Jack doesn't check who's calling when he picks up the phone, he already knows. He has a sixth sense about it, can always feel Robby before he's there. Even over the phone, even thousands of miles away, he always knows when it's Robby.
"Hey, sexy," Jack says as he picked up the phone.
Robby sputters out a laugh in that way he does sometimes. It always makes Jack grin.
"Pretty sure that's sexual harassment," Robby says and Jack smiles into the stew he's making.
"We're not at work," Jack points out, sliding the sliced carrots into the crock-pot.
"I'm not sure that's how that works."
"What are you gonna to do, report me?" He's grinning now, not even bothering to keep cooking. Just leans back on the counter and takes a relieved inhale.
"This sounds like the start to a bad porno," Robby laughs, and Jack can hear a car drive by in the distance.
"Guess there's only one way to find out and that's by coming back." They haven't fucked before, but it's always seemed inevitable- the ultimate terminal of their relationship. Eventually they will fall together and never fall back apart. "Where are you?"
"Oklahoma. There's this giant concrete whale in a little pond. Old Route 66 attraction. It's got a baseball hat on."
"Sounds cute." He's happy that Robby's on Route 66. The farther away he is from Head-Smashed-In, the happier Jack will be.
"It's kind of creepy actually- It's got one eye half-closed so it kind of looks like it's leering at you." A pause. "I'm inside of it right now."
"And what are your thoughts in the belly of the whale, Jonah? You regret giving God the run-around yet?"
"Not yet." A pause. "I like it. No one else is here, it's peaceful."
"Sounds nice. I wish I was there." He would go see as many dumb tourist attractions as Robby wanted as long as he knew he was safe.
"I'll bring you a t-shirt." And Jack likes the sound of that. Robby returning to bring him souvenirs from the trip means that Robby is returning. The anxiety in his chest eases a little.
"Get me a magnet, too."
"Demanding," Robby tsks. "Do you even put magnets on your fridge?"
"I will if they're from you." He'd take as much useless shit as Robby would give him as long as it means he's here. "What's next?"
"Museum of Osteology. Probably more Route 66 after that."
"Nerd. You haven’t seen enough bones in your life?" Jack scoffs.
"These are animal bones," Robby explains. Jack doesn’t point out that humans are animals too. "They have a blue whale skeleton."
"I see how it is. You emerge from the belly of the beast and want to see it's corpse hung from the ceiling. Didn't know you were so heartless." Robby laughs again and Jack grins in triumph. "A whale skeleton does sound cool. Get me something from there, too."
"Bossy and greedy, a real winning combination."
"What can I say, I'm a catch." Jack pauses. "I miss you."
"I miss you too. I think this would be more fun with you." It hits Jack square in the chest. Robby, normally so evasive, actually being honest for once. And then: "I mean- really, who's supposed to take my picture with this cement masterpiece?"
"You want me to fly out there to be your camera man?" It's a real offer; Jack would do it, in a heartbeat. He has the time off banked.
"No need for all that. But maybe one day we take a road trip together. They sell these National Park passports."
"Do they now? Sounds like something we need to invest in." A road trip together sounds good. His breath is coming easier than it has since the minute Robby rode off.
"We can argue about what stickers to put in it."
"Oh, there are stickers now? Sounds very official."
"It's how the book's set up." Robby explains. "You get the stamp from the park and there's space for a sticker above it."
"More things for you to buy," Jack points out. "But let's do it. I have very intense sticker preferences, you know."
"You have very intense preferences about everything. You'll probably come back as a ghost to argue about the way we threw your funeral."
"You just want me to haunt you, I can feel it. Can't be without me for a minute, you just gotta drag me back from the dead."
There's a pause. "You've done that for me before. Just trying to return the favor." And then, in typical Robby fashion, he decides to bail when things get a little too close to the truth. "I'm gonna go, I want to get to Oklahoma City before dark."
Jack doesn't mind, he's just happy to have been called at all. "Okay, Jonah. Give the whale a kiss for me before you go." It's utterly unconscious, the way he says the next part. "I love you."
"Love you too." And then Robby's gone. And Jack thinks. Well, at least there's that, sorted. The words are out there now, and miracle of miracles, Robby said them back.
He returns to his cooking, and a minute later his phone buzzes with a message. A picture of the whale, which is very charming, even with it's squinted eye. And then a second picture, of Robby kissing it's cement mouth. Jack grins.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Sammy Bryant being on night patrol around the bars and he keeps running into you and your girlfriends…<3!
mdni 18+
—-
The first time you see him you’re stumbling out of an underground bar, giggling and hanging onto the railing of the stairs and your friend’s arm.
He’s standing at the top of them with a cocky smirk and crossed arms, looking down at you all. When you see him you freeze like kids who got caught sneaking candy, then burst out laughing.
“You ladies have a fun night?” He asks, stepping aside as you come up the stairs, eyes sweeping once over your body, quick enough you probably shouldn’t notice in your drunken state, but you do, and it makes your cheeks pink a little.
“What’s it to ya’ officer….” You smile, hands clamping down on your friend’s arm to steady yourself. “Bryant.”
He chuckles, then shrugs, “nothing, just make sure you all get home safe.” He sends you off with a wink that makes your tummy flutter and your friends have to drag you away, breaking the eye contact you’d been holding with him.
—-
The next time you see him it’s a couple weeks later, you’re outside leaning against the brick wall smoking a cigarette as he approaches you. You smile in recognition, not nearly as drunk this time around and he stops next to you, leaning his side against the wall. “We gotta stop meeting like this.” He chuckles, popping his gum in his mouth as his eyes trail down your body again, this time obviously checking you out.
You giggle and shake your head, stubbing out the smoke and turning to him, “Tell me about it.” You smile, your own eyes taking in his appearance. Your eyes meet his and the tension is so thick you swear you can feel it in the air. Someone calling your name behind you snaps you out of whatever trance he had you in and you look back at them, realizing it’s your friends before looking back at him. “I’ll see you around, officer.” You bite your bottom lip as you turn, heels clicking against the concrete as you walk away and he watches.
—-
The third time you run into him you’re tipsy and in a dress that’s too short. You gasp in recognition as you see him sitting in his cop car across the street, grabbing your friend’s hand and dragging her over.
You practically slam into the poor door as you laugh, “Officer Bryant!” You smile, leaning your forearms against the window and looking at him. He chuckles looking at you, eyes lingering on your dress sits at the top of your thighs. He pops his gum once before jutting his head up, “I like this one.” He smirks, eyes landing on yours once again. He waves his fingers at your friends, “you all behaving tonight?” He flashes that million dollar smile and they all giggle and blush behind you, but his eyes stay trained on yours.
You pout, reaching your hand in and toying with his name badge, “Tell me your first name, you know mine.” He laughs, eyebrows furrowing, “How would I know your name?” You gasp dramatically, stumbling back. “You hear my friends yell it all the time!” You pout. He smiles and shrugs, “Yeah yeah, I guess so.” You smile, crossing your arms and looking at him. “Tell me.” You whine, smiling.
“Twirl.” He says, eyes lingering on your body. You tilt your head a little, “Twirl and I’ll tell ya’.” he smiles, hand tapping the window seal of the car, fingers doing a twirl motion, your friends distracted behind you talking about something.
You smile feeling the heat flush up your neck, tugging down your dress a little before twirling. When you face him again he’s biting his bottom lip, bearing his teeth. “Sammy.” He says softly, eyes flickering across your face.
You smile and nod, proud of your self. Your friends start barking at you to come on, so you lean down, close enough to his face so you can kiss his cheek, which you do, before whispering “Bye sammy, see you around.” Leaving him a blushing mess with a grip so tight around the steering wheel it turns his knuckles white.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
In which you, Spider-Woman, tumble into a Pittsburgh hospital with a katana lodged in your shoulder… only to flirt shamelessly with the very doctor trying to save your life.
The sign catches your eye halfway through swinging between buildings.
SPIDER STOP — AUTHORIZED HERO RECOVERY ENTRANCE
"...Huh."
You let yourself dangle upside down from the edge of the hospital roof, one boot hooked lazily around a strand of web as you squint at the bright blue lettering.
