thank u for visiting my corner of the internet, i am currently writing for jack abbot/the pitt in general.
i will try keep this updated but here is a list of my jack abbot fics/oneshots/drabbles
most are sign posted with the remevent fluff/smut/anst markers but as a general rule this is a 18 + blog, MDNI please and thank u
fluff - ⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔
angst - 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖
smut - ✧˖°.
What Am I Going To Do With My Sweet Girl ⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔ ; ✧˖°.
a little drabble/blurb about Jack Abbot’s favourite thing in the world, teasing you and making you beg for him.
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lights, camera, action!: ✧˖°.
blurb about reader and jack’s escapades in bed. With filming mini sex tapes being one of their favourite ways to spice things up in the bedroom.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Slurpees, Concussions and All Things Sweet: ⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔. ; ✧˖°.
You’re just trying to get a pre-work coffee at your local gas station to try cheer up your week, but you end up caught in the crosswires of a half assed robbery gone wrong. Luckily for you, theres a silver fox SWAT medic with a sweet habit of flirting.
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taking the reigns - jack abbot:
jack abbot loves his woman, from the moement he met her in the trauma bay full of confidence. jack abbot loves his girl, espcially when she takes the regins in the bedroom
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Then the people must be fed!! All I’ve got is this "quick", sweet and nasty blurb, hope y’all like it<3
Pairing: Rabbot x f!reader
Warnings: stuff in public (yk what i mean. it ain’t sex but it ain’t sfw either), established (secret) relationship, making out like teens, fluff, and Jack is kind of sub cause i know that man is.
“Jack!” you mumbled for the hundredth time under your breath— but the night’s shift attending’s hands continued playing with the hem of your panties.
You just wanted to relax with a couple of coworkers at the bar after a long shift, but apparently, Abbot had other plans.
Whitaker was going on and on about some story from the street crew, and on a normal day, you would have loved hearing all about it, but right now it was like torture… having to stay put and pretend to be retaining even a single word of what came out of Dennis’ mouth while Jack toyed with you was proving to be quite hard.
Just when Abbot’s digits found the damp spot right against your hole, you caught a glance of your savior… or so at least you thought.
“Mike- " you started, only to correct yourself, “Dr. Robby! You should… you should hear this too.”
If either he or Whitaker noticed how breathy your voice was, none of them reacted.
Dennis’ brows raised in confusion at your words.
“He just— Robby loves stories… like this.”
Poor Dennis was all too eager at the discovery; he didn’t even notice the way Robby’s mouth stretched into a smirk as he glanced between you and Jack, or how he purposely chose not to sit on the free chair next to the blonde, but opted to squeeze himself in the booth next to you.
All of a sudden, your idea seemed very dumb.
There you were, sandwiched in between your two very hot attendings… your two very hot, very secret boyfriends.
If it were for them, they would have told anyone with ears about your relationship, even at work… or especially there.
Both had very adamantly expressed their wish to touch you and kiss you like they loved to do wherever they could, ER included— Jack had expressed said wish also because he claimed to be very tired of watching Langdon or Park or Shang or even Ellis check you out and not be able to do or say anything without coming off as a weirdo. Robby never said it out loud, but he also really despised having to listen to surgeons and patients flirt with you and having to keep quiet.
But you knew it was better this way; it’s not like you didn’t wanna yap to whoever would listen about your two sexy, perfect boyfriends, but you knew the consequences… the rumors and voices that would inevitably start to spread were really not something you needed at this point in life.
Which is why your relationship remained a secret— even if they loved to make it one hard to keep.
Michael took one look at what was happening beneath your skirt, and it took all of thirty seconds before you felt his arm slither behind your back, slowly infiltrating underneath your shirt until his warm hands were caressing your back, spreading shivers down your spine.
Just like that, all your dreams of Mike making Abbot behave shattered with a loud crack in your head.
Dennis was completely oblivious, too excited at the prospect of impressing his attendings with his story… poor guy had no idea neither of them were listening to a word he said.
Both men were stroking you slowly and sultily, the heat and scent of them wrapping your body as you lost yourself in the moment… In the way Jack’s fingers kept teasing you, lightly dragging from your inner thighs to your dampening heat, moving up and down as he ever so softly traced your clit— in the way Michael’s big hand softly traced patterns on your back, soothing your overexcited system just to make your heart pick up all over again whenever it ended up on your side and squeezed just enough to remind you who had the upper hand.
The temperature rose, and you were certain everyone could see the heat on your face as you tried to act normal.
Jack and Robby were thoroughly enjoying watching you squirm and bite down desperate little whimpers at their ministrations, barely containing their grins as they nodded at Dennis’ story.
You were just starting to convince yourself you could survive this when Abbot’s fingers materialized underneath your panties, all of a sudden fully exploring your slick folds without a hint of rush, unhurriedly touching your most intimate spot as if you weren’t fully in public.
Your heart was hammering in your chest, your eyes subtly widening, and then… then Jack took it a step too far.
You heard the gasp come out of your mouth before you even realized Jack’s digits had trailed up to your clit.
For a moment, you forgot to pretend as your thighs squeezed shut and you turned to Jack, eyes and mouth wide in shock. He didn’t even try to hide the wolfish grin on his lips.
“Y/n? What happened?”
It was Whitaker's soft, almost scared voice that had you remembering where you were.
You schooled your features to resemble any sort of calm as you turned back to him with a small, awkward smile.
“O-oh nothing— I just… I think I need some air.”
__ __ __
You were outside for no longer than two minutes when Jack and Robby made their way out of the bar, their eyes immidiately catching you as they began to walk in your direction.
“You guys can’t do that.”
They decided to stand not even an inch away from you, you know… like regular coworkers.
“Do what?” Jack grinned, his voice husky as he leaned closer to you, his mouth ghosting your neck.
“You know what,” you murmured, eyes shifting between the two men.
“You liked it.” Robby intervened, his hand moving some hair from your face and lingering on your cheek.
You shook your head, sending them both a glare that promised death.
Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at that, his voice lowering to a murmur as he whispered to your ear, “The proof of it is coating my fingers right now, sweetheart.”
“No need to lie, baby,” Robby cooed, his thumb tracing your cupid’s bow.
“’S ok, I liked it too,” Jack murmured, moving close enough for you to feel the weight of his erection against your skin.
Your breath got stuck in your throat as a whimper fled your mouth.
Jesus, why did they have to be so frustratingly hot?
“People could see us,” you breathed, desperate eyes finding Robby’s for some sort of help.
He usually was the responsible one, but tonight it seemed he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Let them.” Michael’s voice was hoarse, rough with need and lust.
“W-what’s gotten into you two tonight?”
Jack had stopped reining himself in and fallen to the temptation of littering your pretty neck with kisses.
“This skirt…” he explained with a groan, his hand touching the guilty fabric.
“It’s hard to keep our hands to ourselves when you look like this.” Robby chipped in, his eyes making a point of looking up and down your figure appreciatively, before one of his hands traveled to your ass to cop a feel.
You squeaked in surprise, your panties drenched at this point. “G-guys…”
Your eyes darted to the door, the sane part of your brain remembering where you found yourselves.
“Maybe we’re tired of pretending you aren’t ours,” Robby murmured, thumb caressing your cheek.
“Maybe we just wanna let everyone know who you belong to.” Jack agreed, nicking the skin at your neck to emphasize his words.
You had to bite down a moan before you forced Abbot to look you in the eyes, guiding him by his silver curls.
“Is that what this is about?”
“Maybe.” Jack’s answer was sheepish, his sweet eyes honest and kind.
You smiled at the hopeful look in his eyes, a smile that only widened when you saw the matching spark of candidness in Michael’s iris.
