espressheauxs

Latest Posts by espressheauxs

SHES LADY D AS IN LADY DANGER!!!!!!!! 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

She Wants To Move

summary : You weren’t supposed to be at the bar. He wasn’t supposed to notice. But then the bass hit, your dress stuck, and Jack Abbot—forty-something, dog-tagged, black zip-up and ruin in his eyes—started watching you like you were the emergency. One look turns into a dance, a kiss, a cab ride, and a night tangled in heat and restraint. You make him work for it. He’s used to control. But tonight, you’ve got the upper hand—and Jack? Jack’s not sure if he wants to fight it or beg for more.

word count : 5,413

content/warnings : explicit language, intense sexual tension, one extremely hot dance floor encounter, graphic descriptions of oral sex and penetrative sex (couch setting), dominance/submission power play (light), delayed gratification, consent emphasized, Jack Abbot being deeply feral, mutual teasing, grinding, age gap (reader late 20s/Jack late 40s), dirty dancing, emotionally charged eye contact, and one (1) couch that will never recover.

a/n : You need to listen to “She Wants to Move” by N.E.R.D first. I’m serious. It’s hot, throbbing, unapologetic tension—the kind that takes its time before it lets you break. And, it will let the fic come to life.

It starts with bass. Thick, hot, slithering through the air like smoke.

The kind of bass that doesn’t ask permission. It grabs you by the hips and pulls you under. The kind of beat that doesn’t just live in your ears—it makes a home in your bloodstream.

The bar’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies. Dim lighting spills gold and crimson across bare collarbones, button-downs, and sweat-slicked hair. There’s condensation sliding down every glass, heat rising off every inch of the dancefloor, and the scent in the air is some dangerous cocktail of perfume, cologne, and late-night decisions waiting to happen.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not because you’re too good for it—though that’s what you said earlier, in the Uber, arms crossed, jaw set, swearing you were gonna stay thirty minutes max. But because this isn’t your usual Friday. You’ve had the week from hell—coworkers breathing down your neck, your manager “circling back” on every email like a threat, and your ex having the audacity to like your story with the outfit he once said made you look “too much.” Your friends said you needed to blow off some steam.

But you didn’t come here to be watched.

You came to move.

You’re in a backless dress that makes no promises and keeps none. Black, tight, cinched just right. The hem kisses the tops of your thighs when you walk, and clings higher when you dance. Lashes curled to hell, nails done in a color you picked just because it made you feel expensive. You’re not trying to impress anyone—but God, you look like sin.

You’re three drinks in. Gin and lime, no tonic. Lips slick, eyes glossed with a buzz that feels better than clarity. Your best friend is already halfway to hooking up with a guy she said looked like a 'knock-off Timothée Chalamet,’ and you’ve been fending off some finance bro with gelled hair and a chin sharper than his personality.

You keep brushing him off. But he won’t take the hint. He’s standing behind you now, one hand hovering just close enough to make your skin crawl. Not touching. But too close. Like he thinks he owns the space you’re in.

And that’s when he sees you.

Across the bar, tucked near the exit like he’s been trying to leave for twenty minutes but hasn’t moved an inch, there’s a man watching you.

Not watching you like the others are.

Watching like he knows something.

He’s older—late forties, maybe, early fifties if the light hits his jaw right—but it doesn’t age him. It makes him dangerous. A little wrecked, a little unshaven, in a way that says he’s not here for games. Broad shoulders beneath a black zip-up, dog tags under his collar that flash when he turns. His hair’s short, face a little sharp, there’s a tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look lived in. Like he’s been through it and came out the other side still standing.

There’s a drink in his hand he hasn’t touched in ten minutes.

And he’s looking at you like you’ve been looking for a way out.

Not out of the bar.

Out of him—the guy still trying to press his chest to your back. The one talking too close. The one whose hand you moved for the third time.

And Jack?

Jack sees everything.

He sees the flash in your eyes that says you’re about to lose your patience. The way your spine straightens. The quick flick of your wrist when you knock the straw against the side of your glass. He sees the way you dance for yourself—not anyone else—and he sees how your mouth curls when the beat drops, like it’s the only thing tonight that actually touched you right.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t wave.

But he straightens. Watches the way your gaze lifts—like you can feel his attention even from across the bar. And when your eyes finally meet his?

You feel it in your chest like a drop. Like gravity shifting.

You tilt your head. Curious.

He raises one brow. Just barely. An invitation.

And that’s when it hits you:

You want to be seen.

The man behind you leans in again, murmuring something in your ear, too loud and too close. You don’t even listen. You’re already turning, sliding past him with a practiced smile that means nothing.

You walk toward the bar. Your heels bite into the floor with every step, but you don’t flinch. You don’t swerve. Don’t smile too soon. Don’t hurry. You walk like you know what you’re doing. Like you’ve already decided how this ends.

Jack watches you the whole way, one hand still curled around his empty glass, the other flat on the bar like he needs to anchor himself to keep from leaning into you too fast. Because there’s something about the way you move—undeniably hot, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s unbothered. It’s deliberate. It’s yours.

There’s a gap at the bar between him and the next guy down, and you step into it like it’s been there waiting for you.

You don’t look at him right away. You flag the bartender first, ask for another gin and lime with your voice a little hoarse from the music, and only when she nods and turns away do you glance sideways.

He’s still watching.

You raise a brow. “You gonna keep staring or say something?”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wasn’t expecting you to throw the first punch.

“I was trying to decide if you wanted to be interrupted.”

“You decided yes?”

“I decided the guy behind you wasn’t getting the job done.”

You huff a laugh—sharp and surprised. “What gave it away?”

“The way your shoulder tensed when he leaned in. That, and you haven’t smiled much in his direction all night.”

“You’ve been watching me all night?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s heat behind his eyes. “Not all night. Just since you started dancing like the beat owed you something.”

Your drink arrives. You wrap your fingers around the glass, wet with condensation, and raise it to your lips.

“You always this smooth?” you ask, chin tipped toward him now, that spark in your eyes daring him to keep going.

Jack leans in—just slightly, just enough to let the scent of him hit: clean soap, bourbon, faint antiseptic. Something warm and late-night and not meant to be shared.

“Only when it matters,” he says.

You arch a brow, smile tugging at your mouth like a secret. “And this matters?”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Yeah. Think it does.”

You look at him closer now. The stubble at his jaw. The faint scar above his eyebrow. His body language says he’s not on the clock. Not unless it’s for you.

“Rough day at work?” you ask, voice lower now.

Jack nods. “Twelve hours. Four codes. One too young to call it.”

You blink. Not because you’re startled—but because it tells you something.

“You work in a hospital?”

“Emergency department.”

“You a nurse?”

He quirks a brow. “Would that be a problem?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Not even a little.”

He leans in just enough to make your pulse skip. “I’m an attending.”

You raise your glass, lips twitching. “Of course you are.”

He lets the silence stretch. You both sip. The bass is still throbbing, the beat is dirty, sweaty. You let your body move to it, just slightly, hips shifting, lips parted, half-aware of the way his gaze lingers.

“Do you dance?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

You don’t answer with words. You slide one hand lightly across the bar—your knuckles brushing his—and lean in close enough that he can hear you over.

“I’m asking.”