"No way." Your head tilts.
"Since when did this one open?"
Your shoulder pulses and it wasn't a cute little ache. Not an "I'll ice it later" ache. A there is a literal katana sticking through your shoulder kind of ache.
You glance down at the sword jutting clean through your suit.
"Asshole."
Twenty minutes ago you'd been chasing a guy dressed like he'd walked straight out of feudal Japan. Then he'd somehow flipped over your head, muttered something in a language you definitely didn't understand, and—
Shhk. Katana. Shoulder. Very dramatic. Most of all terribly inconvenient.
"Who even carries a sword anymore?" you mutter. "Get with the times. Missiles exist."
You sigh. "Okay..."
You point at the sign. "You win."
The automatic doors slide open and the cold air slices through your mask to hit you. The emergency department is surprisingly calm.
You've been to Spidey Stops before. This one just seemed incredibly...unprepared for the idea of you.
There were nurses moving between stations, monitors beeping, doctors giving report.
You take exactly three steps before your legs decide now is a great time to remember you've lost more blood than you'd like.
Your boot catches the recently mopped floor. "Oh—"
You pinwheel. "No, no, no—"
Your boot squeaks and your legs give out, leaving you flat on your back with a loud thud. You stare at the ceiling trying to reign in your embarrassment.
"...I'm okay!" You squeak as you push yourself up on your hands. You slowly lift your head off the floor.
Every person in the emergency department is staring at you. One nurse still has a clipboard frozen halfway to her chest. Someone drops a pen.
"Hello!" You wave. You try to remember you're a superhero to try and regain dignity but it doesn't work.
You're met with more silence and awkward stares.
You look over your shoulder then back toward the entrance. "...Did I read the sign wrong?"
You awkwardly point behind you.
"I saw 'Spider Stop' and figured... y'know..."
You gesture toward the katana sticking out of your shoulder. "...this."
You forced a smile beneath your mask and gave the room an awkward thumbs-up.
"I can absolutely improvise. No problem!"
Your gloved fingers wrapped around the leather hilt protruding from your shoulder. You braced one boot against the floor, took a slow breath, and muttered to yourself.
"Okay... one... two..."
"Yeah." The voice behind you was low, and terribly calm. A sharp contrast to your own beating heart.
"No."
You froze. "...No?"
Your head turned toward the sound.
A man stepped away from the cluster of doctors surrounding another patient. The conversation behind him continued for another second before quietly fading as the rest of the staff watched him cross the room.
He didn't rush or panic while he moved towards you.
His stride was measured, practiced, the kind of confidence that only came from years of walking through emergency rooms where panic didn't help anyone.
He wore dark scrubs, the sleeves pushed just high enough to reveal strong forearms. His stethoscope bounced lightly against his chest with each step.
He stopped a few feet away. His eyes flicked from your face to the katana, then to your face. Then, finally, to the growing pool of blood beneath your boot.
His jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. "You are not pulling that out."
You blinked. "I've done it before."
He met your gaze without missing a beat. "And today you're not."
He stepped closer now, careful not to crowd you. One hand rested lightly on the hilt, not to remove it, just to stop you from trying.
The gesture surprised you. It was almost too gentle for a doctor with his build and hands. Like he already trusted you'd cooperate if someone simply gave you a reason to.
You understood what it looked like. A superhero most people in Pittsburgh will only really interact with through screens and magazines.
Yet here you were, bleeding and frantic, in the middle of some random ER.
Fuck, this was totally ruining your reputation wasn't it?
"You pull that out," he said evenly, "you'll make my job significantly harder."
You tilted your head at his tone. He was still so calm, it really fucking unsettled you. He finally looked up from the wound and you caught a look.
He had brown eyes. Tired around the edges, but attentive. The kind of eyes that looked at people, not headlines.
"I'm Dr. Jack Abbott."
His gaze dropped back to your shoulder. "And right now, you're my patient."
Your brain completely ignored the sword. You hadn't expected...
He was older than you by a fair amount. Silver threaded through his hair at the temples, softening otherwise sharp features. There were faint lines around his eyes that suggested he smiled more than he let on, though his expression now was all focus.
He's handsome.
The thought arrived so suddenly you almost laughed. There is literally a katana in your shoulder.
His voice pulled you back. He placed a hand behind your back, lifting your arm and laying around his neck while he forced you to lay your weight on him.
"Can you walk?"
You looked up. "Can I web myself there instead?"
He raised one eyebrow, the side of his mouth made an effort to move.
You sighed dramatically. "Yeah, I can walk."
He looked entertained for half a second before deciding against it. It made you irrationally determined to earn a real one.
"So..." you said as he motioned toward a trauma room, "you're seriously not going to ask for a selfie?"
"No." He said it simply.
You were used to people staring. You'd gotten used to cameras pointed at you, crowds gathering after a rescue, kids screaming your name from sidewalks.
These weren't strangers watching a superhero.
These were doctors and nurses who had been halfway through their shifts, exhausted and focused, suddenly watching Spider-Woman casually walk through their ER with a katana sticking out of her shoulder.
A nurse standing beside a computer station had completely stopped typing. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she stared. A paramedic near the ambulance entrance slowly tightened his grip around the walkie in his hand.
One of the residents looked like he was trying very hard to maintain professionalism and failing miserably.
You gave them a small wave. "Hi."
Nobody responded and you looked at Jack.
"Okay, either everyone here is very unfriendly, or I have something on my face."
He turned to look at you, still guiding you gently, his eyes seemed genuinely confused at your lack of urgency before he snorted and looked away.
"Does a mask count?"
You laughed and door slid shut behind you, and the chaos of the emergency department disappeared.
Hospitals never truly became quiet. There was always something underneath the silence, the distant roll of a cart down the hallway, the faint rhythm of a monitor, the muffled voices of nurses moving between patients.
You looked around the room as Jack moved further inside.
The private trauma room was simple. Clean. Practical. Everything designed with a purpose. The counters were spotless, the supplies arranged neatly in their places, the medical equipment positioned exactly where it needed to be.
You watched as he moved around the room, and you realized almost immediately that he carried himself differently than most people you encountered.
He moved like you were just another person who needed help. Not someone who had just dropped into his hospital with a sword through her shoulder.
He crossed the room with steady, practiced movements, opening drawers without hesitation, gathering supplies without needing to search. His hands moved with the kind of confidence that only came from years of repetition.
There was a quietness to him and you so were used to people who moved loudly. Villains who announced themselves. Heroes who made dramatic entrances.
"Be honest." Your voice cut through the quiet room.
Jack stilled slightly. His hands paused for the briefest moment above the tray before continuing their work. The syringe sat carefully between his fingers as he measured the medication, his focus never fully leaving what he was doing.
A quiet hum left him, not quite an answer, more like an acknowledgment that he had heard you.
"You actually calm," you continued, watching the steady movement of his hands, "or are you just really good at pretending to be?"
For a moment, the only sound was the soft click of the syringe being prepared. Then he looked over. That was when he let out a quiet huff of laughter.
Jack looked down, pretending to focus on the syringe in his hands, but there was a faint trace of amusement still there.
You had a feeling he wasn't used to someone calling him out on the little things.
"I'll admit," he said after a moment, his voice softer, "I was a bit starstruck."
That surprised you more than the injury had because Jack Abbott did not seem like someone who got starstruck.
He had walked toward you when everyone else froze. He had looked at Spider-Woman bleeding in the middle of his ER and immediately gone into doctor mode.
But now, as he looked back at you, you could see the honesty in his expression. He wasn't pretending not to recognize you. He just wasn't letting it change how he treated you.
His eyes met yours. Or at least, they met the lenses of your mask.
"But right now I'm trying not to scare the superhero in dire need of some assistance away."
The corner of your mouth lifted. Funnily enough, this man who you had just met already seemed to have you figured out.
Jack glanced toward the injury again, his expression becoming focused. "Pittsburgh would kill me if you died."
Your eyes followed him as he adjusted the stool beside the bed.
The sleeves of his coat shifted slightly with the movement, revealing the strength in his arms, not the kind built for showing off, but the kind built from years of work.