“It’s not like you could finger me in public if people knew about us.” You couldn’t help but chuckle softly.
“Mmmh… not so sure about that,” Jack hummed with a boyish grin, before his lips inevitably found yours.
He kissed you as if he’d been waiting to do it all night… and perhaps it was because that was exactly the case.
He grabbed both sides of your face as he pressed himself against you and infiltrated his tongue inside your mouth to taste all of you.
One of your hands was raking through his curls as you enjoyed his mouth on you, while the other fisted Michael’s shirt.
The second Jack leaned away to get some air, Robby was there instead, murmuring, “Jesus, baby, you’re so hot,” before capturing your lips in a deep, searing kiss.
You went back and forth for a few minutes, making out with them one at a time while the other kissed and caressed every inch of skin they could uncover, until you were all blissfully out of breath.
“So— what do you say?” Michael asked, his brows raised in question.
As much as you wanted to give them what they wanted, to make your relationship public, you still needed to ponder through some things.
“I say… I say we need to go home right now.”
Abbot’s lips pulled into a smirk as he whispered: “We could do it right here… let everyone see.”
You ignored his words as you went on, “And then— then we’ll talk about it.”
The hopeful, joyful shock on both men’s faces was absolutely adorable.
“Yeah?” Jack asked breathlessly, not able to hide a huge smile.
“I like that idea.” Robby nodded, squeezing your side with a quick kiss to your cheek.
“Good, now get me home before we end up getting arrested for public indecency.”
a/n: this shit is not proofread at all sorry! welp i can't help but write some soft smut for my favourite er attending what can i say. luv the idea of our fav attending being a bit more on the submissive side hehehe
Dividers: medical themed from @robinavitchslut reblogs from @strangergraphics!
Ohhhhh I just know Abbot loves a woman who takes charge in the bedroom, like genuinely its one of his favourite things ever. Most people seem to build a perception of him, through his stoic, calm leadership and his teasing silly humour, lighting up the ER, parading around with a sense of control that he is heavily admired for, that he is the one that wears the pants in your relationship. Jack Abbot has attitude of pure cockiness and awkward humour that melds to create the charming guy you met on your first day in the PMTC, calling over to you to join in on a trauma case, handing you the reigns to test your capabilities, whilst holding full (unwarranted) faith in your ability to complete the task at hand. Afterward, sweat beading on your hairline, Jack degowned ready to move onto the next case, chuckling and throwing two thumbs up in your direction whilst leaning in a bit too close for it not to be misconstrued as flirting, whispering “good job kid, nice to have another capable pair of hands on the team”. You straighten your back out caught under his lingering gaze completely taken aback as he leaves the trauma bay. Jack has the image of you, clearly internalising the praise burnt in to his memory, noting just how well you respond to quiet assurances. And for you, it’s in that moment you realise two things; you are completely hooked in by your attending of all people; and no one has ever made you feel so confident in yourself like he just did. So it’s no surprise to you really that in the bedroom his charisma and special skill to harbour the most confident version of yourself is unparallel. See, in the bedroom, his silly whit and intensity really just does it for you; you really feel like you can take on the world, especially when he's underneath you.
It’s so intense, you’d be deep in a heavy makeout session on his couch, some would call it juvenile, Abbot sees it as one of the core ways to service your needs, building up to you taking over. You sigh deeply into his lips as he leans on top of you, grabbing at your arms, rubbing up and down tongue finding its way back into your mouth and you can tell by his tell tale sign of a hand moving up a bit higher to run up your neck softly rubbing at your sweetspot under your chin that he wants you to take over a bit more. You are more than happy to oblige, hooking your arms around his back murmuring a sweet “hey baby, mh, lay back for me ok?” between your open mouths and with a sigh he leans back, letting out a deep groan as you maneuver your hips to staddle his and get back to kissing along his jaw and neck. Slowly, you start to grind down onto his hips, circling on them with a meaningful rounding of your hips along his crotch, moaning almost dreamily as you lean down to capture his mouth in a definitively more filthy kiss. No doubt Jack Abbot is not going down without a fight, he slinks one of his devastatingly gorgeous arms around your back, attempting to control the weight and speed of your hips on his core, which you can feel growing harder by the second. But you just smirk into his mouth and inch away just enough to look in his eyes “oh baby; just take it easy honey, we don’t want to rush things just yet hm?” and with that you take your nails and run them down his front and catch on his pecs as he throws his head back groaning filthily and bucking his hips up into you. Smirking you pull his shirt over his head, and without leaving a second too long you do the same to your own. Now wishing there was a way for you to take a mental image so the look of Jack Abbot, the celebrated leader; army medic turned ET attending, completely melting away into a needy mess underneath you as bite at his neck and slither your hands lower sandwiching it between both of your crotches adding just the right amount of pressure onto your clit through your clothes that it drives you mad. Jack Abbot is exactly where he wants to be, pin under the most beautiful girl in the world, massaging her tits between both hands as she coo’s filthy “oh baby’s, just like that - oh yes” in his ear; and yeah, he could come in his pants right now, but he won’t because he loves you, and yeah, he's right where he wants to be right now; well , there is one other place he’d like to be that would make him even happier - inside of you, his beautiful girl.
a bit of a shorter one for today, but i hope you like it! may come back to this at some point and flesh it out a bit more hehehe
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SUMMARY: You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop.
WARNINGS: flirting, mentions of Tom, rimjob discussion (don't ask just read), light talks of anxiety, some swearing
A/N: okay this is kinda like a little filler part of the series, helps with background for part five and also I just feel like it's cute to see them conversing through texts too!! Not only that but I'm aware of how long the chapters for the series are so I thought it would be fun to give you a bit of a breather from my rambling before the next part LOL
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
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SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
Okay, obviously this chapter is very different from the others, it's mainly just a little filler part to break up how bulky the series has become (word count wise) but I also thought it would be so fun to see what' going on in between part 4 and 5!!
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
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Summary: You’re just trying to get a pre-work coffee at your local gas station to try cheer up your week, but you end up caught in the crosswires of a half assed robbery gone wrong. Luckily for you, theres a silver fox SWAT medic with a sweet habit of flirting.
Word Count: 2.6k
Tags: meet cute, f!reader, SWAT!Jack Abbot, guns, minimal violence, medical inacuaries, fluff, no use of y/n, jack abbot is a flirt that won’t quit, but you are too so that is a ok!
A/N: idgaf if SWAT would actually go to the hospital and general hippa/patient ethics, but in my world they do ok? Nice bit of fluff for a change here, and my longest piece heheheh. Also readers job left vague for ur own self insert. Not proofread really - I lowkey kinda hate this, so may come back at some stage and rewrite a bit.
Dividers: medical themed from @robinavitchslut reblogs from @strangergraphics!
For some goddamned reason you always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and today's run of bad luck has you getting caught in the crosswires of a half assed attempt at robbing your local gas station. All you wanted was a shitty coffee as a pre-work pick-me-up, God knows you needed it after a week of hell, why is there so much drama and nonsense for a menial 9 - 5? You’d left your apartment with enough time to swing by the gas station, earphones pumping up-beat beats like it's your walk-out music to a fight in some attempt to energise your day. It wasn’t much use anyways, the coffee machine is acting like it is on its last legs, spluttering out the dark lukewarm liquid, narrowly missing your blouse but getting on your bag and pants, creating dark marks across you. Muttering a quiet “shit” and a dumping of the paper cup in the bin; you scan the rest of the selection of sugar riddled drinks staring back at you. At this rate, the coffee you would have had would have been filled to the brim with sugar and creamer to make it tolerable, so you decide to splurge on a blue slurpee. With a swift pour and luckily no more dots of sugary liquids on your clothes, you take your plastic cup and turn to head to the cash desk; unfortunately for you though, a group of half-ass idiots have decided that your local gas station was the best place to hit on a midweek morning; bursting through the doors abruptly, shouting at everyone in the store to “get your asses down and stay quiet” while storming up to the cash desk.