He studies you like a problem he’s already half-solved. Then finishes what’s left in his glass, sets it down with a clink, and says—

“You gonna let me touch you, or are we just flirting for sport?”

Your smile sharpens.

“Try me.”

You don’t ask if he’s coming.

You don’t look back.

You just start walking like you’ve got the devil on a leash and a drink to finish.

You’re halfway to the floor when it happens.

The music dies. A weird second of static. People looking up, confused. And then—

Shake it up Shake it up, girl Shake it—

The opening hits like a slap.

And you smile.

God, this song. You haven’t heard it in years, but it drops into your bloodstream like it belongs there. It’s not a cute track. It’s filthy. Brazen. Throbbing in all the right places. The kind of beat that doesn’t ask you to dance—it drags you into the center and makes you beg for more. Everything thumps. The floor vibrates like a live wire. The crowd shifts to make space for you—not because they’re being polite, but because they feel it. That something’s happening.

You’re not the drunkest girl here.

You’re not the loudest, or the flashiest.

But you’re moving like you know the beat personally. Like it owes you money. Like it’s trying to make you forget someone and failing spectacularly.

She makes me think of lightning in skies (Her name) she’s sexy! How else is God supposed to write

The beat licks your skin like oil on asphalt.

You don’t dance for anyone. Not usually.

But tonight?

Tonight you dance like the floor owes you rent. Hips slow and sharp. Legs steady, knowing full well the hem of your dress is flirting with godlessness. Your arms move lazy, loose, intentional—one above your head, the other trailing a line across your own stomach, like you want to touch you too.

You know he’s behind you before he touches you.

He stands behind you. Close. Just shy of touching. And then, slowly—carefully—his hand finds your hip. It’s not sleazy. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional. He holds you like he’s getting a read on your pulse. Like he wants to know where to put the pressure.

You tip your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Jack,” he says, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “Before you ask.”

You smile. A sharp curve of lip and teeth. “You always this polite when you’re groping strangers?”

He huffs a laugh against your cheek. “If I was groping you, you’d know.”

“Oh? And what’s this, then?” You grind against him once, slow, letting your dress ride up a little.

“Me,” he says, dry as hell, “restraining myself.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and his grip tightens slightly, like the sound caught him off guard. You feel the front of him line up with the back of you. Not gross. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

“You always dance like this?” he asks.

“Only when I like the song.”

Move, she wants to move But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her She wants to move

His hands twitch. Your ass brushes the front of his jeans, and it’s not subtle. He leans in behind you, mouth near your cheek, voice a low rasp against your skin. “You gonna tell me your name, or am I supposed to keep calling you trouble?”

You don’t answer right away. Just keep moving, slow and taunting, grinding back against him until you feel his breath catch.

Then—calm, smooth—you turn your head over your shoulder, lips brushing his jaw as you say it:

“Astrid.”

Jack stills.

Then, voice low and certain: “No, it’s not.”

You glance back at him, one brow raised. “Excuse me?”

He looks amused. “No offense, but that’s a girl who studied abroad, wears linen, says ‘divine’ unironically.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what am I?”

Jack smirks, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows the punchline. “You’re the girl who walked onto the dance floor like she was dragging hell behind her. I don’t know your name yet, but it’s not Astrid.”

You laugh—low, dangerous, curling in your throat.

Then, slow and deliberate, you turn to face him. Your body brushes against his as you do—chest to chest now, sweat-slick skin catching under the low lights. Your fingers trail up the front of his shirt, just enough to remind him who’s been leading.

And you tell him.

Your real name.

No smirk. No shield. Just heat and honesty, dropped between you like a match.

Jack says nothing. Not at first. He just stares at you like you’ve cracked something open in him—and now he can’t look away.

Then:

“There she is.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. “Was she hiding?”

“No,” he says. “Just waiting for the music to be right.”

Mister! Look at your girl, she loves it I can see it in her eyes She hopes this lasts forever

You feel something break. Something good. Something electric.

“Atta girl,” Jack says under his breath.

And you burn. The way he looks at you? Like you’re a fucking sermon in stilettos? It’s worse.

It’s better.

The kiss lands like a blackout.

It doesn’t ask. Doesn’t flirt. It takes.

You feel it in the backs of your knees. In your fingertips. In the hard thump of your heart against his chest. Jack kisses like a man who doesn’t beg for shit—but knows how to ask with his mouth. And when you break—flushed, panting, lip-gloss ruined—you don’t step back.

You grip his zip-up.

Because you want to see what he does next.

He’s breathing heavy. Not winded, just—changed. Like something in him just got rewritten and he’s trying to pretend it didn’t shake him.

Your lips are still hovering near his. You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

He stares.

Eyes sharp. Searching.

Then—voice low, steady—he says:

“Now I’m really fucked.”

You laugh.

Jack grins like he hates that he said it—but not enough to take it back.

(Move, she wants to move) But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her

“I should go,” you murmur, voice unsteady.

“Yeah?” he says, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You don’t move. “I don’t do this,” you add, quieter.

Jack hums. “What’s this?”

“This—floor. Bar. Random men.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m not random.”

You blink. “Aren’t you?”

He tilts his head. “Are you?”

You look at him for a long beat. The song’s still pounding around you, hips still brushing, heat still everywhere. But there’s something sharp in his eyes now. Something that wasn’t there before.

“I don’t make sense, do I?” you ask, not sure why you’re even saying it.

Jack studies you like he’s unwrapping something he shouldn’t touch but can’t stop himself from pulling apart. “No,” he says. “But I’m not here for sense.”

You let that sit. Then, tilting your chin up, you say:

“So what are you here for?”

Jack doesn’t blink. He steps in closer. So close his mouth grazes your cheek when he says it:

“You.”

Somebody get us some water in here ’Cause it’s hot!

Your breath stutters.

He presses his hand flat against your lower back. Doesn’t pull you in. Just holds you there. Anchors you.

His jaw flexes. He looks like he’s trying very, very hard to behave.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Doing what?”

Jack leans in—nose to yours, mouth ghosting your cheek.

“Letting you get in my head.”

You laugh again. But this time it’s softer. More dangerous. He mutters something that sounds like a curse and presses his forehead to yours. You close your eyes.

For a second, it feels like the music vanishes. Like the floor disappears. Like you’re somewhere else—somewhere quieter, somewhere worse.

You open your eyes and he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped. You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there. Breathing the same air. Holding the same pulse.

And then—you move first. You grab his hand.

You don’t look back.

And Jack?

He follows.

Again.

You don’t say a word the entire ride to his apartment.

You sit in the back of the cab like you own it, legs crossed, one arm draped over the seat like you’re posing for a noir film. Your hair’s a mess. Your lipstick’s ruined. And you look like you planned it that way.

Jack doesn’t ask questions. He just stares out the opposite window like he’s trying to breathe through a four-alarm fire.

But his knee’s bouncing.

His jaw’s tight.

And when your heel nudges the inside of his ankle, just light enough to be casual, just sharp enough to be intentional—his entire thigh jerks like he’s been shocked.

You don’t look at him when you say it:

“You gonna survive the ride?”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smile. “Too late.”

The cab stops. You slide out first without waiting, and he throws a couple bills at the driver before catching up, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide just how badly they’re shaking.