Your gaze moved upward.
His hair was slightly messy in a way that suggested he had been running his hands through it all day without realizing it. Dark curls with subtle hints of silver woven through them.
You wondered when the last time was that he actually stopped long enough to care about how he looked.
Probably not often. Not that he needed it. The man was serious eye candy.
You watched the faint crease between his eyebrows as he concentrated.
It was almost impressive how quickly he could switch between the two.
One second he was standing there, quietly amused by your attitude, and the next his entire world narrowed down to the injury in front of him.
He moved closer, pulling the stool forward until he was at eye level with the wound. The room became smaller somehow, the bright lights above, the sterile smell, the quiet sounds of the hospital beyond the closed door fading into the background.
You watched him work.
"You lost a minimal amount of blood for a wound like this."
You looked down toward your shoulder then back at him. "Don't question my body, doc."
You cracked a smile. "I don't even know it."
For a second, Jack just looked at you quietly processing the fact that this was apparently the type of sentence he was going to hear from you while removing a sword.
Then he shook his head and reached for the anesthetic. You noticed how gentle he became.
His movements slowed, explaining everything through the way he handled you rather than rushing through the process.
A hand steadied your shoulder and the other prepared the medication. "Stay still."
You gave him a look. Through the mask, obviously, somehow he still seemed to understand it.
"I know," you squeak. "I'm just saying, for the record, I'm usually much better behaved."
His eyes flicked up to yours, silencing you. He focused again, carefully injecting the anesthetic around the wound.
The sharp sting made you tense for only a moment. He waited a moment, checking that the medication had taken effect.
Then he looked back at you. "Can you feel this?"
You thought about it while eyeing the man in front of you.
"I feel something, doctor." Your voice dropped slightly, the playful edge obvious even through the mask.
Jack's hands paused. You saw it, of course. You saw it all.
The way his fingers stilled around the equipment. The way his eyes lifted from the wound to you. The way his expression shifted from focused professionalism into something much closer to confusion.
Like he was trying to figure out if he had misunderstood you.
You leaned a little closer, careful not to disturb the sword still lodged between you and a normal evening.
And you'll admit it. This was your honest attempt at flirting. It was something that only came out of you when you were behind a mask.
You usually held back, you usually didn't even mean it, but then you looked at the flustered older man in front of you and bristeled.
For someone who had been so calm since you arrived, he suddenly looked completely unprepared.
His lips parted as if he had an answer ready, but nothing came out.
A quiet cough escaped him, and he looked away for the briefest moment, returning his attention to the supplies in front of him.
"That is not the answer I was looking for."
The corner of your mouth lifted beneath your mask. "It's the answer you got."
You gave a small shrug, like that was the most reasonable explanation in the world. You were trying your best at nonchalantness and didn't want to know if you were any good.
He shook his head faintly then his hands moved to the sword.
Even though you knew the pain would be controlled, even though you trusted him no more than you expected to after knowing him for less than an hour, your body still reacted.
As if noticing your hesitance, Jack eye's snapped to yours.
"Look at me."
You did, and somehow, that helped more than you wanted to admit.
The blade was gone. Just like that, the weight you hadn't realized you were carrying disappeared.
Jack immediately moved to control the wound, already working before you could even process that it was over.
You blinked. "That's it?"
He looked up. "That's it."
The katana clattered softly into the stainless steel tray. Jack didn't spare it a second glance.
He was already pressing fresh gauze over the wound, applying firm, even pressure while watching for any sign of fresh bleeding. His movements remained steady, almost instinctive, as if he'd performed this exact sequence hundreds of times before.
You looked down at the discarded sword.
"...Well." Your shoulders sagged with exaggerated relief.
"I liked it better when it was someone else's problem."
Jack's attention stayed on the bandage. "I'll keep that in mind."
He carefully peeled the blood-soaked gauze away, inspecting the wound before replacing it with clean dressing. Satisfied, he secured everything in place with practiced hands.
"It missed anything major," he said. "You'll be sore for a while, but you're fortunate."
"Story of my life." You huffed.
"You'll need to keep the dressing clean and dry for at least twenty-four hours."
You nodded solemnly. "I can do that."
"No swinging tonight." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Your head snapped toward him. You let out a laugh.
"...Excuse me?"
He leaned back, quirking his brow as he crossed his arms. "No climbing."
You gasped as you layed a hand over your heart.
"You wound me, Dr. Abbot."
"I've already taken care of that." He said it with an easy grin, as if proud of his joke.
You blinked at him twice before doubling over in laugher. "You've been hiding all the good jokes."
He ignored the comment, reaching for a roll of medical tape.
"If the pain gets worse instead of better, you should see someone for it again." He looked you in the eyes and you froze almost instantly. It was as if he knew that you had no intention of after care at all.
"What if I just need a friend?" You tried to joke, tearing your face away from his.
He smoothed the last strip of tape over the bandage, making sure it sat securely before finally taking a small step back to inspect his work.
"I somehow doubt that's why you'd come back."
You tilted your head. "What if I said the doctor here was excellent?"
He smiled again and clicked his tongue as if in deep thought before shrugging. "I'd say that's good for the hospital."
"What if I said he was easy on the eyes?"
His hand stopped halfway to the tray. He looked at you.
There it was again, that wonderfully puzzled expression, like he couldn't decide whether you were serious or simply committed to making every conversation as difficult as possible.
"You've known me for..." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Thirty minutes."
"And?" You snort drawing to your feet, rolling your shoulder in a stretch.
The movement drew Jack's attention immediately. Midway through cleaning up the tray, he looked over, a faint frown settling between his brows as he quietly watched every careful rotation.
He didn't interrupt or rush toward you; he simply observed with the patient focus of someone checking for the smallest sign of pain, strain, or fresh bleeding.
"And that's a very quick assessment." He mumbled.
You shrugged with your uninjured shoulder. "I'm an observant person."
Only when he was satisfied that the dressing hadn't shifted and no new crimson seeped through the white gauze did the crease in his brow ease, and he returned to tidy
"So I've gathered."
He stripped off his gloves with a practiced snap and dropped them into the waste bin. "You should avoid reopening the wound."
"I'll do my best." You try your best to purr it out but you're sure you sound like an idiot.
With Jack's back still to you, you began drifting toward the window, your steps light despite the fresh bandage tugging at your shoulder.
He remained at the counter, methodically sorting instruments and disposing of used supplies, completely absorbed in leaving the room as orderly as he'd found it.
"I'm serious." He says.
You reached the window without a sound, your fingers sliding over the cool metal latch until you found it. A quiet click echoed through the room as you released it, easing the window open just enough for the crisp night air to slip inside.
"So am I." You saw it a bit loudly, attempting to mask the noice under your voice.
He turns to look at you as he leans on the counter. His eyes searched yours through the white lenses of your mask, as though trying to determine whether, for once, you actually meant it.
Apparently deciding you did, he gave a single nod. "Good."
You watched him wash his hands, sleeves pushed to his forearms, methodical as ever. Even something as simple as rinsing off after a procedure looked deliberate.
"You know," you said quietly, "you're really hard to fluster."
He reached for a paper towel, drying his hands before answering. "I don't think that's true."
"Oh?"
He tossed the towel into the trash and finally looked back at you. "I think you just enjoy testing the theory."
A grin spread beneath your mask. "Maybe."
He sighed, though there wasn't much conviction behind it. "I had a feeling."
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. The room settled into a comfortable quiet.
Then Jack picked up the discharge papers from the counter and held them out. Your eyes dropped to the papers in his hand.
A smile tugged beneath your mask.
"...Won't be needing those."
Jack frowned, the papers still held between his fingers. His brows knit together as he looked from the packet to you, already piecing together exactly what you were thinking.
"Don't—"
Before he could finish, you turned, pushed the window the rest of the way open, and let the cool Pittsburgh air rush into the room.
"Spider-Woman." There was just enough exasperation in his voice to make you grin. He cringed at the name escaping his lips as if it was a weird joke he was too old for.
You planted one boot on the windowsill, looking back over your shoulder.