So yes, now you are stuck, in the middle of a fucking robbery, officially going to be late to work, with a blue slurpee in hand. Taking the orders of the robbers seriously, you’re crouched down behind a shelf trying to hide from the three men in plastic masks ganging up on the poor cashier, shouting at them to hand over the money, guns pointed from every side. It’s terrifying, you can practically feel your pulse in your ears and all you can focus on is your breathing. With all the commotion, you don’t realise the watchout guy has spotted you and another customer, who had called 911 a little bit too loudly, in the corner of the store. In an instant, the watchout guy is looming over, handgun waving all round, spitting “which one of you fuckers just hung up the phone”. Looking up wide eyed and nothing to say in response pure fear coursing through your veins with a gun over your head; before you can muster up the courage to even plea your case of innocence, that you swear you didn’t see or hear anything, you’re landed a swift thud on the side of your head with the gun. Forehead pulsing and a drivel of swearwords exiting your mouth, you cradle your head with your free hand, feeling the blood seep from the fresh wound courtesy of the watchguy, your eyes sweep the rest of the floor; luckily, or unluckily in your case, you seem to be the only one who has sustained any sort of clear injury. But the pulsing in your ear is getting harsher by the second, blood trickling down the side of your face. In an effort to soothe the pain you lay down on the ground and hold your slurpee up to the side of your head - who would have thought it would actually come in handy. From this angle, you can see that the cashier seems to be staving off the robbers fairly well; fumbling with the till, ring leader hovering right behind them, while the rest of the team head in the back, and you can hear the distant rings of police sirens in the background.
With the woosh of the front doors you turn to see a swarm of camo laden men enter the store, surveying the scene and you let out a deep sigh of relief. Once it seems like sweep is over, one of the camo guys crouches down to you, and all of the adrenaline floods your system and you can barely keep the tears at bay and when you go to look at this, my god, gorgeous SWAT guy leaning down asking “Hello, ms, can you hear me? Hello? Ma’am it looks like you’ve been hurt - can I take a look at you? M’ name is Dr. Jack Abbot, I am a TEMS working with the SWAT team here, m’ here to help”. You look up, tears passing the brim of your eyes with a “oh god” and a stream of apologies, cheeks burning with embarrasment as you lay down the slurpee from your forehead and sit up off the ground with the help of someone you might consider the most attractive man you have ever seen looking down on you. Shakily you whisper “um yeah, I think - I mean - I know I erm, got hit with a gun - it really hurts I gotta say” and you laugh because surely there is someone more hurt than you here and you can’t really handle the intense stare from this guy, who’s crouched down shining a light in your eyes seemingly causing you to completely fumble your ability to speak. With a part huff part laugh, he leans over your head chuckling “I’m sure it does - lets get a good look at her now”. And you let out a giggle, a literal giggle and your face goes beet red as his eyebrows shoot up in confusion, and right then you really hope that you have a concussion that can explain away why you are acting like a teenage girl with a schoolyard crush. This day genuinely could not get any worse, late for work, blood trickling down your face and now you’re stumbling over your words because you’ve realised you like a guy in a uniform, or rather, you like the look of this guy in a uniform. Snapping back into reality with the sound of his raspy voice you do realise this day could get worse “Ma’am, it looks like you have a pretty nasty cut on your head and a chance of a concussion; I think we ought to get you to the ER to get you checked over, alight?”. All you can muster up, in an effort to reclaim some kind of dignity, is raise your slurpee with a shaky hand and smile “can I at least bring this with me? It’s what got me into this mess”, he just shakes his head, with a restrained level of affection across his face, gesturing for you to take his hand and stand up. “I’m serious about bringing my drink with me, that's my only condition” and he shoots back “i know you are, that’s why I’m serious about getting you properly checked out, those things are gross, especially when used to ice your damn head”. All you can do is just smile up all bright eyed, and Jack can already feel the clogs turning in his brain, settling on a simmering feeling of affection in the pit of his stomach that he desperately tries to brush off.
Once at the PMTC, on a gurney, which you absolutely think is overkill, but this charming SWAT medic, you think his name is Jack, insisted you get on for insurance sake at the very least. It’s at this point you start to notice that he seems very at home in the building. Following you into the main area greeting doctors, nurses and the likes you lift your head up and turn to him and ask “you come here often?” and you can’t help but cringe at the words that come out of your mouth. But he just seems to pass no judgment, letting out an amused guffed “something like that” as he pushes your gurney along, giving your basic information and stats to the young doctor that slides up beside him, asking if this really is how he spends his day off. You go to take a sip of your drink, which has become some form of an emotional support rather than an actual drink, but you pause and look over again at how in sync this guy is with the ER, slipping in to the consult room standing behind the doctor who introduced herself as Dr.McKay. You know it's a minor injury, so you can’t help but wonder why exactly this SWAT guy, as easy on the eyes as he is, is still here. You reach your hand out with the now lukewarm slurpee in hand towards him, gesturing slightly towards the bin by his side, non-verbally asking him to throw it out - “Can I ask, why exactly are you hanging around?”. With that, Dr.McKay raises an eyebrow over the medic’s shoulder and spouts “fair question” while eyeing him. He seems to think this is the perfect time to turn to you with a shit eating grin “oh I should reintroduce myself, Dr.Jack Abbot, attending physician here on the night shift at PMTC, SWAT medic for the love of the game”. Taken aback, you settle back down onto the gurney, you still have questions “erh, ok, cool, but that doesn’t explain why you’re still here” Dr.McKay swallows a laugh why Jack furrows his brows down at you “What's wrong with wanting to make sure a patient gets the best treatment from my staff”. You just gulp and turn away, slightly embarrassed by the affect this man has on you, with no real retort, you huff and turn your attention to the doctor who begins a neuro exam, whispering, mostly to yourself “well could you do that from the other side of that curtain?”. Ever the gentleman, he pushes back the curtain and slips away, letting Dr.McKay finish off the exam with pleasantries, telling you they will be back in a moment with an update.
With a moment of relative peace and quiet in the ER, you finally check your phone and see several missed calls from your boss, deep sigh aside, you shoot off a quick text that you’ve had an emergency and swear you can explain how you basically became a hostage tomorrow. You really think you’ve got a concussion now, because why are your cheeks warming just at the thought of the hot SWAT medic turn attending physician Dr.Abbot laughing seemingly heartily at your jokes - you absolutely have to tell your best friend about this. You quickly dial up her number and as per usual she picks up within three rings and you immediately start divulging all the details of today, about your shit start, your slurpee, the robbers, and of course, in the most in depth detail about the sexy SWAT guy who, with the aid of a bit of hyperbole, saved your life. You sigh, throwing your head (gently) back onto the gurney exclaiming excitedly “And oh my god - you should see those arms girl, I could hang off them for days. Like it is insane, talk about knight in shining armour, more like silver fox in -”. You‘re interrupted with a cough just beyond the curtain, freezing, muttering to your friend that you’ll call her back and drop your phone on the bed. The curtain is pulled aside and Dr.Abbot steps back inside with a glint of amusement passing over his eyes and his otherwise stoney neutral expression, telling you that CT should be ready to see you soon, once you get a few stitches from McKay who appears from behind him. You are mortified, willing this bed to swallow you whole, you cannot believe he just overheard you call him a silver fucking fox to your best friend. Abbot turns on his heel’s and as if against his better judgement, turns back around, with a slow, flirtatious smirk crawling easily across his face “while I am flattered by the term silver fox, I’m more used to being referred to as the ER cowboy”. The other doctor in the room smirks and tells you not to worry after he leaves, “he isn't called the ER cowboy for no reason” and with a reassuring smile starts tending to stitching up the cut on your forehead.