You wait by the front door of the building like you live there.

“Top floor,” he mutters, unlocking it.

“Of course it is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “You seem like the type who’d want to be above it all. Elevators. Silence. No neighbors to hear you beg.”

His mouth twitches. “You think I beg?”

You lean in, brushing past him just enough to graze his chest as you step into the elevator. “I think you’ve never had to.”

He follows like gravity. Like hunger.

The elevator ride is silent, but not still.

You feel it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or kneel. You feel it in the breath he lets out when the doors open, and the way his palm flattens against your lower back as he guides you down the hallway—not possessive, not protective—anchored.

He unlocks the door and steps aside, letting you enter first.

You walk in slow.

Deliberate.

Like you’re casing the joint.

“You bring a lot of women back here?” you ask, voice light, almost careless—like the question doesn’t already carry weight.

Jack drops his keys into the bowl by the door with a clatter, the sound sharp against the hush of the apartment. “No.”

You tilt your head, one brow arching. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes then—direct, unreadable, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to give you. “Most don’t make it past the bar.”

You laugh, low and smoky, lips curled around it like the edge of a cigarette. “So I’m special.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. "You’re dangerous."

“I get that a lot,” you murmur, half to yourself, like it’s a warning and a dare all in one.

You drift deeper into the living room, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing along the scarred edge of the coffee table like you’re reading it in braille. There’s no hesitation in your steps—just the kind of quiet certainty that comes from already having imagined this place in some half-formed dream. And now you’re here, seeing if the real thing matches the version you built in your head.

It does, mostly.

The couch is worn but clean, cushions slouched like they’ve weathered more than one exhausted shift. There’s a stack of JAMA journals on the end table, dog-eared and coffee-stained, buried halfway under a trauma manual and what looks like a folded VA benefits packet. An old Army rucksack slouches near the door. One of the kitchen chairs holds a crumpled black scrub top, sleeves still rolled. On the mantle: a coin from a combat medic unit, polished with habit. No pictures, no sentimental clutter—just usefulness, memory, and muscle memory dressed as routine.

It smells like soap and black coffee. Like someone who’s trying. Like someone who didn’t expect company but hasn’t minded the silence until now.

Jack doesn’t follow. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the way you move—like every motion might be a trick wire.

You lower yourself onto the arm of the couch, smooth and casual, one leg crossing over the other with practiced grace. Your heel dangles in the air, catching light as you tilt your head, waiting.

Testing.

“Take your shirt off.”

He blinks, like the words short-circuited something in him. “Excuse me?”

You lean back, spine arching just slightly, mouth curved like sin. “What, shy all of a sudden?”

Jack breathes through his nose—controlled, clipped. “No.”

But he stays exactly where he is. Doesn’t lift a finger.

So you stand. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of your heels against the floor barely audible over the tension winding between you.

You cross the space with the grace of a fuse burning down. Stop just in front of him. Your fingers reach for the hem of his shirt—brush against the warm skin beneath.

Then pause.

You glance up, smile ghosting your lips.

“You want me to say please?”

His voice is low. Rough. All gravel and gasoline.

“Wouldn’t kill you."

You smile. “No. But it might ruin the fun.”

You trail your fingers just under the fabric, brushing the bare skin of his stomach. His abs tighten.

Then you back away.

And he follows.

God, he follows.

You circle the couch, slow and predatory, every step measured. Jack shadows you without hesitation, his gait looser, rougher—controlled chaos barely held in check. You feel it behind you, the tension, the heat, the way the air stretches thin and electric between your bodies. Like a wire dipped in oil, ready to catch flame.

Then—his hand closes around your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle. Just decisive. A touch that says enough without raising its voice.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not teasing,” you murmur, voice slick with heat and intent. “I’m building tension.”

Jack pulls you flush against him, the heat of his body undeniable. His breath ghosts your jaw before his lips do, and when he speaks, it’s a growl under his breath.

“You planning to snap it?”

You smirk, tilting your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Eventually.”

He kisses you—hard, sudden, like he’s trying to reclaim ground he never owned. It’s messy. Hungry. All teeth and tongue and something older than want. His hands slide up your sides, slow at first, then firmer, more sure—fingertips skimming under the edge of your bra just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

But then you push him off.

Just a few inches. Just enough to break the kiss.

To remind him—you’re still calling the shots.

“Not yet.”

He blinks. Dazed. Breathless.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You reach up, slow and certain, fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands at his hairline. You brush it back from his forehead like it’s nothing—like it’s everything—and watch the way his breath hitches, how his eyes stay locked on yours even when they flicker like a flame in wind.

“You’re used to being the one who calls the shots, huh?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you—like he’s not sure whether to pull you under or fall at your feet. Like he wants to ruin you and worship you in the same breath.

“I’m used to getting what I want,” he says finally, voice low and raw.

You don’t blink.

You lean in. “And what do you want right now?”

He swallows hard. “You.”

You hum. “Say please.”

Jack closes his eyes. Jaw clenched.

You wait.

And wait.

Then—

“Please.”

You grin.

“There he is.”

You push him onto the couch and straddle him, grinding down slow. He groans, head tipping back, hands clutching the fabric of the cushion like he’s going to tear it in half.

“Can I touch you?” he pants.

“Not yet.”

He curses under his breath.

You lean down and whisper, “But soon.”

You kiss him again—messy now, deep and open-mouthed, your teeth catching on his lower lip. He groans into it, hands flexing at his sides like it’s taking everything he has not to touch you.

You slide down his body slow, lips dragging over his neck, collarbone, chest. You unbutton his shirt halfway just to make room, push the fabric aside. He’s warm under your mouth. Tense.

When you sink to your knees, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, already wrecked.

You glance up, smirk tugging at your lips. “Breathe, Jack.”

But he can’t—not really. Not when you’re undoing his belt, not when your fingers slip inside the waistband of his jeans. He lifts his hips without being asked, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy and untrustworthy all at once.

And when you free him—thick, flushed, already leaking—his jaw drops open, like the sound he makes gets lost somewhere in his chest.

You drag your tongue up the underside of him once. Light. Teasing.

He shudders.

You hum like you’re tasting something expensive. “Is this something that you want?”

He nods, but it’s not enough.

You look up. “Use your words.”

His voice is hoarse. “Yes. Please.”

So you give it to him.

You take him in slow, the kind of slow that ruins men. Hollow cheeks, wet lips, just enough pressure to make him twitch.

You don’t break eye contact when you take him in your mouth.

Not once.

Jack’s head tips back with a groan, low and guttural, like he’s trying to stop himself from unraveling. One hand curls into the couch cushion behind him, the other hovers mid-air, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know where to put it.

He’s trying so hard not to touch you.

Trying to be good.

And you love that.

“Jesus,” he rasps, the word punched out of him. “Fuck, you—”

You pull off suddenly, lips wet, breath steady, and just smile.

“Still think I’m dangerous?” you ask sweetly.

“Worse,” he mutters. “You’re fucking lethal.”

You run your thumb along his slick length. His whole body tenses like you’ve rewired his nervous system. Your lips are swollen, chin slick, breath steady only because you’ve trained it to be. Jack’s a fucking mess—his head tipped back, chest rising like he’s trying not to lose control of every muscle group at once. His shirt’s halfway open, clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Good.