For the first time since you'd crashed into his ER, he looked less like the perfectly composed doctor and more like a man watching his patient make an objectively terrible decision.
His jaw tightened and you gave him a small, almost apologetic shrug.
"I heal fast."
Then, before he could protest again, you fired a web into the night. The line went taut. You stepped off the ledge, disappearing through the open window in one smooth motion.
Hi! Omg. First tumbler Fic. Let me know if I fucked up any formats and give me tips! Thanks.
Robby was still getting back into the swing of things, post sabbatical. Jack watched, amazed as he tried to hit on Noelle and as she let him down gently. Apparently women don't like it if you vanish off the face of the earth for three months. Who would have thought?
Jack whistled as she walked away. "He shoots, he scores!"
Robby wheeled on him. "I didn't say shit when you puked on Julie Matherson's shoes at our first college party."
"Yes, you did. You brought it up to every one of my girlfriends for the next seven years!" It wasn't one of Jack's best moments, okay- sue him. But college is for making mistakes, everyone knows that.
"Oh." Robby slumped into a chair at the hub. "Well you can't blame me. It was funny."
"I still maintain they spiked the punch with ipecac." Ignore the fact that Jack didn't even drink the punch, thank you very much. A man must have his pride.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." Robby shrugged, like an asshole.
Jack wasn't about to take this lying down. "You know who didn't say shit? Me, when you sneezed in Margaret Wheeler's face while trying to kiss her at prom."
"The decorations were dusty!" Robby was blushing, bless him. Jack had missed that blush.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Jack replied with a smirk.
Robby also, apparently, wasn't going to take this lying down. "You’re the one who told Bubbe I broke her favorite lamp when we were nine!"
"She was terrifying! I was trying to save my life." There were many things you could say about Jack, but he always knew when to pick his battles. Being the cause of Bubbe's anger was not a battle he would ever choose to fight.
"She was 67 years old!" Robby scoffed.
Like that meant shit. "You were scared of her too!"
"I respected her. There's a difference." Robby said primly. Jack rolled his eyes. "Besides, she always blamed you for my corruption. I was a perfect angel before you came along."
"Sure, sure. An angel. One who handcuffed me naked to a flag pole during my bachelor party."
"I let you go!" Robby whined.
"We were chased- on foot- by the cops while my dick was flapping around in the breeze!"
"You had fun!" Robby defended, which was true! But also not the point.
"And then you and Tommy Stevens stood outside the window of my hotel room on my wedding night singing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall until four in the morning!"
Robby shrugged. "That was your fault for getting a ground-floor room."
"And then!" Jack continued, really on a roll now. "You stole my car."
"I didn't steal your car!" Robby protested with all the conviction of the wrongfully accused. "Grant Palmer stole your car... I just didn’t stop him. And if you didn't want your car stolen, you shouldn't have dumped an industrial-sized trash can full of water from the roof during his wedding pictures."
"I waited until the pictures were done!"
"You ruined his wife's dress."
"That was Tommy's fault. Tommy was supposed to pull her out of the way; Grant was supposed to be the only one in the line of fire." Grant's wife had never forgiven him. She had only gotten a little wet; saying her dress was ruined was a gross exaggeration. "And I distinctly remember that you were the one helping me hold the trash can."
"That doesn't sound like something I would do," Robby sniffed. "Besides, Sharon thought the whole thing was funny."
"You had Sharon fleeced." Sharon had thought they were so cute, even when Robby was an absolute terror. Did Jack deserve the torture for the many pranks he had played in his younger days? Of course. He still didn't have to like it.
"You’re just mad she liked me more than you." Robby picked up a tablet like he was about to work, the bullshit artist.
"She was my wife! She married me, not you."
"Yeah, because you had better health insurance. Everyone knew she liked me more."
"Wow. You are so delusional." Jack huffed, coming around the desk to shove Robby in his chair. It sent him rolling back a few inches.
Robby didn't acknowledge the shove, just raised a judgmental eyebrow. "Who did she live with during your deployments?"
Neither Robby nor Sharon had been handling his first deployment well, so Jack had suggested they stay together until he came back. He had hoped they would find strength in each other. They had found strength, alright. The strength to team up and make Jack's life a living hell.
"Are you saying you fucked my dead wife?" Jack raised his eyebrow right back, and his voice to go along with it. Robby hadn't actually fucked Sharon, but everyone certainly thought he did. It had made Jack laugh himself silly when he found out.
"She wasn't dead at the time!"
"Oh yeah," Jack scoffed. "Like that makes it better."
"It does, actually." Robby argued, like he had the moral high ground in this conversation. "Necrophilia is a crime. Fucking your best friend's wife is just a dick move."
"So you admit it was a dick move!"
"Well my dick certainly mov-"
"Oh my god!" Trinity groaned. "Just kiss already and stop making your sexual tension everyone else's problem!"
As one, Robby and Jack turned to her. She put on a tough face, but her eyes made it clear that she wished the earth would swallow her whole. Historically, the combined force of Robby and Jack's disappointment had brought even the strongest resident to their knees.
"That is totally inappropriate!" Robby scolded.
"We could go to HR." Jack backed him up.
"We should go to HR!"
"It's sexual harassment!"
"Enough!" Dana yelled, taking her glasses off to point them menacingly in their direction. "We have had enough of the Robby and Jack show!"
"It would be the Jack and Robby Show, if anything," Jack pointed out. "Rolls off the tongue better and we all know who the star is."
"Jacob Christopher Abbot, I know you missed Robby, but if you don't get the hell out of my ER right now, you will regret it. Flirt on your own damn time and stop harassing the children!" Dana's glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Oooh, you got full-named," Robby whisper-taunted like they were back in Mrs. Glenn's 3rd grade classroom: the place they met, the fire they were forged in, for better or for worse.
"I'm leaving, I'm leaving!" Jack put his hands up in surrender. Again, he knew how to pick his battles, and Dana might just be scarier than Bubbe ever was.
"I'll come over when I get off so we can finish the argument," Robby consoled him. And it did console him. Jack had really fucking missed him.
jack fingering you and you moan “oh, your fingers are so fucking big…” while you roll your hips. and he just chuckles low in his chest and grumbles “only one finger baby” curling his digit for emphasis. “you want another, hm? want daddy to stretch you out?”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
jack calling robby 'brother' while robby's thrusting into him,,, 'god, brother, just like that' ,,, n' robby starts going faster,,, 'y'like that? like bein my big brother? lookin after me?' ,,, 'fuckkk'
and he finishes inside him, guilty, and jack is grinning like a madman <3
first pic is how jack abbot looks at you when you’re being bratty in public— he’s so fucking upset he can’t do what he wants to you right now. the second pic is how he looks at you when he’s forcing you to take his cock when you two get back home. he doesn’t care that you moan and whine about him being too rough, he’s already pissed enough that you thought it was okay to act out in public.. so you’re not getting nice jack anymore. he spanks you with the same look on his face too, not caring about your cries.
you tell jack abbot you can’t cum without a vibrator and he proves you wrong. not proofread btw
“i didn’t sit through all those anatomy classes for nothing,” he grumbles, one hand holding your hip and the other keeping his dick in line with your pussy.
“that was what? like fifty years ago?”
he starts shoving himself in before replying, “very funny.”
“ah, ah! i’m—jesus—telling you, jack. it won’t work.”
“you know i have to try, at least once.”
he hasn’t let up on it ever since you told him. you can’t have an orgasm without some sort of toy. of course that simply can’t be true.
he always just assumed it was a preference. the few times you’d slept with him so far, you’d always had a vibrator ready on the nightstand.
“just—let me try, huh?”
there’s a pillow beneath your lower back, and your legs are tensed up around his hips.
“you need to relax, though, honey.”
you exhale a deep breath and nod shakily. “okay, i can try.”
“good, just listen to me. do you feel me here?”
he pushes down on your stomach, just above your pubic bone.
“sort of,” you say to be nice, appreciative of his efforts. you expect him to pull out and give up, suddenly decide you’re not worth the effort.
