingers tense. You feel it at your hip. In your pulse. In the way your breath catches when he finally closes the last inch of space and kisses you.

It’s slow at first.

Not sweet.

Just devouted.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste, like this is the last time and he wants to make sure it’s enough to live on. His hand slides up the back of your neck, into your hair, anchoring you there like he doesn't trust himself to stop.

You moan softly into him, and his breath catches.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Sure I do,” you breathe. “That’s why I wore the dress.”

He laughs once—low, ragged—but it dies quickly in his throat. The sound is swallowed by your mouth, by the feel of you pressing closer.

You walk him backward without thinking. Past the narrow hallway, past the living room. His hand is on your waist again. Your fingers find the buttons on his shirt but don’t undo them yet.

The house is quiet except for breathing. His and yours. Tangled.

You hit the doorframe of his bedroom.

But he doesn’t open it.

Not yet.

He rests his forehead against yours. He’s breathing hard now—like he’s keeping himself caged on purpose.

“I don’t want to rush it,” he says again. But this time it doesn’t sound like hesitation. It sounds like pain.

“You’re not.”

Jack pulls back half an inch to look at you. His eyes are blown wide. His mouth’s a little open. He looks—not undone—but stripped back.

“I can’t do this halfway,” he says. “Not with you.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you whisper. “That’s the whole point.”

He lets out a long, harsh breath.

And then—finally—he opens the door behind you and pulls you through it like he’s choosing to burn for it.

Jack’s bedroom is dark. Not in a neglectful way—just lived-in. A man’s space. Clean but uncurated. Worn boots under the chair. A folded sweatshirt on the dresser. An open book spine-down on the nightstand: Emergency Procedures & Field Triage. Pages marked in pencil. Of course.

He kicks the door shut behind you.

And for a moment, he just stands there. Breathing. Looking at you like you’re still some unsolvable thing he’s scared to touch wrong.

You move first.

Hands sliding up his chest, fingers finding the edge of his shirt, palms flattening over his heart.

“You sure?” you ask again—voice low, but steady.

Jack’s hands come to your waist, rough and warm. He leans in close, mouth hovering just above yours.

“I’ve been sure since the second you knocked on my door,” he says. Then lower—almost broken: “And I hate that I waited.”

The kiss this time is hungry.

Less control. More need. His tongue slides against yours like he’s chasing something deep, something he couldn’t name even if he tried. You press into him, gasp when his hand fists in the side of your dress, gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish mid-breath.

“Take this off,” he murmurs against your mouth. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, said like it’s been echoing in him for weeks.

You reach behind your back, unzip slowly—eyes locked to his the whole time.

Jack steps back half a foot. Watches.

The dress drops. Pools around your ankles.

You’re standing there in lace and nothing else.

He breathes in once, shallow.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You wore that for me.”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

His eyes rake down your body—every curve, every detail. His hand lifts. Hovers near your hip. Doesn’t touch yet.

“I don’t know what I did to get this,” he says.

“You survived,” you whisper. “That’s enough.”

He lets out a harsh breath—something close to a sound of grief. And then his hand lands on your bare waist. Heavy. Certain.

He kisses down your neck—slow, biting when you moan, tongue smoothing after like apology. His hands find your back, unclasping your bra in one practiced motion, sliding the straps down your arms like they’re made of silk. You shiver. Not from cold. From him.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You always run cold,” you whisper back, breath shaking.

Jack sinks to his knees.

You inhale sharply.

“Jack—”

“I need to feel you first,” he mutters. “Need to taste you. You don’t get it—I’ve been thinking about this for months.”

You look down—he’s already kissing the inside of your thigh, just above the lace. Soft at first. Then harder. Like he’s mapping something. Marking you.

You gasp when his teeth graze the edge of your panties.

He groans.

“You’re already shaking,” he says, voice full of that broken admiration he doesn’t know how to hide. “That for me?”

“All for you,” you whisper.

He slides the lace down your legs, slow. Watches you step out of them.

Then his hands grip behind your thighs and he pulls you against his mouth.