You lick your lips and sit back on your heels, slow. Measured. In control. Until your voice cuts through the air like a match to gasoline:

“All right, Doc.”

He looks down at you—lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. Dazed. Wrecked. Like he can barely focus through the aftershocks.

You tilt your head. Smile like a loaded gun.

“You earned it.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares. Breath shallow. Jaw clenched. And then it hits him—what you mean. Something flickers behind his eyes. That clean, military stillness, the ER control—it burns off like vapor. What’s left is heat. Dark. Focused. Dangerous.

He moves like a lit fuse—controlled, lethal, immediate.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, rasped, already rising like the question doesn’t matter.

You nod once, slow. Deliberate.

“Don’t go easy.”

He doesn’t.

Jack grabs you with both hands—one under your thighs, the other cradling the back of your neck—and lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. He drops you onto the couch with a roughness that makes your breath catch, not cruel, but deliberate. Like he’s finally been unshackled.

“You tease me like that,” he says, peeling your jeans down with sharp, practiced motions, “and think I’m gonna be gentle?”

You’re already gasping when he drags your underwear down and parts your legs. His thumb presses against your inner thigh like a hold order. His eyes—fuck—they’re so locked in it’s like he’s triaging you.

“Jesus,” he mutters when he gets a full look at you. “Dripping.”

You tilt your hips forward, inviting. “Guess you made an impression.”

Jack growls.

Actually growls.

He drops to his knees between your thighs, grabbing your ass and pulling you forward like he’s anchoring you. You barely manage to exhale before his mouth is on you—hot, devastating, tongue working you open like he’s angry about it.

You gasp, loud, your hand shooting out to grip the armrest. “Jack—fuck—Jack—”

He doesn’t stop.

He devours. Moans into it like you taste better than anything he’s had in years, and every flick of his tongue feels designed. Precision-trained. Weaponized. You grind against his face, and he lets you, lets you lose the last of your power because he wants it.

When he pulls away, your thighs are shaking. His mouth is wet. And his voice is wrecked:

“Still feel like running the show?”

You stare down at him, breathless—lips parted, chest rising fast. “No.”

Jack moves without a word, the shift in him absolute. He pulls the condom from his back pocket, movements sharp, assured. The foil tears with a sound that feels like a warning.

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your waist and flips you, quick and certain—like instinct. The cushions press against your chest as your knees sink into the couch, legs spread, back arched. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—just the give of the cushions beneath you and the way he holds you there, open. Offered. Ready.

His hands grip your hips, anchoring.

He leans in, breath hot against your shoulder.

“This okay?”

“Yes,” you gasp, already shaking.

He squeezes, hard enough to ground you. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, Jack, please—”

He slides in with a brutal, delicious thrust that knocks the breath clean out of you.

“Holy—fuck—”

Jack doesn’t ease in. He’s slow for maybe one, maybe two strokes, just long enough to feel you clench around him—and then he lets go.

He grabs your hips and he slams into you again and again, groaning low in his throat like he’s been holding this in for years.

“You feel what you did to me?” he pants, one hand sliding up your back, gripping your shoulder as he fucks you like he’s chasing something.

You moan into the cushions. “Yes—yes—fuck, Jack—”

“Losing it in my own damn apartment, couldn’t even breathe—and you just smiled. You think I wasn’t gonna make you pay for that?”

He hits deeper. Harder.

Your back arches, your nails digging into the upholstery, every nerve ending lit up like a switchboard.

He leans over you, one hand sliding under to toy with your clit, the other braced at your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“Come for me,” he growls into your ear. “Let me have it.”

You fall apart with a gasp so loud it rips straight through you. You convulse around him, hips bucking, whole body shaking as the orgasm slams into you with no warning, no mercy.

Jack fucks you through it—grunting, holding you tight—and then he’s gone too, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, voice low and ragged like gravel dragged across pavement.

When he finally stills, he stays there—pressed against you, catching his breath, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other braced on the back of the couch.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

And then, low, lazy:

“You always give control up that easy?” he mutters, voice rough—still wrecked from it.

You laugh, breath catching on the inhale.

“That wasn’t easy.”

Jack kisses your shoulder, mouth warm, open. “No?”

You shift back against him, ass brushing his thigh, grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“That was me returning the favor.”

He laughs—low, broken, completely unrepentant.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice all gravel and smoke.

“I’m screwed now, huh?” you breathe.

Jack drags you into his lap like gravity’s got a grudge. Like the space between you was never meant to exist. The couch creaks under the shift, one cushion dipping low beneath his weight, the other barely holding you up—like even the furniture knows how close this is to collapse.

His hand slides around your waist, anchoring you there, and he leans in—breath warm at your temple, mouth brushing skin like it’s a promise.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and wrecked. “You have no idea.”

Why are you single

I literally don’t leave my house and I don’t talk either

I love black trans people!!!

robby after you smack his ass: hopefully he’s not drinking anything, or else he’ll choke. he’s a little stunned but laughs it off after a few seconds with a red face and shake of his head. man, you’re trouble… but he loves it

abbot after you smack his ass: stops whatever he’s doing to compute what’s just happened. thinks for a total of ten seconds before turning to you with an expression you can’t read. a few minutes later, you’re bent over his knee. ass bare and sore even though he rubs it before and after each smack. you jolt every time he cracks his palm to one of your cheeks but he shrugs it off with an unbothered shrug and “what, baby? you’re the one that wanted to play...”

he’s the trouble now. and he loves it.

@ovaryacted now hold on-

Mission Impossible AU…but with Jack Abbot. Oouuuu.

This is so fucking cute !!!!!

Who knew Shawn Hatosy had a musical passion for the Friends theme!

X (formerly Twitter)

Shawn Hatosy (@ShawnHatosy) on X

Update: feeling pretty left out I didn’t get recruited to sing Imagine, so to do my part here’s a video of me singing another VERY importan

NOAH WYLE as MICHAEL “ROBBY” ROBINAVITCH The Pitt | 1.04

Susan Sontag, from As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks 1964-1980

thinking about his big thick dick unfortunately

prone bone is the position of all time because you can feel his entire weight pressed into you—impossibly close, sweat sliding down the length of your back and his torso—the sensation both too much and not enough. and he’s so fucking deep at this angle; you swear you can feel him in your throat. but all you can do is lie facedown on the mattress and take everything he has to give you.