“okay, tilt your hips up towards the ceiling a little bit. good, hold it right there.”
he rolls his hips back and forward again, dragging against your upper wall and hitting something that makes you yelp.
you slap your hands over your mouth and stare at him with stupid, wide eyes. he ignores you, just keeps rolling his hips up into you with his hand pressing into your stomach.
“good girl, focus.”
one hand leaves your mouth to dig into the linen sheets. expensive sheets. the ones you liked in the store, that jack had to insist you buy.
the other hand stays covering your mouth to keep in all the noises you’d never made before.
“how’s that feeling?”
“pressure—there’s pressure, jack. i don’t know what—”
he shushes you, “you don’t have to do anything, just feel it. feel me taking care of you.”
he runs his big hands up and down your sides, keeping the same rhythm with his thrusts, not speeding up or going harder.
“jack, i think im gonna cum. i’m gonna—oh, jesus christ!”
you sit upwards, instinctively tensing your entire body up. jack pushes you back down with a hand on your chest that moves up to curl around your neck. no pressure, only a firm, reassuring warmth.
your stomach drops into that familiar buzz you thought you could only achieve with a toy.
“c’mon, breathe through it,” he grunts, letting himself go as you clench around him so tight he tips his head back and groans like an animal.
when all is said and done, you’re panting and glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“look at that. didn’t even have to play with her,” he says with a smirk, giving your clit a light slap.
cw: fem!reader, 18+, phone sex (a little dubcon-y but girlie is into it), daddy kink
You’re a little hazy when you wake up. Your lashes stick together, and your lids feel so heavy. The sunlight has only just begun to filter through your curtains, and you can’t quite piece together why you’re awake at this hour.
Until you register your phone ringing.
Now, the list of people able to call you through your sleep focus is very short. Jack is right at the top.
You reach for your phone immediately, but your movements are still rather sluggish. Just before the call is about to go to voicemail, you manage to answer.
“Jackie?” you murmur drowsily, “What’s wrong?”
You hear a faint shifting at the other end of the line and a sigh of relief.
“God, it’s good to hear your voice, baby.”
Jack sounds a little breathless and more tired than you.
You sit up and brush the fine hairs from your forehead, your brows pulled together in worry.
“You okay, Jackie? Bad day?” you ask.
“Something like that, bun. Just finished my shift. I’m in the parking lot right now,” he answers. “Did I wake you? You sound sleepy, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” you insist.
He’s quiet for a second, and you hear another rustling sound.
“Tell me something, bunny,” Jack requests. “Anything. What did you dream about?”
With your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, you hum as you try to remember.
“I don’t know, Jackie,” you admit, “I think you were there. You usually are. In my dreams, I mean. I think we were at the beach… or at a lake?”
You pull the blanket up to your arms. It’s still much too early to think about so much, but if Jack asks, you deliver.
“Sounds nice,” he mumbles. His voice is hoarse, almost rough like sandpaper. “Keep going.”
Something about the way he speaks makes your tummy flutter.
“Well,” you go on, “There were birds. Green ones.”
“Mhm…”
“They kept circling over us. I don’t think I know any green birds.”
“Me neither.”
You hear him shift again, and this time there is another sound. Like… like fabric moving.
You’re about to question this when Jack suddenly groans.
“Keep talkin’, sweet girl,” he croaked.
“Jackie…?”
“Please. Just talk. That’s all I’m askin’.”
His words are followed by a wet, filthy sound.
You immediately feel the pull in your lower tummy as you begin to realise.
“There- we went swimming,” you go on, a little shakily now, “and saw fish. A bunch of ‘em. Little ones, which were— “
Jack moans softly, which makes you press your thighs together.
“Um…” As you grow more flustered, it gets harder to speak. “They were like rainbows, their scales. The sun made them change colours.”
“Uh huh,” Jack mutters, his voice thin and strangled. “Keep goin’, baby. Just a little longer."
You can’t really focus as you hear the way his hand begins to move faster, slick sounds coming out of the speaker of your phone.
“I… uh, we… we… I don’t remember, Jackie.”
“C’mon, bunny,” he encourages, “You can. Use that pretty little head of yours for me. For Daddy, hm?”
Liquid heat collects at the base of your spine, and you sneak a hand down between your thighs, only applying pressure for now. You’re not allowed to touch without him there.
“Daddy, I don’t remember,” you whine.
“Yeah, you do,” he retorts. “Baby, you do. C’mon, talk to me. Help out your Daddy.”
“We- we sat at the shore,” you continue. You weren’t even sure if it was true or just desperation making you invent things now. “And we saw dragonflies. And you held my hand and told me about your day at work. It was… it was a good day, I think.”
“Mhm.” He inhaled sharply, and you heard fabric rustling again. “So close, bunny. Just a little longer. Daddy’s almost done. Oh, fuck.”
You clench around nothing as he curses, all breathy and needy.
“You.. we just kept sitting and talking. You, um, you kissed my cheek. And then you held me.”
The last word has barely left your mouth when a godless noise spills from his mouth.
“Fuck, bunny, yes. Yes, keep talking with that sweet voice of yours. Please, baby.”
“Daddy,” you whimper, your cunt pulsing now. “I don’t remember anything else. Just you and me at the water and the fishies and the dragonflies and—”
You’re interrupted by the deep, throaty moan that claws itself up from his chest only to fall from his lips like a tidal wave.
“Oh, fuck,” Jack gasps. “Yes. That’s my bunny.”
It’s quiet for a moment, only his heavy breathing and your needy little gasps as you rock into your hand, your hips moving almost involuntarily.
It always takes Jack a few seconds to catch his breath when he cums like that.
“Bunny?” he murmurs then.
“Yeah?” you whisper.
“Get that hand off your cunt right now. She’s mine. And I’m coming over right now to take good care of her.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Description: Recently broken up, you end up drunkenly crying from watching teenage girls doing karaoke to sad Olivia Rodrigo songs. Cue your hot attending comforting you, who only hates two things: 1. Incompetence 2. His favorite nurse looking sad
Tags/warnings: idk why i included santos, drinking, r is drunk, age gap (r is in 20’s, abbot is 50), very much flirting, tons of teasing, jack refers to himself as daddy at one point (non sexual context), this man is a sweetie pie, and also as protective as a guard dog, slightly suggestive themes, many OR references, no allusions to r’s gender, petnames: sweetheart
Note: Not my best, but it’s pretty cute. Like you all. My cuties fr.
“I wish I was 13 again,” Santos murmurs, wistfully eyeing the pack of teenage girls who are currently moving in flashes of glitter, dancing uncoordinated steps on the karaoke floor.
You lean back in your seat, watching your friend with curiosity. “Really? Thought you had a dark past,” you playfully whisper the last part, so as to not accidentally trigger a serious conversation. That is not the mood you are in. You are in a floaty wonderland: surrounding loud, chirpy, noises kept at bay — thanks to the long island iced tea you're sipping on.
Trinity finally tears her gaze away, though it's impossible to ignore the delighted, uninhibited singing coming from the other side.
GUESS YOU DIDN'T MEAN WHAT YOU WROTE IN THAT SONG ABOUT MEEEEE….
Before she can expertly dodge your question, everyone — Shen, Walsh, and Mateo — come back with their drinks. You slowly rise to your feet and take a sidestep, so Mateo and Walsh can slip into the booth. Having already been squished enough, you're willing to take only the corner this time.
You settle in again, next to Walsh, the leather under you creaking with every drag of your thighs.
“Are you both always so fun at parties?” Emery sips through a straw, eyes darting between you and Santos.
“This one —” Shen points a thumb at you “— is already uptight as it is. And Santos is just a poor influence. Don't think I've ever seen her smile, actually.”
“Yeah, she only smiles on her day shift when huckle– Dennis gets pissed on. Or, something of the same sorts,” you join in, ignoring the dig at you.
However, everyone's attention is quickly stolen away by the lives of the party again.
‘CAUSE I STILL FUCKING LOVE YOU, BABE OOoooOohhhOOO
You cannot stifle your laughter anymore when Mateo cheers them on, hooting with his palms cupped around his mouth. The best part is that he looks genuine and sincere, rooting for them no hint of mockingness.
Yeah, you wish you could be 13 again.