CT in the all clear, you’re back in your room gathering your stuff to head off back home, waiting for the doctor to come run through your discharge notes. McKay appears back through the curtains, Abbot in tow, to give you a rundown of wound care and follow up appointments for your stitches, but you're barely able to stay concentrated on your instructions, not with Abbot unabashedly allowing his gaze to track over your every move. You’re pulling at your sleeves, fidgeting with your shirt in an attempt to offset just how nervous his stare is making you. Looking up to really try and concentrate, you look up and catch Abbot’s eye, and his smug smirk flickers into a soft smile and with a level of new found confidence, you challenge his stare locking eye contact with him, knowing smiles of a challenge accepted passing between the two of you. Dr.McKay brings you right back down to earth, craning her neck to get your attention, “is that all ok for you ms?” pretty flustered, slightly embarrassed by the fact you may or may not have been caught practically eye fucking her coullegue right in front of her, you smile at her sweetly “oh for sure - I appreciate it thank you” and you grab the instructions from her hands, both doctors let out a huff and a shrug, turning to leave the room. In some sort of desperate attempt to build more material for this little daydream brewing in your head about a knight in SWAT armor, you spurt out “thank you so much f- both of you - for you helping today, I really do appreciate it.” Dr.McKay lets out a genuine smile and hum, seemingly fully understanding that it's really more intended for Abbot, turning fully and heading out the door. Dr. Abbot just stares at you from the door, and ther is a slight shift in his demeanor moving him to a little bashful and shy - the confident, flirty attitude that he seems to wear like armor slipping away “so, um, about that slurpee you -” you cut across him, taking advantage of his shyness to beat him to the chase “what doctor, are you prescribing a slurpee to help with the healing?”. Seemingly not used to being bet to the point in the flirting game, Jack responds with a sarcastic twinge “Well, what I was going to say is you could probably do better than a gas station slurpee; how about a coffee instead? You’ll have that sexy silver fox SWAT guy at your side so chances of a concussion are slim to none” waggling his eyebrows at you, you scoff “Hey! - I did not say that you were sexy”, Jack, recovering from his lapse in confidence, retorts with a “Well silver fox implies sexy in my books”. And with that he slips a piece of paper onto the gurney with a frustratingly collected shrug “if you are feeling up for it, give me a call, no pressure if not”. “And if not?” you smirk over at him, “Then you’ll be missing out on a great follow up session, gotta make sure you’re alright, you know being caught up in a robbery like that is no laughing matter”. “Well if its doctors orders” you giggle, a little less shamefully, and slide the slip of paper into your pocket “-thank you Dr.Abbot”. “Oh, I live to serve” he murmurs as he leaves the room. And you are sure he lives to serve alright; you cannot believe this day went from being the worst day ever to potentially the best days of your life yet, even with a potential concussion.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this heheh, love reading fluff so wanted to try my hand at writing it hehe. Maybe, perchance a part 2 of their first date?
i would LOVEEE to see more of miracle and dana in your little miracle series, dana just gives such motherly and loving vibes
i’m loving this series btw!🤍
Cutie Patootie
(Little Miracle Series request)
jack abbot x nurse!singlemom!reader (ICU)
little miracle series masterlist
a/n: this takes place before your ex attacks you.
summary: you have another day shift but instead of a jail break jack leaves miracle in the ER for a moment while he goes to a meeting. dana puts the little girl to work
tags: sugary sweet tooth rotting fluff
wc: 1.1k
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You had another day shift to cover and this time Jack was watching Miracle. However, just because he was watching her doesn't mean Miracle wouldn't somehow end up in the ER. Abbot was called in by admin and had to go upstairs. He knew Miracle would have more fun in the basement then a polished waiting room with him.
Miracle sits on the computer pretending to type away on the keyboard. "How is my little worker bee doing?" Dana smiles at her.
"Good, Miss Dana." Miracle smiles.
"You all done? Cause I have a big girl job for you. Can you handle it?" She leans on the desk.
"Yes!" Miracle jumps off the chair excitedly.
"We need to go to the rooms and get the patients something to eat because it's lunchtime." Dana takes the little girl's hand and leads her to the food cart.
"We'll go room to room and ask if they want turkey, ham, or cheese. The we'll ask them what they want to drink. Got it?"
Miracle nods. Dana opens the first curtain, "Excuse me, we're just serving lunch right now." She looks to Miracle.
"Turkey, ham, or cheese?" Miracle stands by Dana shyly.
"What a cutie!" The woman smiles, "I think I'll take the turkey please."
"Miracle, ask if she wants a drink. Apple juice, orange juice, or water."
"Do you want apple juice, orange juice, or water?" Miracle gets a little more confident.
"I'll just have a water."
"Perfect. Alright, here is that, can you reach the table." Dana gives Miracle the food to put on the table.
"Uh huh." Miracle stands on her tiptoes and puts the sandwich and juice on the table.
"Good job!" Dana leads her to the next person. "Next time, say 'would you like' instead of 'do you want' It's nicer to say."
"When have you ever said 'would you like?'" McKay snarks as she exits the room Dana stands in front of.
"She has to learn to be nice before the world makes her cruel." Dana mumbles. She then smiles at Miracle to ask for the meal order.
They are almost done when Miracle enters a central room. Her confidence now high enough to enter on her own and speak, "Excuse me?"
"What? What is it? What do you want?" An old man grumbles.
"Mr. Olsen, we were just serving lunch. Would you like anything to eat?"
"I don't want nothing you're serving. I've been here damn near 5 hours."
"We're sorry about that but we urge you to eat something while you wait."
"Well, I don't want anything you're giving." He huffs.
"Alright Mr. Olsen." Dana ushers Miracle out of the room and back to the hub.
"He wasn't very nice." Miracle whispers as they walk.
"Yeah, the hospital isn't fun for most people." Dana explains then her dispatch phone begins to ring, "Why don't you finish your coloring pages at the desk."
"Yes, Miss Dana." Miracle skips back to the desk and digs through her backpack. As Miracle draws, Robby walks over to the desk.
"Hey, Panda. Where's Miss Dana?"
"She's on the phone." Miracle points.
"Hungry? Here, a little cutie for a cutie." He boops her nose.
"Robby," Dana approaches him, "MVA 5 minutes out. 2 major 4 minor and possible head injury. It sounds like a mess."
"Alright, Miracle can you head to the break room with your snack?" Robby asks. She nods and takes her little tangerine down the North hall. Dana watches her go before rounding up and delegating her nurses.
Miracle walks past the station and stops when she sees Mr. Olsen in his room. She looks around then enters the room. "Who is it? What do you want?"
"My name is Miracle." She whispers.
"Mr. Olsen grumbles, "The little lunch lady. I said I don't want anything."
"My mommy says if you don't eat for a long time, you'll get sick."
"I'm already sick," He frowns.
"Then you shouldn't get sicker." She sets her little fruit on the bedside table, "Oranges are good for you." She smiles.
Mr. Olsen can't help but smile in return as she walks away. Miracle then goes to the break room to wait.
After a half hour or so, Dana goes to check on Miracle, "You okay, little cutie."
Miracle nods, "I'm hungry
"That little orange didn't tie you over?" Miracle shakes her head. "Alright, I think there's some goldfish crackers up in this cabinet." She opens the cabinet and takes out a package for her. Miracle opens it as soon as it's in her hands. They then head back to the hub, "I've got to go check on Mr. Olsen, okay? Head back to the desk."