😭😭😭😭

a guard dog with a death wish | jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!widow!reader warnings: EXTREME ANGST. like seriously. reader is very distraught. death of a partner, mention of suicidal ideation, language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), there will be an eventual happy ending <3 word count: 2.6k summary: at a grief support group that you never wanted to attend in the first place, jack abbot finds you, and pulls you up by your-- admittedly-- quite sad and pathetic boot straps. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. yay i've finally posted a new fic!!! this is the first part of a new series! yay! not a ton of jack x reader in this part, but it lays the ground work for what is to come <3 i sincerely hope you all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 parts that are to follow may be non-linear on reader's healing journey, but i haven't gotten that far yet so we'll just have to see hehe

the thing that no one thought to warn you about grief is that, a year may pass since the worst moment of your entire life, and you’ll still pat yourself on the back when you get yourself to swallow a bowl of fruity pebbles. the thing they didn’t think to tell you is that two hours of sleep will seem like a miracle– bonus points if the two hours are continuous. the thing that they should put in the pamphlet is that your world is going to end, but everyone else is going to, somehow, miraculously, be so much more put together than you.

you ascertained that you were not doing this whole grief thing right six months ago. when the looks that you received stopped being empathetic, and began to be outright concern. when the texts were more frantic. when it was easier to disconnect from all of it– friends, family, loved ones. how could you explain this feeling to them?

how could you explain that your heart was living somewhere else, outside of your body, so far out of your grasp? how could you explain that every night a future that was never yours, could never be yours, played on a loop in your brain until you were reduced to hot, angry tears? how could you explain any of this to someone and have them understand it, understand you?

it’s not like you thought you were the only person in the world who was grieving tucker. it felt like the whole world was grieving him– that was the type of person he was. but he was your person, first and foremost. he was the person who you sat on the couch with and watched survivor every wednesday night. he was the person who always put the groceries away. he was the person that you lived your mundane little life with– it wasn’t perfect. you didn’t need it to be perfect. that fact that you shared it with him was all that you needed.

it was tucker’s mom who sent you the information for the grief support group. there was a pang of emotion when you saw the text– you hadn’t even seen her since the funeral. you knew, deep down, that she understood. but it didn’t make your feelings of frustration with yourself dissipate.

she could get herself together, and she gave birth to tucker. you were falling apart while she held herself together. it was embarrassing.

the invitation, most likely created on canva, was sent to you in a well-meaning text alongside the words, he loved you more than anyone, or anything. he wouldn’t want you to live like this. if you won’t talk to anyone you know, talk to someone you don’t.

the words, as tough-loved as they were designed to be, didn’t bring you any comfort or resolve for making yourself better. that may be what tucker would’ve wanted– but he died, and you were left behind without the one person who made you feel like you were coming up for air.

tucker sunday was a good man. he was a good man who had loved you entirely and completely and with no reservations, from the moment the two of you met in the first grade. you were new to school, having been relocated to the pittsburgh suburbs from boston. everything felt different and scary– you sat alone on the playground with your hands in your lap, looking from left to right, right to left, hoping that someone might come up to you.

and then there was tucker. gap-toothed and freckled and with a pair of glasses perched on his tiny nose. he plopped beside you with a copy of the lord of the rings in his hand– advanced for a first grader, but that was just how tucker was.

he sat down beside you that sunny day on the playground and he never left.

that was the thing that you think people don’t understand. tucker had been your world, every day– and not in a codependent way. you each had your own, full lives. your own friends and your own families that knew just the right way to blend and merge. you were a librarian at a high school. he was a teacher at an elementary school. you couldn’t carry a tune or play an instrument to save your life. he was the best at the guitar. you loved to bake. he loved to cook.

you balanced one another. and now, the scales have tipped so fast, in such a fervent freefall… how do you climb such a steep mountain back to where you were? when you don’t have someone keeping you even?

you look at the looming building from your place where the bus dropped you off. your hands tremble as you make sure that you have the correct address– you do, of course, because despite your grief, you are still meticulously type a, somewhere inside of yourself.

“my little planner.”

his voice rattles in your head and you have to physically shake your shoulders before you walk through the doors and down the hall, turning left into a room with probably fifteen chairs in a circle. only six are occupied.

a woman turns her head to you and smiles brightly, too brightly for a room filled with such, presumably, weary souls. “hi there,” she gestures towards the empty chairs. “come on in. have a seat.”

your fingers grip your bag tighter, eyes popping from each individual to the next. there’s two people huddled together– sisters, you think. an older gentleman with kind eyes and a long beard who is wearing a veteran hat. a woman in her mid-fifties, if you had to guess, with legs crossed and peering at her phone down the bridge of her nose.

none of them glance up at you, but one.

he’s sitting in the chair facing directly to the door, alert. his eyes don’t leave you for even one singular second as you pad into the room, half wounded animal, half woman. his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are slightly spread and there’s a camo backpack leaned against his leg. you have to question if you have something on your face or if he just has a staring problem. you decide it must be the latter.

you don’t glare at him in return, but you don’t not glare at him, either. you take tentative step after tentative step until you take a seat one away from him, fixing your hands into your lap and casting your eyes down to them. you look left to right, right to left. you fiddle shakily with the ring that weighs heavy on your left hand. you twirl it and twirl it and twirl it until your skin feels irritated.

introductions begin to happen, but you don’t quite hear them. you’re still staring down at that ring and everything surges at you suddenly, a tidal wave of anguish that takes you by the ankle and drags you under. you don’t realize you’re crying until it’s your turn to introduce yourself and you’re faced with the tell-tale signs of an emotion that you always seem to see, these days.

pity. pity from the sisters, who you presume is the facilitator of the group, and from the two older attendees. pity from all five of them.

your eyes dart over to the man who couldn’t quit looking at you when you entered. you’re momentarily jarred because he’s not looking at you with pity. he looks intense, yes, but not sad for you. you open and close your mouth and for a second, you think it must be because things are going blurry through your tears– but he gives you a small nod of his head.

your mouth falls open again, still hesitant, and he nods again.

heart tumbling over itself, you rub your hands on your pants and share your name. “i’m sorry, what else am i supposed to answer?” you ask, looking to the facilitator. natasha, her nametag reads to you.

“anything that feels right.”

you’re almost certain there were structured questions, but you feel a distant thankfulness for her flexibility. “um…” you wipe away stray tears. “i lost tucker.” you look back down at your lap. “and–” you’re cut off by a box of tissues being placed on the seat beside you. it’s the man with the staring problem, again. your silent encourager. you take one of the tissues and dab at your eyes. you’re not a delicate crier, but you’d like to pretend you are. “tucker was my husband. and–” your vision is gone again, swept away by salt and the smudging of the mascara you put on yesterday when you tried to fool yourself into thinking you were someone who wore mascara and wore cute outfits and took care of herself. “and i lost him almost a year ago. in a car accident. and– and i’m not doing well.” you laugh a little bit, but there’s nothing funny. not even a little bit. “if you couldn’t tell.”

you manage a crackling inhale before you continue on. “and his mom– god, i love her, she sent me the flyer for this. and i don’t want to be here,” you admit, laughing again. “i don’t want to be anywhere. i want to be where he is. still. and no one seems to understand that. i don’t mean it in a scary, i’m going to hurt myself way. i mean it… i mean it in a, i don’t know what’s left of me without him, way.” you blink and look around the circle. “does that make sense?”

every single person nods their head, and for a moment, you feel comforted. the man with the intense eyes nods with a fervor and you’re drawn to meet his gaze, as sad as you think you must look. the corner of his mouth turns up at you.

“anyway,” you sigh, exhausted from the onslaught of emotional upheaval you’ve just experienced. “that’s me.”

the only person left is him. he clears his throat and says, “man. how do i follow that up?”

it should offend you. but there’s a level of light in his eyes that you hope one day you could achieve again, and it makes you laugh and shake your head and look down at your hands while he speaks.