It's your turn to miserably and longingly watch the teenager birthday party taking its full swing, completely drowning out the overlapping conversations — and petty arguing — of your colleagues.
You smile at one of the young girls on stage, giving her a lazy wave. Suddenly, she's flushing and whispering in her friend's ear, presumably about a “cool adult” that interacted with her. You wish you could tell her that even though you might look the part — the sitcom adult who sits in a booth with a friend group and drinks — your life couldn't be less boring.
You work at the PTMC, go home, watch TV, fall asleep in front of the said TV, and daydream of a certain honey-eyed doctor. Maybe he's your rebound crush after your recent breakup. Not to mention, a deeply inappropriate one, both work and age wise.
Speak of the devil.
Your face snaps up when you hear your name in that low, raspy, voice. You register his face, tired under the dim lights, and his perfect salt & pepper curls frazzled from the ride over. He's in a white t-shirt stretched taut across his pecs, and a simple pair of black jeans. Though, nothing about how he looks is ‘simple.’
“Doctor…” you speak slowly, narrowing your eyes, and making a show of thinking very, very deeply. You snap your fingers in front of your chin, Before pointing your index at him, “aha! Doctor Abbot, attending of the nightcrawlers. What will you drink?”
The corner of his lips quirk up, amused by your liquor-induced playfulness. “Two of whatever you're having,” he replies, smoothly stealing the glass right out of your hands, holding it in front of his eyes to examine the brown liquid.
“Long island?”
“Yep. L-I-I-T, it's pretty L-I-T. Lit. It means cool.”
“I know what lit means.” He takes in your sluggish blinks, the drop in your usually tight shoulders, and the almost giddy smile on your lips. “How many have you had?”
You hold up one digit, wiggling it back and forth for emphasis.
Jack tuts, “L-I-G-H-T-W-E-I-G-H-T”
“F-U-K-C-Y-O-U,” you proudly smile at your mature retort, mind completely unbothered that your mouth just sweared at your boss.
He shakes his head, contemplating if he should tell you that you spelled your insult wrong.
“Jesus…” he watches you carefully for a second, before handing your cocktail back to you. His thick fingers brush against yours, sending a jolt up your arm.
“Jack! Man, we thought you abandoned your children,” Shen exclaims, realising along with everyone the presence of the new arrival, and bringing you out of your head.
“Well, Shen, daddy's gotta come home.”
Daddy.
Well, technically, he is the attending, so he is the daddy. Daddy of the department, daddy of the floor, daddy of your–
Getting a little off-track there.
You clear your throat, trying to push the sinful thoughts away, putting them back in the compartment that only opens itself in sleepless, late, horny, nights.
“Do you wanna sit orrrr…?” Trinity trails off, jutting her chin towards the karaoke stage.
You bring your glass to your lips again, savouring the citrusy taste on your tongue. You expect to hear the scrape of a chair's legs dragged along the floor — Jack, as always, hauling an extra seat to sit at the head of the table. You always thought it was a way to maintain boundaries even outside the workplace, to make sure there's a tangible difference to avoid misuse of power dynamics. Your attending was quite easygoing, as far as bosses went, but that never deterred his ability to be responsible.
Instead, “Yeah, there's some space here.”
You don't realise you're being spoken to, until you look and everyone is staring expectantly at you. “Wha– oh.”
You try to visibly measure the space next to you, barely larger than your hand. You look back up at the towering man, raising his grey brows in impatience.
You move your ass.
As soon as he's shifting next to you, your senses are overwhelmed by his dominating presence. Your entire side is pressed against his. And he must've showered before coming here, because you can smell the soap he must use — cedarwood. You're thankful for the alcohol in your system, calming your nerves enough to not send a body-wide emergency signal.
“So…” you begin, taking in his face, which is so, so close to you. The disco lights of the place dance on his features, and you try not to chase the shine with your fingers.
“Sorry for crashing. Must be a bummer to have your boss here,” he speaks louder than usual, voice trying to carry over the singing, though his attention is on waving over a server.
You wait until Jack orders a whiskey for himself, continuing after the waiter leaves, “oh, you're not a regular boss. You're a cool boss.”
“Yeah? Is it because I yell a lot less than Robby?”
“No.” You lean forward to catch the view of the little pop-stars again. It seems they've moved on from Olivia Rodrigo to…more Olivia Rodrigo. It's a song you've only recently heard — something about higher standards and expectations.
THEY SEEM SO DESPERATE FOR LOVIN’, BUT BABY, I'M NOT…
The loud singing must have called for his attention too, because now he’s focusing intently on the concert since the first time he came here.
NOW I TAKE CAREFUL CONSIDERATIONS
I'M NOT KISSING ANY BOY THAT IS PASSIVE…
His eyebrows draw together in concern, and almost to himself, he murmurs, “they shouldn't be kissing any boys right now.”
“They're 13, grandpa,” your voice snaps his gaze to you again, “kissing at that age is normal.”
“I'm 50. Anyone under 25 is a kid to me. They—” he gestures to the pack, “—are practically toddlers to me.”
“To remind you, you also have staff in their 20’s working for you. We, very much, aren't kids.”
That makes him pause. If you would've blinked, you would've failed to notice how his gaze dropped to your lips for just a second, before flicking up.
The server brings his order, and Jack is quick to take a swig. “That's what I try to remind myself, too.”
“Do you think Stacy would mind if I join them?” you whisper in Jack's ear with the eager expression of a dog waiting for its owner. You're practically vibrating in your seat, knee bouncing from the third drink you definitely should've refused.
But it's not like you're the only one stupidly drunk. Santos and Mateo are at the pool table, losing to strangers. Shen is in a corner on a facetime with his wife — like, just go back home — and Walsh is nowhere to be seen. So, it’s a thing to wonder why you and your senior are still sitting glued together. You are drunk. What reason does the most rational man you know have?
“Who is Stacy?” He shifts, trying to maintain some semblance of a physical distance between you both, but you just end up closing the space again.
“The birthday girl, Dr. Abbot!”
“The 13 year-old on the karaoke with her friends?”
“Yes!”
Jack sighs, “you don't have to exclaim everything, you know.”
“YES, I DO!”
He physically recoils at your sudden raise in pitch. He takes in your erratic energy: the restless leg, the speedy talking, eyes blown wide. His palm slowly reaches out, firmly cupping your knee, bringing the bouncing to a halt. “Okay, exclaim away. But–”
“But?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking the deep breath of a man who wasn't expecting to babysit his drunk colleague today.
“Okay, this time, we let me finish talking. Yeah?” You immediately nod your head. In reality, you have no idea what he just said. You only heard the “yeah?” in his authoritative voice, and agreed.
“I'm very concerned you know her name.”
“Who? Stacy's?”
“Exactly. You're referring to a random teenage girl as if she's a close, personal, friend,” he explains carefully, like he's talking to a child.
“Nooo! She's not a friend, doc.”
“Of course, that would be creep–”
“But I want to be her friend sooo bad,” you whine, staring adoringly at Stacy and friends like they hung the moon. “Just look at them! They did Olivia, moved to Glee's soundtrack, and are now doing Olivia again. They're sooo cool.”
Jack shoots them a quick look and lets out a small huff of laughter when he sees the deep longing in your eyes, a pure look of awe.
He says your name, and your gaze darts straight from the stage, and into his eyes again. It always steals your breath when he calls you by your first name, anchoring you completely to him with just one word. One person should never have so much power.
“I'm cutting you off.”
“What?” Your mouth hangs open, words blurting out from shock, “like, from your life?”
“What? No–” he uses his free hand to pry the drink out of your hand. He lifts the glass, swinging it in front of your eyes, before setting it far on the table. Out of your reach. “From drinking. No more alcohol for you.”
A huge sigh of relief leaves you, and you dramatically clutch your palm to your chest. “That's nice. It would've been hard to work together with beef between us.”
“It's already hard to work with you, sweetheart,” he says under his breath, scanning your face for any signs of distress.
Your brows draw tight in confusion. Huh, what does that mean?