Dana heads back to Mr. Olsen's room and upon entering notices the fresh scent of oranges. She looks at the side table to orange peels, "Oh, so, you've decided to eat something." She checks his vitals on the monitor, "Who gave you the orange?"
"The little lunch lady. She was worried about me not eating." He chuckles, "She's a true nurse, eh?"
"Gotta start'em young." Dana chuckles, "I'll have a doctor check on you soon, Mr. Olsen. Get you outta here as soon as possible." She walks back to the hub.
Miracle hangs on Robby's hip and puts up her coloring page she had been coloring on the pillar. Dana smiles and stands beside them, "Robby, could you or one of your residents please check on Mr. Olsen."
"Uh sure, let's see who that is." He looks at the status board.
"I'll take Miracle." She opens her arms. They trade off and Robby goes to the room. "Miracle, Mr. Olsen told me you looked after him."
"He didn't eat." Miracle fiddles with her fingers.
"I know, I just wanted to say that was really nice of you to give your snack to him."
"Mommy says, nurses always give. And the don't stop trying." She smiles.
"Smart girl." She pats her back.
Abbot returns from admin and smiles at the sight. "Hi Sweetheart."
"Hi," She smiles. Dana hands her off to Abbot.
"How was she?" Abbot asks.
"She's a nurse, alright. When she's older I expect her to be working down here."
"Oh, no if she's down here it's because she's doing her clinical rotation for med school." Abbot objects.
"That's for her to decide but let me just say, your odds are not looking too good." She teases then tickles Miracle's side, "Bye, My Cutie."
"Bye bye Miss Dana." Miracle waves.
"I'll let Robby know you left. We'll see you tonight."
"Miracle waves to the rest of the staff as they head out of the ambulance bay. Dana turns around and looks at the coloring page on the pillar. Her heart swells when she gets a closer look. Miracle had colored the two nurses holding hands to look like herself and Dana. Both of them wearing the nurse's grey scrubs with rainbow belts.
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀᴀꜱʜ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ. dbf!jack abbot/reader. age gap. explicit content. cw for the death of a parent, terminal illness, etc. 90% unedited. i'll revise one day. maybe.
author's note: y'all are gonna like this. hopefully. we're officially four years later, and things are heating up. the plot is plotting. there are more of you every week, and i can't believe how much love this story is getting. i think after this, i'm gonna turn it into a book, because i'm loving writing this so much. querying took all the joy from writing, and i've found it again thanks to YOU GUYS
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Four years later…
Match day is one of the happiest days of your life.
The culmination of all the things you've worked for, fought for, coming together for this one moment. You nailed your interviews, and you had your fair share of prestige across the board. UCLA, Mass Gen, and even Columbia. You were so sure Stanford was the golden goose.
When Pittsburgh called, you never expected it would feel so right. From the moment you walked into PTMC for your interview with the Board of Executives, you decided it was your top choice. Dr. Shamsi seemed pleased with your interest in a surgical elective, and when you mentioned double-boarding in pediatrics and emergency medicine, the committee seemed interested. Dr. Robinavitch, who seemed oddly familiar despite being a total stranger, looked ready to hire you on the spot. You danced in the hallway afterward and called Ashleigh to tell her all about it.
Deciding the trajectory of your career based on a list was a bit daunting at first, but you were confident with listing PTMC as your top choice. And, as it would turn out, there was a spot in their double-boarded accelerated program. Sure, it's five years of residency instead of four, and a surgical elective following your intern year. Lots of sleepless nights are ahead of you, but you're confident you made the right call.
Adorably, your four-year-old siblings handmade cards congratulating you, complete with glitter glue and puffy paint. You cried a little bit when you found them in your mailbox after a gruelling day of classes. Your last rotation in OB wraps up just before graduation this weekend.
It's hard to believe you're done with medical school. No, you're capital-D Done with medical school. All the necessary emphasis and privileges included. You'll introduce yourself with Dr. as the prefix for your name. You've always loathed the fact that women are defined by being married, not married, or whatever secret third thing is covered by Ms. It's archaic, and now you get to revel in the joys of correcting people with actually, it's Doctor.
Your tiny New York apartment, tucked into Hell's Kitchen, is almost completely packed. After growing up with nothing, you've accumulated a decent amount of stuff. Maybe it's an overcorrection, and maybe it's excessive to have more than two pairs of shoes when half your time is spent in scrubs and tennis shoes for comfort purposes. Still, your closet is mostly packed, and your piles of books, like the lost library of Alexandria, are stuffed into boxes.
Despite your insistence that you can handle this yourself, your dad is hiring movers to get you settled in Pittsburgh. One of his friends in real estate is renting you a spacious apartment for a steal. It's at least four hundred square feet bigger than your studio in Manhattan, and under any other circumstances, more than an intern's salary can afford. Part of rebuilding your relationship with your dad has been swallowing your pride enough to let him help you out. You never ask for too much from him, opting for necessity alone, because you're still your mother's daughter. Still trying to earn your way in the world.
Petunia, who's caught a second wind since the tune-up—your dad's phrasing, you'd call it a miraculous resurrection—is garaged in California at your parents' place. It's weird, thinking of Ashleigh as a mother figure when she's only ten years older than you, so while you refer to her and your dad as parents, most of the time, she's more like a cool aunt. Despite the offer to buy you something newer, you put your foot down on keeping Petunia. She's being shipped ahead of your move.
Being an intern sounds like a lot of grunt work and scut, but you're alright with it. You have to start somewhere, and if you want to be half the pediatric trauma physician your mentors are, laying the groundwork starts day one.
Maybe you're crazy for double boarding. You exist in a constant competition with yourself. Some of your more Type-A classmates spent seminars kissing ass and trying to win favor with your professors by showing off their knowledge, but you've never seen the appeal in competing against your peers for the sake of it. You do your best, and let your mind speak for itself.
You're anxious as hell about the new city, the new apartment, the new job, and new people. It's all inevitable, but it doesn't make it easier to stomach. It's not like you're leaving behind close friends in New York. Most of your time has been academically spent, or enduring clinical rotations running on fumes. Even at university mixers or bars, you always felt a little strange, like you never quite fit. Maybe Pittsburgh will be different. Walking around the corridors of PTMC and touring the ER during the afternoon, you felt centered. Almost like coming home.
As you tape your last box closed, you sigh. You'll miss the fire escape for sure. It's very quintessential for a New Yorker to sit on the fire escape and look out at the skyline. You'll miss that, but you look forward to driving again, to having a quieter apartment to retreat to. No more neighbors arguing and sirens blaring and roaches crawling up the pipes. Not to mention the giant subway rats. Seriously, the rodents of NYC are nearly the same size as trash cans.
Two OB shifts to go, then T-minus five days to graduation. In less than a week, you move to Pittsburgh, and a week after that? You're officially an R1 at PTMC. You're packed, you're ready, you're almost a doctor.
Sure, maybe it's not the most mature thing in the world, but fuck it, twenty-five isn't too old for whimsy. You slide around on the hardwood in your socks and do a victory dance, complete with a Breakfast Club fist pump.
You nail your final rotation, get your hair and nails done, find the perfect dress for the ceremony, and graduate from Columbia Med School on a sunny day with honors. Everything is perfect. Normally, you'd be waiting for the other shoe to drop, but four years with your dad, without the fear of going hungry or being homeless or rationing your money to afford textbooks, has made you soft.
Which is why a disaster striking you out of nowhere hits harder than you'd like to admit.
First, your flight is delayed. No big deal, you just divert to Newark to make your destination instead of flying out of JFK. Sure, Jersey is a disgusting place you'd rather not set foot in, but you won't be there for long.