His tongue is everywhere. Slow circles, deep flicks, his mouth moving like he’s memorizing you from the inside out. One hand holds your thigh wide, the other digs into your ass. When your hand finds his hair, he groans against you—louder now, messier. You can feel how much he needs this in the way he licks like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“Jack—Jack,” you gasp, hips twitching, thighs trembling, “I—fuck—I’m close—”

“Good,” he growls. “You should be.”

When you come, you come with your fingers tight in his hair and your head thrown back, gasping his name like it’s a secret you weren’t supposed to tell. He keeps going. Slower. Gentler. Licking you through it with reverence, with dedication, with the kind of awe he’ll never say out loud.

When he stands again, his mouth is wet, jaw flushed, eyes glassy.

You’re breathing hard.

“You okay?” he asks. Quiet. Real.

“Need you to fuck me,” you say. “Now.”

Jack swears. Low and harsh.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“No,” you whisper, stepping into him again, naked and still shaking. “I’m gonna save you.”

Jack lifts you onto the bed like it’s instinct. His hands under your thighs, his body bracketed against yours—solid, tense, hot. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and you stretch out beneath him, bare and burning, chest rising and falling like your ribs don’t quite know how to contain the want.

You prop yourself on your elbows. “Take your pants off.”

He stares at you for a long beat. His chest rises.

Then—low, cracked: “Say it again.”

“Jack—” you whisper.

“No. Say it like you need it.”

Your breath stutters.

“I need to feel you,” you say, voice raw now. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

He swears under his breath. Voice frayed. “Fuck, okay.”

His jeans are gone fast—belt unclasped, zipper shoved down, cotton briefs pushed low. You watch the whole thing with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes dragging over the hard line of his stomach, the blunt, heavy length of him curved against his thigh. He’s thick. Flushed. And already leaking.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “You were hard the whole time?”

Jack climbs back over you, jaw clenched, one hand bracing beside your head. “Since you knocked on my door.”

You reach down between you, wrap your hand around him.

He groans—full-throated, wrecked—and drops his head to your shoulder like he’s just been shot through.

“Shit. Don’t tease me right now,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say. “I want you. Like this.”

He looks up at you. Eyes dark. Pupils blown wide.

“Condom’s in the drawer,” he says roughly. “Top left.”

You nod, stretch, grab it. Tear it open.

Your fingers brush his cock as you roll it on, slow and deliberate, and the hiss he lets out could bring a lesser man to his knees.

You look up at him, chest bare, thighs parted, breath gone.

“Jack. Now.”

He doesn’t tease.

He presses forward, one hand guiding himself to your entrance, the other gripping the back of your thigh to anchor you wide for him. You’re wet—already soaked—and the first push is hard enough to make your whole body arch.

“Fuck—” Jack grits. “You’re—shit, baby—you’re so tight.”

You grab his shoulder, nails digging into skin. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he growls.

He thrusts in fully, slow and deep, and your body takes him—inch by inch, stretch by stretch, until your hips are flush and his forehead is pressed to your collarbone.

Neither of you moves for a second. You just breathe.

And then he starts to fuck you.

It’s not soft. It’s hungry. Measured. Deep. Like he’s trying to get further inside than flesh will allow. Every snap of his hips pushes a breathless moan from your throat. His hand fists the sheet beside your head; his other arm cages you in. Your legs wrap high around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, like you don’t want a single inch of him wasted.

“You feel—” he grunts, “—so fucking good.”

You rake your nails down his back. “Harder.”

He obeys.

Each thrust now hits deeper, heavier, like he’s giving you every part of himself that the world hasn’t already taken. Your breath breaks. Your thighs tremble. His hand finally slips between you, two fingers finding your clit with brutal precision.

“Jack—Jack—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He’s panting now. Losing rhythm. But he doesn't let up.

“Come on,” he grits. “Let me feel you. Give it to me. Give it.”

You break.

You come hard—legs shaking, hands gripping, eyes squeezed shut, crying out his name like it’s the only one you’ve ever learned how to say.