OH BECAUSE MY HEAD IS FULL OF POISON
AND MY HEART IS FULL OF DOUBTS…
The sound of collective cries panics you before you realise sad girl hours have started. You look from Stacy to her other two friends, fortunately not knowing their names. They're clutching the mics tightly enough that you're sure one of them ought to break the device. The singing is a little uneasy on the ears, but you find yourself softly smiling.
Then frowning.
And next you know, your eyes are welling up with tears when the song comes to an end.
IT'LL NEVER BE THE CURE
IT'LL NEVER BE…
Poor girls. They're crying thinking about their eighth grade crush, but they have no idea what's coming for them. One day, they'll be in their 20's and a stupid man with a stupid name will tell them he loves them, and they will believe him, even though he does nothing to prove it. Poor, poor, girls.
You're not sure if it's them you're upset about, since you feel like the only poor, poor person in this entire room.
“Are they okay?” Jack has forgotten his drink, attention fixated on the young girls. His hand unknowingly slides off your knee, hovering near the edge of the table, as if he's about to get up any second. “Why is the girl in the green dress crying? She can't possibly relate to this. Where are their parents?”
“I'm gonna go make sure–” He turns to look at you for assurance, but he sees a fat tear rolling down your flushed cheek. Suddenly, the concern in his eyes is replaced by panic. “Woah, hey, what's wrong? Do you feel dizzy? Overstimulated?”
His head tips down to map your face. You were fine just a few minutes ago. Now, you're tearing up, and your breath is hitching, and his hands are hovering unsurely near your face.
“It's just,” you sniffle, “it's just so…”
“Sad…?” He prompts.
“Yes!” Your eyes flash like he just invented a new word. “Exactly! See, you have the heart of a teenage girl.”
He shakes his head, “I'm 50, but thank you.”
“Why do you tell me you're 50, like 50 times a day? We get it, grandpa.” You sniffle again, trying to look at the stage. But Jack effectively blocks your view with his sturdy frame, instead offering you his handkerchief like some sort of a gentleman from a 60's rom-com.
You wipe your nose in what you hope is in a dignified fashion, barely hiccuping a thank-you to him. “Is it that you forget it too? And you have to keep reminding me so you don't forget it yourself?”
He sighs, finally swiping his thumb under your eye to brush the wetness away.
“Believe me, I try to forget it.”
As if catching up to what he just did, his hands rush towards the safe territory of your upper arms.
You nod thoughtfully, “that makes sense.”
“Yeah?” You watch as hope flickers in his eyes. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, as if contemplating if he should say something. “You understand why?”
“Mhm,” you nod again. “If I was 50, I'd be trying to forget my age too,” you say completely sincerely, eyes swimming with sympathy.
His head falls forward, and his shoulders shake. For a second, your drunk mind makes you believe you made him cry. But when he looks up at you again, he's flashing an amused grin, shaking his head at you.
“Real funny.”
“I wasn't trying to be funny.”
WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND SHE SAID I WAS FINE
BUT EVERY MOVIE THAT I SEE MAKES ME CRYYYyyYY…
Oh, no. When did they start singing this one? It's that song. The one you've had on replay since your breakup, the one you've been singing in showers, in cars, and in the kitchen.
You feel a fresh wave of tears clawing their way up again. Your lower lip juts out in a pout, and you flush in embarrassment when Jack's laugh dies. “I'm fine.”
He gently squeezes your arm, “up.”
Before you have any mind to be confused, your world tilts when you're suddenly hauled off your seat. You sway on your feet for a moment, before Jack steadies you, firmly planting his hands on your elbows.
“Are we finally going to join Stacy?”
“No. Not while you're doing your best impression of a kicked puppy.”
I CAN'T SLEEEEEP
I CAN'T EAAAATTTT
I THINK YOU'RE WHAT'S WRONG WITH MEEEE…
A soft sob escapes your throat. What is wrong with you?
“Nothing. Three-drink-you is just not as fun as two-drink-you,” Jack assures you, his fingers twitching at your elbows without his permission, stuck between staying noble and wiping away the hot tears that are rushing from your ducts again.
Oh. You hadn't realised you'd said that out loud. You can't believe you're breaking down in front of your attending. Because of a breakup song. Because you're drunk. That's, like, top 3 tell-tale signs you need some help. Or, another drink. But you're quite sure that four-drink-you is a horny you, so, maybe not.
The surrounding noises get muffled when Jack spins you around, and starts walking you towards a hushed corner. He swiftly steers you away from any table, chair, or a group of people that comes in your way, before you even register it.
You're disappointed when his hands drop to his own sides, when you're both tucked away in a corner. You look around, and the lights are even dimmer in here, painting everything a dull shade of yellow. There's a door behind you, presumably leading to a bathroom, because you can see the universal signage for a male. Before you can ask Jack to move from here, you notice a lock on the door.
“No one's gonna come here. Talk.”
You clear your throat, managing to speak through your watery throat, “It was just really–”
“Sad? Yes, we covered that,” he catches the sharp edge in his tone, and quickly smoothes it over, gentling himself for you, “but as sensitive as you are, I know that you're not really sobbing because some little girls are crying along to a sad Taylor Swift song.”
“It's Olivia, not Taylor.”
“They're all the same.”
You immediately gasp, narrowing your eyes at his disgusting comment, “I take my words back. You have the heart of a cold, unfeeling, man.”
Jack bites the inside of his cheek to not burst out laughing. “I'm sorry. Will you please tell me why you're worrying yourself over an Olive song?”
“OLIVIA!”
He raises his palms in surrender, but instead of giving up like you'd expect anyone to, he apologises again. Now he's looking at you expectantly, as patient as a saint, and you feel your sob story tumbling out of your mouth.
“I had a break-up recently. And it's,” you click your tongue in frustration, “I don't even miss him. He was a mistake. A big one. But…”
“But?”
You sigh, “I don't know. It's humiliating. Can we go back?”
“What's humiliating?”
You scramble for words but all that comes out is, “this! You! Here!”
“I'm humiliating?”
“Gosh, no. You're– you're not. You're anything but. You're sweet and patient and kind–” you immediately lock your lips when you realise you're verbally fawning over the man in front of you. “That's not what I mean.”
“So, I'm not sweet and patient and kind?” His eyes are crinkling with amusement, and you would want to wipe that smile from his face if it wasn't so goddamn beautiful.
You take a deep breath, “what I am trying to say is, It's humiliating because we work together. You're my senior. Like, super, super senior.”
“And that makes me unempathetic towards one of my staff having a meltdown in a public place?”
“Okay, I think we're throwing the word ‘meltdown’ a little too easy here.”
Jack pretends to ponder for a moment, observant brown eyes scanning your face slow enough to make you squirm. “I think not. Look at yourself.”
You immediately straighten up. “Huh, do I look like a mess?” Your hands rush to your face, trying to harshly rub the messy tears away.
His eyes immediately soften. “No, hey, that's not…You just look so upset is all. Otherwise, you look fine. Good. As always.” He says it like it's obvious, like it's a rule he learned in medical school.
Almost hesitantly, he pries your wrists away from your face, leaving them in his grip, hanging between you both. You have no option but to look straight at him.
“I'm sorry. You've just caught me on a bad day.”
“What do you mean? I'm having a really good time.”
You let out a watery laugh. “You don't have to make me feel better.”
“Gloria is always on my ass about keeping staff happy. Consider this a part of my duty.”
You have a good couple of inches between you, but the distance seems really, really little right now. You're not sure if it's him or you who takes a step closer. Probably you, since his thumb is stroking the side of your wrist, and you're feeling floaty again.
“I'm not sure this is what duty looks like, Jack,” your voice comes out barely more than whisper.
He tuts in disapproval when you use his first time, voice dropping an octave lower. “No, it doesn't. You should be thankful. Robby just yells at people and tells them to pack it up.”
“Don't joke.”
“If I stop joking, I'll have to tell you that you have no reason to cry for a fuckin’ idiot who owned forty different colors of the same polo t-shirt.”
For a second, you're taken back enough to not speak. “How…how do you know that?”
“Used to see him everyday when he would pick you up, remember?” He reminds you as you watch irritation flare up in his eyes, “and he was 20 minutes late. Every single day.”