Your new flight is on a plane with no working AC, sitting in coach because you booked it with your own money, despite your dad's offer. By the time you land, sweating like a whore in church, your t-shirt sticky, hair frizzy, you regret all the choices leading up to this moment.
And then Ashleigh calls.
"Hey," you say, as you're waiting for baggage claim.
"Hey," she chirps. You wondered if her personality, all bubbly and smiley, was an act at first, but four years later, she's just as cheerful as she was day one. She's good for your dad, and she's an amazing mom to Stella and Samuel. Being a big sister has been the greatest gift of your life. After a flight from hell, it's exactly what you need.
In the background, you hear your siblings shouting for your attention. All you can do is laugh and tell them you loved the congratulatory cards. They're in your purse because the thought of putting them in boxes made your chest ache.
"No good news in the history of the universe has ever been prefaced with don't freak out," you reply, anxiety twisting your stomach.
"Your dad is in Shanghai for business—"
"I know," you interject. You know, because he left straight from your graduation dinner for an international red eye. Ashleigh and the twins went back to California early the next morning. You'd have flown out to Pittsburgh sooner, or even taken a train, but your car and apartment wouldn't be ready until Thursday, which is why you stayed an extra day in the city. Everything was planned perfectly.
It's almost funny how quickly everything is falling apart.
"The time difference meant he didn't get the call until the next morning, and they're half a day ahead—"
"Ashleigh, what are you saying?"
"Your apartment is being fumigated. Whole building," she replies, clearly reluctant.
You groan. "Are you kidding?"
"It'll be done Monday," she says. "That's when the movers are getting in anyway."
"What about Petunia?"
"Your car will be there on Monday too."
"So I'm in a new city, by myself, with nowhere to go, no place to live, no car—"
"Dad's card is on your Uber if you want to call a cab."
An Uber was already part of the plan. You had it all mapped out in your head. You'd buy an air mattress and stop at the grocery store to get a few essentials. Take a lazy weekend being a doctor, drinking wine, and watching all the Netflix you didn't have time for in med school. "I can get a motel or something, I guess," you say, rubbing your temple. It doesn't slow the stabbing headache boiling in your skull, picking up steam.
You might as well have told Ashleigh you were planning to stay in a cardboard box next to a stinky dude named Curly and his rabid pet raccoon. "A motel? You're a doctor, honey, you shouldn't sleep in a motel."
"I'm a little broke, Ash. Haven't gotten my first meager intern check anyway."
"We can help you." She says your name so affectionately, your heart squeezes. You're so loved. Sometimes you can't believe this is your life, like growing up in a white-trash trailer park, eating day-olds from the gas station was going to last forever. Now you're living the dream.
Theoretically, anyway. Everything going south now is terribly on brand for your life.
Still, you protest. How Shakespearean, the lady doth protest too much, or whatever. "I know, but—"
"Sweetie, we've been over this. We love you. We know you can do it on your own because you have been doing it long enough, but you don't have to. Okay?"
"I know," you say. "And I'm grateful. I just want to feel like I'm doing this myself."
"I know," she says. Then she pauses with a small gasp, like she's suddenly gotten an idea. "You know what? Give me ten minutes."
"Ashleigh—"
"Ten minutes," she says, and then she hangs up. The telltale beeps before the line goes dead are her quick sign-off. Back to you, all by your lonesome.
The carousel you've been watching spins listlessly as luggage rolls in from your flight creaks to a stop. There are two unclaimed bags being loaded on carts by attendants, but nothing new is on the conveyor belt.
` You immediately head to the airline office. "Hey, uh, I didn't get my bag."
The clerk looks like she's seconds from dozing off behind the computer. The vacant look behind every blink makes you wish you could melt into the floor. "Boarding pass?"
You hand it over.
More typing, some heavy sighs.
"All the bags have been retrieved from the plane," she informs you.
"I understand that, but mine isn't there."
"What's your name?"
"It's on the boarding pass."
She scowls at you.
You spell it for her.
"Look, miss—"
"It's actually doctor," you mutter.
"Ma'am," she says, "Your bag seems to have been delayed in transit. It's still in New Jersey."
"You're kidding." You laugh, sounding a bit hysterical. "Are you fucking kidding right now?"
"Don't swear at me," she quips, tapping a sign on the wall with NO PROFANITY OR THREATS TO PERSONNEL TOLERATED stamped under the airline logo in an angry red font.
"I'm sorry," you say, shrinking a bit. "I've had a really crappy day."
"We'll have your bags retrieved tomorrow morning and a voucher for the inconvenience. We'll call you as soon as your luggage is recovered."
You close your eyes, reminding yourself very pointedly that cool, newly minted doctors don't cry in front of strangers on their first day in a brand-new city. "Fine. Okay."
Ashleigh texts a few seconds later, your phone snapping you out of your woe-is-me session.
Ashleigh: Sorry I didn't call back… Sam decided to cut Stella's hair with safety scissors. Whole chunk.
A picture comes along a second later. You snort.
Your dad seemed to think Sam could be trusted with his latest arts and crafts phase, and so his birthday gift was a massive set of art supplies, complete with pastels he shoved up his nose and colored pencils he stabbed into the light socket. You know the little shit is always up to no good. Dennis the Menace, who?
Ashleigh: Jack is picking you up. Said he'd be there in twenty. Wait for him out front.
Your heart falls out of your chest.
Jack.
As in… Jack Abbot?
Oh, the foreshadowing was so obvious, and still you missed it.
Your dad mentioned it, that very first weekend, when you fell halfway in love with his best friend and gave him your virginity, and then were devastated when reality came knocking. "Works in an ER. Pittsburgh," your dad had said. Your perfect memory can recite the words back perfectly, replaying them on a feedback loop. Every conversation is being held up for inspection now. How did you miss something so cosmically huge?
God, his Pittsburgh Pirates t-shirt was another clue! You've looked at that shirt a hundred times and never thought twice. The same shirt he left in your bedroom, the one you could never throw away, the one you still wear to bed, because you're a glutton for punishment.
You try to tell Ashleigh you're fine, happy to Uber, but Jack's already on his way, and you don't have his number. She's smart. She'll know something is up if you freak out on her about Jack, especially because you've kept the secret this long. Everything that happened over the summer four years ago has to stay in the past. You don't want to disappoint your dad, or ruin their friendship, or even think about Jack because thinking about Jack makes you feel—
Like you're tumbling off the edge of the world. In freefall. Only you know for sure no one's waiting to catch you. You're on your own.
Your chest is tight, throat closing up. Black spots crowd your vision at the edges, and you're pretty sure steam is coming out of your ears.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck!
You sniffle, willing the tears back into your eyes. No crying. No panic attacks. Sure, everything is going wrong like you've walked under a hundred ladders and broken ten mirrors and screwed up all your ancestral karma for generations. You've been through worse, so you can't let it get to you, because you always land on your feet. And emergency medicine is chaotic, peds is a mixed bag too. This is all practice, for the real thing, for the rest of your life.
Except Jack is the variable you can't shake off, or account for, or stop to consider.
You head outside with your backpack and your shame, sitting down on a bench to wait. It feels a bit like settling on the chopping block beneath a guillotine. You're looking up at the grey sky, hoping a bolt of lightning smites you out of your misery.
But no, it just opens and releases a torrential downpour of rain.
You realize you probably look like a hysterical nut job as the sky opens with rain above your head. Even for a summer storm, it's cold and unforgiving, plastering your clothes to your skin and giving your hair a striking resemblance to a drowned rat.
You have a backpack, a carry-on, and nothing else. Your missing suitcase is stuck in airport limbo, and everything else about your move to Pittsburgh has become a series of rather unfortunate events. No transportation, none of your boxes, and now, not even a change of shoes. Your airport Crocs definitely don't scream "mature adult," which is the energy you'd prefer to have when it comes to facing Jack Abbot.