“my name is jack abbot. my wife, annie, died in 2016. i’ve been coming here every week since 2017.”

the rest of the meeting keeps you quiet. you take a handful of tissues and make your best attempt at cleaning up what you imagine is a true sight on your face. the rest of the meeting passes with very little fanfare– everyone shares, and you half-listen, and you can’t muster up the guilt to feel for being so disinterested in everyone else’s grief. you’d accepted, long ago, that your mourning had made you self centered. where once upon a time, you would be mortified at the thought of anyone thinking you to be selfish– you can’t find it within yourself to care, not anymore. you are selfish. you are self centered. grief had made you someone you didn’t recognize.

by the time natasha dismisses everyone, you all but run out to the street. you suck in a deep breath and you sink into a crouching position, covering your mouth with your hand. heavy boot-clad feet come into your line of sight. when you trail your eyes up, you’re met with that storm cloud gaze. jack.

he doesn’t say a word. but he scoops up your tote bag and he slings it over one shoulder, turns heel, and walks off.

your brows furrow, and you have to decide if it’s worth the effort– but ultimately, you stand, the wind stinging your tear-streaked cheeks. “hey,” you call. “that’s my bag.”

he doesn’t turn around. he keeps a steady, casual pace. not running, but not waiting for you to catch up with him, either. “hey!” you call, growing more frustrated. “what, do you just steal bags for a living?”

jack takes a look at you over his shoulder. “yeah, something like that.”

you pick up your speed so that you can fall into step with him. “what the hell are you doing?”

“i’m going to take you to go eat something. because, no offense, you don’t look great.” he looks you up and down while he continues to walk. “when’s the last time that you ate something with some substance? protein, have you ever heard of it?”

your silence is his answer and he grips the totebag a little tighter. “figured you’d say no if i asked. so…”

“so you stole my bag.”

“not stolen,” he says with a disarming smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “i’m gonna give it back. don’t worry.”

“but…” you try and rack your brain for some excuse.

there wasn’t all too much for you to cite. your work hours had been reduced way back in the weeks after tucker passed. you still worked enough to get by, but not so much that you were drowning in work on top of drowning in your own pain. your friends and family were constantly making attempts to make plans with you, but you were diligent in your efforts to firmly stick out an arm and keep them at that length. easier this way, you told yourself. easier for them to be far far away where they cannot see just how damaged you have become. their worry is the last thing that you want, or need.

coming up empty, jack’s smirk spreads on his face. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”

–

jack’s eyes are like a blanket on you while you push around the eggs on your plate, take a tentative bite of your toast. your stomach is still in knots, as it always is, so ultimately, you set down your fork, your toast, and push your plate away. you turn your gaze to look out the window. your body is there, in that diner, but your mind is far away when jack’s voice brings you back.

“so. husband.”

your eyes snap over to his before they slide back to the window. “yeah.”

“i know a little something about that.”

your brows furrow and your eyes narrow and you lean in towards him. “you don’t know shit about me, or about what i’m going through.” you huff out a disbelieving laugh. “bold of you to think you do. seriously, wow.”

“no, i know. i know this song and dance. i lived it.” he gestures towards you, and then towards himself, and his look is still not pitying. if anything, he seems more annoyed. “it’s addicting, isn’t it? feeling like shit?”

your mouth drops open and you stare at him, trying to muster the words, but they don’t come. he continues talking. “i bet everyone is coddling you. keeping a safe distance from you, lest you snap. not wanting to push you too hard. right? they’re treating you like something breakable. well, you know what i think?”

“you don’t know a god damn–”

“i think that you need someone who’s going to hold you accountable.”

“accountable?” you reel backwards.

“yeah. accountable. accountable of taking care of yourself. accountable of eating. accountable of dragging yourself out of this hole that you’re in. and i don’t think that anyone is stepping up and doing it.”

you grow silent. it’s not that they’re not stepping up– you’re not letting them. maybe jack knows that, too, since he seems to be able to read you like a well-loved and memorized book.

he folds his hands, one on top of the other, staring at you. “and i’m gonna be that person.”

scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. everything about your body language screams defensive. “why?” you finally ask. you raise your eyebrows up at him.

he shrugs his shoulders. “what can i say,” he stabs his fork into the eggs on your plate, taking a big bite. “i like strays.”

I need a mutual to let me brain rot about a very specific idea I have for Jack Abbot x doctor!reader. An outline of events, if you will.

I can’t get this out of my head:

Jack sees the shock on your face before he hears the words he had just said to you.

When had the wind been this defeaning? Or was it the silence?

“J-Jack…you don’t…don’t say th-”

“I’d do it with you. Have kids.” He said again, more definitely this time. More concrete. More real. He thinks about all the time he’s spent alone, of the kind of life he could’ve had had things been different. How you’re a different person, a different doctor, more fierce in every way when a child patient comes through those doors.

And fuck, if it doesn’t make his heart squeeze when he thinks what that can be like with you.

“We don’t have to get married.” He says, eyes watching how your throat constricts and your lips wobbles, tears threatening to free fall again.

His face leans in closer to yours, how it normally does whenever he’s seen you doubt yourself and willed every bit of confidence in you.

“But I want this for you, I want this with you. That asshole down there made you feel like you had to choose one thing and give up another, but you don’t have to give up anything with me. You can have it all, and I want to make that happen for you, if that’s what you want.”

Lord knows he’d rather chew sand than let himself be this vulnerable again.

But with you, he didn’t have to be afraid of anything at all.

Please like/reblog this if you are a writer, giffer, poster, or just a fan of The Pitt so I can follow you 💕🥰

NEW - Pedro Pascal at the Ballerina after party.

Oops too late 🤭🤤

@abbotjack is this not Maxxinista!Jack LOL

📸: pickleballbad on IG

Yesss more details on his creampie kink and dirty talk!! He definitely plays w/ you after he finishes inside. I feel like his dirty talk would be heavy on praise too? I’m down disgustingly bad for this old man it’s almost shameful

Lots of people want me to elaborate so.. 🫢😏

- He neeeeds to finish inside you.

- The primal urge to fill you to the brim and watch his cum leak out of you makes him insane.

- Sex with him is intense and passionate (I could go into more detail there too lul) and marking you as his by cumming inside you is the cherry on top.

- His thrusts are always hard and deep, but never fast. He loves you on your back beneath him, hands like a vice on your hips.

- You can always tell his close by the way he starts grunting, deep and gravely sounds as his tip kisses your cervix.

- He uses his thumb to rub tight little circles on your clit, urging you to finish with him. And it’s so overwhelming, the way his stretching and filling you, his thumb on the bundle of nerves..

- You’re squirming and crying out in absolute bliss, and he doesn’t relent. “That a girl, baby. Take it. You can do it, do it for me.”

- And when he cums inside you he’s almost growling, hips pinned to yours as he fills you to the brim. He’s grinding into you like he’s on a mission, panting and cursing.

- “Such a good fucking girl, taking me so well. Look at that, so fucking full of my cock.”

- He pulls out slow and easy, watching his cum slip out, admiring the creamy white ring around the base of his cock.

- And he’s panting and cursing, using his finger and pushing his cum back in, humming at your surprised whines as he whispers. “Look at that. So fucking gorgeous, you’re so full of my cum.”