“20 minutes is not a lot. He was, after all, picking me up.”
“If you're gonna do something, do it right. I wouldn't even be 2 minutes late for someone who spent the entire night working their ass off.”
You downcast your gaze to avoid his sharp eyes. “Shame you're not the one picking me up, then.” You try to play it off as a joke, but it only comes out as wistful.
“Shame,” he murmurs. “So, you don't miss him?”
You shake your head. “No, but it gets lonely.” You sigh before continuing, admitting with a hint of shame, “I like the whole routine — the dates, the places, the high while it lasts.”
“So? Go on a date again.”
“Right,” You laugh in self-deprecation, “It's not like I've queues outside my door, people waiting to take me out.”
“Impossible. Look at you,” he replies, without missing a beat. You examine his face, trying to gauge the intent behind his words. Mindless affirmation or meaningful compliment?
“You're just saying that,” you whisper.
“What reason do I have to lie?”
“Getting me off your hands, and back to your whiskey again.”
His breath mingles with yours when he tips his face forward, gaze locking in on your soft lips. “I'm not so eager to get my hands on whiskey. I've got better things going on for me,” he speaks, voice dropping low and intimate.
“Like me having a meltdown?”
“Like you allowing me to be here for it.”
“Of course. You're sweet and patient and kind.”
“Pray tell. Don't let me stop you from singing my praise.”
“And…calm and funny and…” you pause, trying to even out your shallow breaths, “incredibly, stupidly, frustrating.”
“Careful. Still your attending.” Irony is that right as he's saying it, he's letting go of your wrists to cup your hips instead — long fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt, settling heavy and firm, grounding you in place.
“You're not acting like it.”
He playfully squeezes your hips, “why am i frustrating?”
“Because…sometimes, I come to the shift, and I get to hear from Santos that somebody decided to play the hero and got shot. And I'm obviously never there, because it all happens during the day shift.”
“You worry?”
“You're not a man with ill styling choices. I can worry.”
“As long as you don't cry.”
“Are you one of those people who don't like people crying? You get all awkward and uncomfortable?”
His hand drags up your arm to swipe across your cheekbone, brushing over the dried tears. “I don't like when you cry. It makes me frustrated and insistent.”
“Insistent to do what?”
“To fix whatever caused it. Or whoever.”
Your throat dries up, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “It's not recommended to go causing trouble in the name of nurses.”
“What if it's a pretty nurse?”
Red rushes to your cheeks, and you feel yourself warming up. You urge the alcohol in your system to deliver you courage, but all you feel is like wet noodles in front of him.
“That's not a valid reason,” you murmur.
“My floor, my rules.”
“Careful. Next thing you know, it's 20 missed calls from HR.”
“Shit,” he says, not sounding concerned in the slightest.
You clear your throat, “now that I'm not actively sobbing, we should head back. Somebody will notice we're gone.”
“They're all too busy being idiots. Besides, there's nothing to notice. I'll just tell them–” your eyelids flutter when he lightly blows air into your right eye, “–there was something in your eye.”
“And you were helping me while using your bedroom voice?”
Jack sputters a small laugh, “oh, this is not my bedroom voice.” His hand on your hip moves, leaving a trail of fire up your side, settling high on your waist. “Or my bedroom hands. Or my bedroom acts.”
Your eyes flutter close, and heat melts low in your belly, leaving an ache between your thighs. Your thoughts wander, trying to imagine his ‘bedroom acts.’
You snap your eyes open before your body can take control from you, and start acting on its own accord.
“HR. 20 missed calls,” you breathily say, not sure if it’s him or you you’re trying to remind.
He sighs as he backs away from you, and you feel sharp dissatisfaction at the loss of his burning, comforting touch. He holds his arm out towards the small hallway from where you both entered. “Pretty nurses first.”
I KNOW THAT THE BAR CLOSES AT ELEVENNN
I HOPE YOU NEVER FINISH THAT BEEEERRR…
What do you know? Your colleagues were indeed too busy being idiots to notice any change. You sit in the booth again, next to Jack, watching the girls be happy and bright again.
You on the other hand feel disappointment settling deep in your chest. You're suddenly wishing that you hadn't urged Jack to come back out here. Something could've happened. Something you had been wishing and hoping for. And now you have let the moment pass.
OOOO, ONE NIGHT, I WAS BORED IN BED
AND STALKED YOU ON THE INTERNET…
“So, I'm gonna leave.”
You turn to look at him, trying very hard not to let your dismay show, instead sweetly smiling at him and nodding your head a little too quickly.
A pause.
“You can leave 10 minutes later. I'll be in my truck.”
Your brows snap together in confusion, lips parting to say something, but Jack is already getting up, grabbing his leather jacket from where he kept it in the booth.
“They're idiots, yes, but it's better if they don't see us leaving together.”
You scramble for words but nothing comes out.
‘CUZ I ALWAYS HAD A VISION OF US STANDING LIKE THIS
ALL PRESSED UP IN THE BATHROOM LINE…
“Where will we go?” you dumbly ask.
Jack shrugs, “dates, places, chasing the high while it lasts.”
Your heart leaps out of your ribcage, body unable to do anything but watch his back as he walks towards the door. Your lips open. And close again.
What.
Deep breaths. It’s chill. All good. Just a normal hangout with Dr. Abbot. Surely, nothing will happen.
Fuck.
You give a final glance towards the cheerful trio of girls, a luminous grin finally breaking out on your face.
They'll be okay. So will you.
You take out your phone and tap the screen awake. One minute passed, nine more to go.
KISS MEEE AND I MIIIGHTT
KISS ME AND I MIGHT DROP DEAD.
Sigh…i missed my husband. Now everyone say, “thank you, stacy” and then everyone who liked this, please glaze all over me. Likes, comments especially, and reblogs increase one minute of my lifespan.
jack consistently gets cuteness aggression around you.
you have no idea how often he has to stop himself from rounding the nurses annex and squishing your cheeks together with one big, calloused hand. just squeezing the puffy flesh like his own little stress ball and whispering “you’re so… fuckin’ cute” before dropping his hand and going back to work.
you have no idea that jack pulls you to stand in between his legs at the bar, your back to his chest, in an act of completely innocent adoration. on the bar stool, his knees frame your hips and his one hand drags across the skin tenderly. the other arm wraps around your clavicle, leaning you further back to him. he doesn’t give a shit what robby thinks, he’s passed that point 1 beer ago. so when he drags your earlobe into his mouth, suckling and smiling into your neck when you squeal and giggle and flinch, he can’t help himself when he questions. “so pretty, who’re you this pretty for, huh?”
and friend… you have no idea, the strength jack has to possess when you furrow your eyebrows at one of his commands and tilt your head like a little puppy.
it was a normal shift at ptmc, what jack would always describe as “your usual mix of blood and tissue and coding.” not necessarily a bad shift, in fact quite tame! which is why it’s so confusing that jack is leading you to the bedroom with a slight, sudden push to your back so you stand in the middle of the room. your scrubs still smell like the soft vanilla of your detergent, despite the grime layered on from a 12 hour shift.
jack approaches, his gait swaying as his hands clasp behind his back. he needs to bring back his military training just so he doesn’t completely sink his teeth into you within seconds of getting you alone. facing you, jack tilts his chin up, looking down his nose because he knows it riles you up. “take your panties off.”
a bambi blink, a tilt in your head & a swallow before you lean down. jack watches your every move as you slide your scrubs down, and peel of your panties before handing them to him. fuck.
you think his aggressive cuddles were bad then? how do you explain the deep nose breaths he now takes before speaking? your panties, pastel pink with a little white heart in the center, a lacy little bow around it, has jack’s eyes rolling back.
he isn’t even shameless when he brings them to his nose, a deep inhale as the lace drags against his cheek. it builds in him so quickly his hands shake, “been wanting to get my hands on you alll day. lay down, lemme see those eyes.”
and you have no, fucking idea, how much the love and affection in your eyes drives him insane. god forbid you yawn and apologize mid thrust, his hand might be permanently etched into your throat as he kisses at your face. he can’t help himself, moving to bite at your neck, “my baby, i love you so much.”