You can hold grudges like a champ, obviously. It took your dad a summer to earn forgiveness, and you're still working to forgive your mom for the years of lies and all the time you missed out on. Being a child of divorce isn't for the weak, but you're made of stronger stuff. Columbia was tough, med school kicked your ass, for sure, but you also excelled. You earned your spot at PTMC; you can handle this. It's just a guy. Just a ride to the nearest hotel, since a motel-with-an-m is unacceptable as far as your parents are concerned.
Ashleigh doesn't know better. She and your dad need to stay none the wiser. Everything that happened that summer can stay in the past.
Well, except when you're drunk and lonely with a charged rabbit. You're just a girl, after all, and considering the other men you've been with have been comically disappointing, you're better off solo, with no snoring man without a bed frame beside you. Love life? Good riddance, see you after residency.
You realize you're not sure what kind of car Jack drives anyway, so you stay in the rainstorm, squinting through the downpour with a hand cupped over your eyes. A truck pulls up beside you, but the windows are dark, so you stand for a minute like a video game character idling before a task.
Jack gets out of the truck, and your heart stops.
You're reminded, suddenly, of the first time you saw him. Déjà vu rockets through you as he takes your carry-on (thankfully waterproof) and your backpack (decidedly not). He loads them into the backseat, and you clamber into the shelter of the truck. A security guard walking up and down the sidewalk barks at you to move along. You wrap your arms around yourself, breath caught behind the cage of your gritted teeth.
The driver's door opens. Jack slides back behind the wheel.
Springsteen is on the radio, playing low, the beat of the music almost timed to the rainfall. Another summer. Same Jack.
But you've changed.
"You cold?" he asks.
You shake your head. "Not really. Just wet." Wet. The innuendo isn't lost on you. Once upon a time, that was how he made you feel. Now you're just annoyed. "You didn't have to come get me," you add hastily.
"Ashleigh asked me to. How could I say no?" he replies.
"Could've said you're busy."
He shrugs. "I wasn't."
Silence lapses between you.
"Just take me to a hotel. A cheap one, please."
You might as well be speaking Greek. He repeats the word back to you like it's absurd or a great faux pas. "A hotel?"
"As in an inn, where people stay," you deadpan. "Tourists, usually."
"I know what a hotel is," Jack grunts, exasperated. Good, you're getting a rise out of him. Serves him right, the asshole. "I just don't understand why you need one."
"My apartment was supposed to be ready this afternoon, but now they're saying Monday," you answer.
"And you were standing in the rain because?"
"I didn't know how to get a hold of you. Or what you drive."
"A truck."
"Yeah, I can see that."
He sucks in a breath, stifling a yawn.
"You okay?" you ask.
He sighs, nodding. "Just used to the night shift."
You hate that you feel guilty. It wasn't your decision, and you wouldn't have picked a ride from him in any multiple-choice scenario. Hell, you'd sooner walk. "I didn't wake you up, did I?" you murmur.
"You didn't," he assures you, but you're certain Ashleigh most definitely did. It's nice of him to answer the call after what was probably a long shift, to get out of bed to retrieve you from the airport. Maybe it's guilt, or duty to your dad, or some secret third thing you haven't surmised yet.
"Thanks," you say.
"Ashleigh also said you'd be staying in my guest room."
Your head whips to face him so fast your neck pops. "You're joking."
"I have the room," he responds matter-of-factly. "You're a young woman in a new place."
"I'm moving here." It's not like you're some vulnerable fawn teetering around a forest packed with ravenous lions. You're adaptable, and after living in New York and growing up in a trailer park, you aren't afraid of the boogeyman. You have your wits about you.
"Doesn't change the fact it's a new place, and I'm responsible for you."
"I'm not a child." And you're not responsible for me, you mentally add.
"I know that, Doctor." He tacks the word on at the end, accompanied by a proud smirk. "Congrats by the way."
You resist the urge to scowl at him and pout. Whatever he has to say, you're indifferent. Because you're above letting him know he hurt you. You've evolved to a tough, indifferent woman. Cool girl. Impenetrable.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "So residency, huh? What specialty?"
Medicine is a safe talking point. If you can stay in this territory, you'll be fine. Golden. "I'm double boarding, actually. Pediatrics and emergency medicine. My mentor thought I had a knack for peds trauma. I did two ER rotations."
A quiet smile transforms his face. "And here I thought you wanted to study pathology or oncology."
You're surprised he remembers that, even more so that he's bringing it up. Alluding to that summer, and everything that happened, without saying the quiet parts. "Things change," is all you say.
Suddenly, he looks a bit uneasy. "Which, uh, which program?"
"PTMC," you answer.
His shoulders go rigid, spine ram-rod straight, like his whole body is at attention. "Oh," he says, evenly measured. Giving nothing away, and yet spelling everything out in a silent scream.
"That's your hospital," you realize. "Of course it is." Because why wouldn't it be?
"You'll probably be on days most of the time," he says quickly. "That's with Robby."
Robby? You search your memory, but you didn't meet anyone named Robert on the board of executives. You figure it's gotta be… "Dr. Robinavitch? I interviewed with him."
"He mentioned a double boarder and seemed impressed."
"Guess I interview well." You don't, most of the time. You're anxious and overthink everything, and your mind is always a little scrambled. It's a miracle you charmed them, but that's because your resume and research speak for themselves.
"I'm the primary night shift attending," Jack explains. "There's also Shen, if you'd rather work with him. For your comfort. I don't expect you'll work too many nights your first year, especially with peds in the mix."
Your chest warms, and then you immediately shut it down. It's hard to be mad when he's doing his best to be insufferably likeable. "I can work with whoever just fine. I'm a big girl."
"I didn't say you weren't."
And now you're mad again. It's like he's tied to all of your emotions, pulling the throttle without knowing better. "Whatever gallant chivalry crap you think you owe me, knock it off," you quip. "Seriously."
His patience snaps, finally hitting the breaking point. "Just making conversation with my niece," he shoots back.
"You're so not my uncle." It's a nicer version of what you want to say. Oh yeah, Uncle Jack. Totally cool of you to take my virginity, ruin me for anyone else, and ghost me! Fuck you, Jack, and fuck your 'Uncle' shit too!
"Starting now, I am," he bites back. "Because we work together now, and your dad—"
You roll your eyes. When you were little, your mom said they'd get stuck like that. "Oh, here we go again—"
"You're mouthy, you know that? Where did you get such an attitude?"
"Discovered it being used and discarded," you fire back.
He clenches his jaw. "It wasn't like that."
"How was it then?"
Jack doesn't answer. Instead, he turns up the radio.
"Real mature, Jack."
You decide not to argue further. What would be the point, anyway? He knows what he did. You know enough. He left, and frankly, the thought of hashing it out makes you feel like you're going to cry all over again. You cried enough when it happened, and let yourself feel all the complicated, nasty things tangled up inside of you. Now, you're not giving him more tears.
You've since moved on, first with your study partner in med school, then an attending during your surgical rotation, which taught you that surgeons are giant assholes. Both were older, sure, but then, you've at least come to terms with your type. Your last sorta-boyfriend was a paramedic, who you found out was secretly married after sleeping with him. Since then, you've given up dick for Lent, and then continued your break from men. The way you figure it, you can't be disappointed this way.
You pretend you're not checking hotel room rates and seeing if bundling with Uber saves you any money. The surcharges are insane at this hour, and the math between your meager savings and the flies and dust in your bank account isn't giving you any hope. You're stuck. If you use your dad's card, they'll want to know why you're not staying with Jack, and you don't like spending their money anyway, so the hassle of fielding questions will just make more trouble for you in the long run.