He follows.

With a hoarse, broken moan, he buries himself deep and stays there—body locked tight against yours, pulse stuttering hard enough to feel in his throat, jaw pressed to your shoulder like the release ripped something loose he didn’t know was still held shut. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even shift. Just keeps his arms cinched around your waist like he’s bracing for impact that never came.

You thread your fingers through his hair—slow, grounding. He doesn't speak right away. When he does, it’s quiet. Raw.

“I don’t…” He swallows. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

You press a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Just don’t stop trying.”

Jack stays inside you, barely breathing, the tremor still in his chest. His weight settles over you—not heavy, not crushing. Just solid. Protective. One arm under your neck. The other spread wide across your ribs like he’s still counting them to make sure you didn’t break.

You let him stay there. Let him breathe. Let him feel it. Because you know Jack Abbot doesn’t get to feel often—he just responds. Just survives.

Eventually, he lifts his head. Barely.

You meet his eyes.

They’re a little bloodshot. A little dazed. And so fucking open it nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, slow. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Yeah. Just—fuck.”

You smile. “That’s articulate.”

“I’m not built for articulate,” Jack mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Especially not when I’m inside someone who just ruined me.”

You arch a brow. “Ruin’s a strong word.”

“You don’t see what I look like right now.”

“You look good.”

Jack huffs—half a laugh, half a sigh. “I feel like I ran a marathon with a collapsed lung.”

You trace your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He lets you.

“Didn’t peg you as a cuddler,” you murmur.

“I’m not.”

“You haven’t moved.”

“I will,” he says, but doesn’t. His hand flexes on your hip. “Eventually.”

He eases out of you a few minutes later, slowly, carefully—like he’s handling an injury he doesn’t want to aggravate. His fingers trail down your thigh, steady and warm, like he’s checking for damage. When your breath catches, he pauses.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head. “No. Just… full.”

Jack exhales, something quiet and wrecked. He bends, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not performative. Not playful. Just soft. Reflexive. Like his body doesn’t know how else to say I needed this.

Then he’s up. Moving efficiently. Still naked but somehow still Jack—controlled, composed, capable, even after being completely undone.

He comes back with a towel, a glass of water, and one of his black undershirts. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just kneels on the bed and gently wipes between your legs, slow and careful, like you’re something he’d bleed for again if it meant he could keep you whole.

You let him. Let him take care of you the way you knew he would if he ever let you close enough.

You sit back against the headboard once you’re clean, his shirt pulled over your head. Your legs are still shaky. Your breath still catching now and then in your chest.

Jack returns to the bed wordlessly.

He doesn’t sprawl. Doesn’t lean. He sits beside you like something important’s about to come loose in him if he doesn’t say it now.

You look over at him.

“You do this for everyone?” you ask, teasing—but it’s soft, not sharp.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t take the bait.

He looks at you.

And says, plainly: “I don’t have people over like this.”

That stills you.

He goes on, voice lower now, like it’s hard to say aloud. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You don’t reply right away.

Because you do know. You knew the first time he kissed you like he wasn’t supposed to. You knew the second time, when he didn’t say your name but held your hand under the table at a bar. You knew every time he pushed you away and still showed up when it mattered.

“I know,” you say. Quiet. Sure.

He looks at you again—really looks—and it’s all there. The weight of it. The risk. The want.

“I’m not fucking leaving,” Jack says finally. “And you’re not just here for the night. Not after that. I can’t—” He breaks off. Swallows. “I can’t pretend you’re just passing through. I don’t want to.”

You lean into him. Let your head rest on his shoulder. The shirt smells like him—soap, sweat, sex, something that lives deep in the cotton, like the way old homes hold heat.

His arm comes around you without hesitation. Holds you firm. Solid. One hand at the small of your back. Like if he doesn’t keep touching you, it won’t be real.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And he kisses your temple—slow, lingering.

Not like a man who needs sex.

Like a man who needed you.

Like a man who’s been surviving too long alone and finally, finally found something he’s willing to stay for.

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