- And he won’t stop until it’s all back inside you, kissing your stomach and chest as he mumbles. “Mine. You’re all fucking mine.”

this is someone's life i feel sick to my stomach 💔

jack abbot sending you a selfie while he’s at work….. i’m unwell

He’s like if a turtle made a wish to become human

RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY SALAD??? 😭😭🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

little luxuries [j.a.]

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: Smut (18+). Fingering. Unprotected Sex. Banter. My own special brand of prose, fragments, and italicization. A/N: First full length fic I've read in a hot minute. Just can't get the image of slow morning sex with Jack Abbot out of my mind.

Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes this morning. Tangled in his sheets, hair all in disarray against the satin pillowcase. The shirt you’ve stolen from him rides up over your hips, exposing lavender cotton panties with daisies splashed across them. Cute.

The sight turns him on instantly. More than it should. He can’t help it. Something about you at ease in his space. Completely twisted up in his home, in his bed. In his life. 

Coming home to someone wouldn’t have been a possibility 5 years ago. Seeing you after a long shift, like an oasis after a long trek in a desert, is a luxury he’s still getting used to. And one must take advantage of, and savor, little luxuries whenever they can. 

Perhaps he should feel a little bad for wanting to wake you up so early, when even Phoebus Apollo still hasn’t fully roused himself from sleep, and the Pittsburgh towers stand in black silhouettes against the indigo sky.

Perhaps he should feel guilty for peeling back the twisted sheets to get an eyeful of your prone body. Eyes trailing up your legs, snagging on the curves of your thighs, the supple bend of your ass. 

Maybe he should feel apologetic for reaching out and grabbing a handful. Hand running under the hem of the stolen shirt and up your tummy to cup your breast. For rolling your nipple between his fingers and pinching it gently.

But after the night he’s had, he can’t even muster a smidgen of regret. And the sound you make, and the way you arch your back into his touch strikes any trace of repentance from his mind. And when you slowly blink yourself awake and beam at him like he hung the stars in the sky by hand, he can’t help the way his heart skips violently in his chest and all the blood in his body pools straight to his cock. 

“Mornin’, honey.” He gives you a breathtaking smile of his own, fingers still lazily playing with your nipple. 

“You’re back.” You bite the words out around a yawn. You roll onto your back, nudging a foot into his lap. 

“In the flesh.” He switches to your other breast, showing it the same attention. 

“Sun’s not even in the sky, and you’re already feeling me up,” you tease, toes brushing over his hard cock. 

“Sorry.” Jack shrugs with a sheepish grin. “Couldn’t help myself when you look like this.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “When I look like a sleepy mess?”

Jack shakes his head. “When you look like you’re mine. Wearing my shirt, in my bed. A man can only be so strong for so long.”

“Something tells me that apology’s not genuine.” You try to be coy in your response, but there’s a small tremor in your voice from his words.

Mine. Oh don’t you love being Jack’s. 

His hand glides down to the crux of your thigh. “Somethin tells me you don’t really mind.” Jack rubs at the growing damp between your legs. “Barely touched you, honey.”

You spread your legs lazily. “I missed you.”

“That right?” He tugs at the waistband. 

You nod, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Really missed you.”

“Well, shame on me for leaving you all alone. Ought to apologize for my actions.” His thumb nudges your clit. “Why don’t you come over here and show me how much you missed me, darling, and I can show you how sorry I am.” 

The words barely finish leaving his lips before you’re already moving towards him, much too turned on to bother with the facade of apathy. 

You crawl into his lap, lips hungrily seeking his own. Jack slings an arm low around your waist, fingers already digging into the curve of your ass. He squeezes hard, molding your pliant body against his own.

Not that you give him much choice, almost knocking him back with the force of your kiss. Your fingers twine through his grey curls, tugging sharply just as your teeth rake over his bottom lip. Jack hisses, equal parts pleasure and pain. And it’s not long before he’s grabbing a handful of your own hair, angling your mouth so he can push his tongue between your lips. Easily dominating you with one gesture. 

Your hips rock against his slowly, languidly. He slaps your ass sharply, urging your stilted rhythm. You’re greedy this morning. Rubbing your clit down on the rough fabric of his jeans. Taking your pleasure with hungry moans pressed against tongue and teeth. 

“Poor baby,” Jack groans against your lips. “Was only gone for 12 hours.” He slides his hand between your legs once more.

Your hips buck, chasing the sweet pressure of his thumb on your clit. “Too long.” You tilt your head back, a whimper choked in your throat.

“I can see that.” He mouths at your pulse. “Can’t even do my job without you jumping on me as soon as I get home.” His middle and forefinger push your panties to the side to play with your cunt. 

“You started it,” you pant, angling your hips so his fingers slip into you shallowly. 

“Hm, did I?” He nips at your throat. “Not how I remember it.” With a crook of his wrist, Jack’s fingers fill you. A poor substitute for the real thing, but you can’t find it in your heart to care. “See, I’m just a tired old man, comin’ home from a grueling 12 hour shift. And you seduced me, wearing my shirt and that underwear I love. Sleeping in my bed. Then you climbed in my lap and started kissing me.”

You mumble something under your breath, half moan, half breathless whisper. 

“What was that, honey?” He asks, fingers still playing with you, ratcheting up the intense storm inside of you. 

“You’re bein’ mean.” You clench around his fingers. 

Jack’s arm locks around your waist, stopping your frantic hips. “Oh?” He asks with raised eyebrows. “Am I?” Mischief dances in his green eyes. 

You nod, against your better judgement. 

“Oh, baby, you don’t know mean. If I was being mean, I wouldn’t let you come. But I’m a gentleman, honey.” His fingers fuck into you, a hard pace that leaves your body boneless. “So I’m gonna make you come with my fingers, and then you’re gonna ride my cock until you come again.”

Jack holds you in place, wanting you to save your energy for later. His deft fingers play the chords of your body. Curling and angling just right. Each thrust of his fingers devastating in its accuracy. Filling your body with the golden light of ecstasy. Your head swims with it. And when he adds his thumb back into the mix, nudging your clit with each pass of his fingers, you’re a goner. 

Your legs try to close on his fingers, but he keeps them open as he works you through your orgasm. 

“Just like that, baby,” Jack’s voice is a husky whisper in your ear. “So pretty when you come.” He slides his fingers from your cunt, groaning at the wetness that coats his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.” His tongue laps at the digits. 

You watch his movement, pupils blown wide with lust. 

“Want a taste?” Jack asks. His cock throbs painfully when you nod and stick your tongue out. He pushes his fingers deep into your mouth, only stopping when you gag. “Now was that mean?” He pops the buttons on his jeans. 

“No,” you admit reluctantly. 

“Gonna ride my cock? Make yourself come again?” He lifts you slightly so he can free his aching dick from his pants. He rubs his spit-slicked hand over himself, taking the edge off slightly.

You nod, tongue curling over your lips, tasting the remnants of yourself. 

“Say it.” Jack’s eyes burn into yours. 

You wrap your hand around his, stroking him slowly in tandem. “I’m gonna ride your cock,” you whisper, eyes still locked on his. “And I’m gonna make myself come. Like a good girl,” you add, just to watch his lust filled pupils blow wider. 

“My good girl,” he corrects, nudging his nose against your own. 

“Your good girl,” you amend, knocking his hand away to line his cock up. 