You've resigned yourself to your fate when he pulls into the garage.
"Home sweet home," he remarks, grabbing your bags before you've even gotten out of the car.
Jack's townhouse is a modest three-bedroom. He shows you to the guest room, which sits between the master bedroom and a small home office that's half a gym. No wonder he stays so fit. He's got a treadmill, a rack of weights, and even a Peloton. The yoga mat catches your eye. You took up yoga and Pilates when you moved to the city, rotating classes through a studio near your school.
You'll need to keep up the yoga if you're going to stay zen working in his presence for the next five years of your life.
"This is your space," he says, leaving your suitcase next to the nightstand. "The bathroom's all yours. Got my own next door. You can wash your clothes if you want. The washer and dryer are just off the kitchen. TV's got all the streaming channels or whatever the hell they're called." He waves his hand vaguely. Your lips twitch before you realize you're supposed to be pissed at him.
"I don't have a lot of guests, mostly Robby, when he's had a few, but the sheets are clean," he continues. "And you can help yourself to anything. Is that all you have?" He jerks his chin vaguely at your bag.
"My luggage got lost," you tell him. "They said it would be at the airport tomorrow."
"I'll pick it up on my way home."
You've quickly realized it's pointless to try to argue with him. Maybe this, his hospitality, his generosity, is why you were so blindsided when he left you behind. It's so completely out of character, or maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do. Between the hours you spent with him and your dad's stories, you can't help but think he's a good person who's just fallen on hard times. If you're ever brave enough to ask, maybe he'll even have an explanation for why he left without saying goodbye.
"Listen," he says, clearing his throat. "I got a shift tonight, at seven. Gonna try to sleep a little more before then. Wake me if you need me."
"I won't," you mutter, your voice small.
He nods. "I'll leave a key for you, just in case."
He's gone before you can respond.
You're not usually a napper, but after a hot shower, the exhausting day crashes over you, and sleep pulls you under like a riptide. When you wake up, your mouth feels stale, and the sun is going down. Jack's already left.
The place is sparsely decorated. He's got a flag folded above the fireplace, his medals from the service in a shadow box beside his uniform. A picture of his squad, featuring a thinner version of your dad with all his hair, is framed next to it. There's another photo, a young Jack, a face round with youth, holding a beautiful woman in white.
His wife, you realize. She's beautiful. Of course, she is; you didn't expect anything less. Suddenly, you're noticing the lack of photos of her everywhere else in the apartment. You imagine it's hard for him to look at her smiling face, knowing she's gone. You still can't unpack half the photos of your mom without crying, and memories overwhelm you every time you open your camera roll.
His furniture is all greys and blacks, moody, dark hues. You wouldn't be shocked if he decorated by picking a page out of a furniture magazine and buying everything on it. The warmth of a woman's touch is almost completely absent. A few abstract paintings adorn the walls, and a wilted spider plant is dying in the window.
You don't look in his bedroom. That's a line you can draw for yourself, no matter how nosy you are. As far as Jack Abbot is concerned, all bedrooms are off-limits.
You rub your eyes, shaking off your nap as you wander around. When you finally venture into the kitchen, you find a note on the fridge, with forty bucks in cash folded under the same magnet.
Need to buy groceries. Order something on me. - J
And then, below that, are ten digits. His phone number.
A prickly, hurt part of you resents that he's figured out how to leave a note now. Four years later, he's left you asleep, in his Pirates t-shirt, but at least this time he gave you his number. Free dinner is a step in the right direction. An apology, almost.
You just don't know if you can ever forgive him.
Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!
Also, what if I said I was writing a pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt? should I post it? maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!
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Summary: Just a little blurb about reader and jack’s escapades in bed. With filming mini sex tapes being one of their favourite ways to spice things up in the bedroom.
Wordcount: 800 ~
Tags: Smut 18 + MDNI, sex tapes, dirty talk, pet names, idk its pretty self explanatory, no use of y/n, softdom!abbot, established relationship, freak4freak.
A/N: explicit writing eeeek! Luv the idea of freak4freak gotta meet each other on the same page, implied previous conversations on kink/boundaries etc. Healthy boundaries and communication is important and hot u guys!
Dividers by @strangergraphics!
There is really something about how Abbot loves to film you. He really is obsessed with you, the way you squirm under his gaze, under his touch, and of course under his filthy habit of filming little snippets of your sex life.
You can see it in his eyes, he’d be all sweet and loving on you rubbing down your tits, whispering sweet nothings into your ears as he bites down on your ear and jaw. You’d see the glint in his eyes when you moan a bit louder at the contact of his teeth with your jaw and he pulls back quickly, pushing into you deeply. Without missing a beat or thrust, Jack reaches over you to get his phone from the nightstand, telling his pretty girl to keep going, just like that, with you taking over, rocking your hips up towards Jack with a level of determination you reserve only for the bedroom. He takes his phone in one hand, and drills into you just the way you like it, eyes rolling back and whimpers running out of your mouth. Oh it’s like he is so obsessed with catching you mid orgasm, clawing at him to pay attention to you, but no, he is too busy with his phone,
“Sush, this is for us - for when we aren’t together baby”.
And you stretch more, over exaggerate like the good girl you are, tits up to the camera, desperate for him to tell you how well you are doing, a firm hand landing on the side of your hip, squeezing the soft flesh, half moons from his nails pressing into your skin.
“oh Jackie please, please, oh please - yes!”,
exclaiming as he aids you riding out that wave, thumb of his freehand swirling around your clit, laughing smugly at your desperation. As much as Jack loves to see you like this, his favourite part, to catch on camera, more than your desperate moans or your hips rocking harshly against his, is his ropes hitting your chest with you all blissed out, pussy pulsing from the sudden loss of him inside. He murmurs over and over as he cums -
“oh god yeah, such a pretty girl for me - oh god f-uck”.
He makes damn sure to zoom in on how his cum looks on your plush tits, capturing the obscenity of it all. As you both come down from it all, heavy breathing and deep kisses, Jack puts the phone down beside you turning it off. With one deep kiss on your jaw he tells you that he doesn’t think its possible to love you anymore, telling you in between laboured breaths that your his -
“Sweet, sweet angel, I love you so much baby”
If anyone found out what the two of you got up to in the bedroom, you’d be mortified, you think you’d have to leave the country from embarrassment, but in the moment Jack makes you feel so good, so safe and so loved that you couldn’t care less that he takes out his phone, in fact, you secretly love putting on the performance of a lifetime for him as he shines the camera light in your face. Afterwards, you are lying in bed, water in hand, chest cleaned with the precision only he could have, head on his chest curled in as if you’d die if you didn’t have as much surface area contact between your bodies as possible, asking Jack -
“You would never show anyone these videos would you?”
the post sex clarity and anxiety slowly seeping in. Jack sweeps the messy strands of your hair off your forehead, looking down on you with a level of softness that makes your legs weak. A look of concern washes over his eye, as he pushes those gorgeous, now damp, curls off of his forehead, trying to gauge how serious you are being right now. You know he wouldn’t ever actually do anything with the video or spread it around, but you need to be reassured anyways.
“No sweetness, why would I ever do something so cruel to you?”
And you hum sleepily against his side curled up, and god, you would do anything to stay like this forever. As you sink further into his side, Jack thinks of all the times he’s looked at the select few videos he has of you, tucked away in a private password protected folder, made especially for when your schedules don’t align and god the sound of your moans nearly give him a heart attack with how much it makes him want you. It leaves him counting down the hours until the next time he gets to hear you keen “Jackie” at him again. He sighs in sync with you, wondering what he did to deserve a woman like you in his life, his sweet, sweet girl.