Jack busies himself by removing your shirt. His hands find your tits immediately, his lips follow soon after. Tongue laving at the sweat beading on your chest. He presses reverent kisses to the side of your breasts, before mouthing at your nipple. 

He looks up at you, mouth still pressed on your skin. “C’mon, honey. What are you waitin’ for?”

You hook your panties to the side, rub your slick cunt over his cock. Jack lets out a huff of impatience. His hand comes down on your ass harshly, quickly rubbing the sting away. 

“Darling,” he says through gritted teeth. 

You hum, still rocking against him. 

“Now who’s being mean?”

“Am I?” You look down at him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“Cuz it’s fun.” You shrug. “Payback’s a bitch, baby.” You press a light kiss to his lips, pulling back with a smirk before he can deepen it. 

He groans. “You gonna make me beg?”

You nod, lips dancing across his jaw. “How badly do you want me?” Your teeth rake against the shell of his ear. 

Jack shudders, warmth rushing across his face. “You know how bad,” he mumbles, hips rocking his hard cock up against you. 

“Wanna hear you say it.” You nip his earlobe. “Tell me.” 

Jack cups your jaw, fingers rubbing absentmindedly at your cheek. “Want you bad, baby.” His voice is a low, husky whisper. “So bad it hurts. Need to be inside your sweet pussy to take the pain away.”

“Yeah?” You slip the tip of his cock inside of you and Jack groans. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your breast. “Please, honey.” He presses an open mouthed kiss to the skin, and then the gentle skate of teeth as he bites teasingly. 

You feign deep consideration for a moment, balanced above him. Hips rocking shallowly to coat him with your warmth. Jack’s breath comes out in labored pants against your collarbone. It must be killing him to be patient. To not take control, grab your hips and yank you down on top of him. Put you on your back and fuck into you. 

You might as well reward him. 

“Relax, baby. Let me take care of you,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair to cup the back of his neck. “Take care of my old man after his grueling 12-hour shift.” 

Jack looks up at you, a smile on his face. A smile that morphs into a slack-jawed mask of ecstasy as you slide down onto his cock. His groan so full of relief, it’s almost painful. Bubbling up inside of him until it rumbles out of his throat into the quiet room. 

He holds your gaze, whispering quiet praises as you move your hips forward slowly. Savoring the fullness of him within you, the subtle stretch and tightness with every roll back and forth. It’s good. So achingly good. 

“Shit, baby. You feel fucking amazing,” Jack whispers. “Feel like home.” 

You bite your bottom lip, a moan on your tongue. “Want me to move faster?” 

“Nah, honey. Take your time. Just wanna feel you.” One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other splays across your back, holding you close to him. 

So close, your body slides against him with every undulation of your hips. So close he can feel your heart beating in your chest, keeping time with the frantic pace of his own. So close your breaths mingle and twine. Honeyed moans and adulations dripping from your tongues. So full of love, full of worship, they fill his chest with light and warmth. Building and building. Until he’s so close to that wonderful edge he could burst. 

And in any other case he might feel embarrassed to last so briefly. In any other bed, in any other place, he might put it off as long as he could. Fight through it. But not here. Not in this safe space, this home that you’ve both created. Where connection and pleasure is the goal. Where the little death is one to be savored, and not staved off. This hedonistic dance that leads to more and more. 

A different pace. One he’s still getting used to. 

And so when the sensation of your warm cunt grows to be too much. When the waves of pleasure slam against the dam of self-control and it starts to crack and crumble. He comes without warning. A firecracker in the dark early dawn. Filling you until he’s spent and boneless. 

Jack collapses on the bed in sweaty rapture. That bright smile on his face once more mirrors your own. 

You lean over him, fingers tracing the lines of his face. Nails playing in the stubble that lines his jaw. “Doing okay?” 

He gives you a thumbs up in answer. “Never better.” 

“Just checking. I know heart attacks are common for men in your age bracket. Especially after such vigorous activity–”

Jack silences your teasing by rolling you swiftly onto your side, and you laugh sharply in surprise. “Honey, I’m healthy as a horse.” He wraps your leg around his waist. “In fact, since I still owe you one.” His thumb nudges your clit, and your body arches into his. “Let me show you.”

meeting jack on some dating app and being completely taken by his profile. it’s a confident swipe right, with the hopeful presumption of a match with the handsome doctor.

Jack Abbot, Md. - 49 | Operating on 1 1/2 legs, but can do wonders with my two hands

that was a couple weeks and 3 dates ago. it was refreshing and exhilarant to meet someone like jack— who had as much reluctance as you towards the dating app world, but open to the idea. he was good conversation, luring you in with his relaxed disposition and electrifying gaze— he had you craving more of him in such a short amount of time. that’s how you found yourself at his workplace, unplanned and unannounced. the sweet blonde nurse said he’d just come in just moments ago, his shift starting soon, giving you a beaming smile and kindly ushering you off to the side to wait so he wouldn’t miss you. his features read as strongly concerned when he finally did approach you, “hey— what are you doing here? is everything okay?” as he gave you a brief once over. you assured him you completely fine, just wanting to catch him before his shift, “i’m totally fine!! i was on a walk and stopped into that bakery off of virginia avenue. you’d mentioned wanting to try their chocolate croissant, so i got you one of those and a scone the recommended. Oh, and a coffee— black with enough room for cream because I wasn’t sure.” handing off the paper bag and white to-go cup to him, hoping he can’t read how nervous you feel showing up out of nowhere. he doesn’t say anything. the silence that drags on between you feels excruciatingly loud and glaringly obvious that you crossed an undefined boundary. “oh my gosh. i— i totally must have misread things between us. i’m so so sorry. I shouldn’t have— i’m just gonna go.” you don’t even bother to wait for a response, immediately taking off in search of air that feels less suffocating and the farther away from this now failed thing between you two, the better. “wait—“ you’re about half way down the ambulance entrance to the hospital when you hear jack trying to get your attention before you get any further, “wait! please— that was an asshole move back there. i’m sorry, it’s just that nobody’s ever done anything like that for me before and i— I didn’t know how to react. i’m sorry and thank you.” you can tell he’s nervous and it makes your stomach do that little giddy flip it’s been doing since your first date. “you’ve never had anyone do something nice for you?” “No— i mean— yes, i have. it’s just been a long time. since i’ve dated. since i’ve really liked someone and wanted it to work out.” a shiver of goosebumps spreads over your skin as his hand cups your face, his thumb gliding softly across your cheek. “well, i think you’re worth doing nice things for. and i really like you too.” he hadn’t kissed you before now, not truly. respectfully pressing his lips to your cheek before bidding you a good-night is nothing compared to the way he’s kissing you now. all-consuming and toe-tingling. leaving zero room for doubt as he devours you— letting you know just how fiercely he likes you and how desperately he wants you. “what are you doing later?” “more than likely i’ll be in bed, sleeping.” “let me take you out when i get off.” “you’re going to be tired, jack. you need sleep too.” “sleep is for the weak. and if losing sleep means more time with you, then I’d give up a lifetime of rest without a second thought.”

jack abbot definitely holds ur hand when he eats you out. SEND TWEET.

Medieval-inspired hairstyles

Wow that fic was a flop and a half huh 😂😂😂

Twins

At my hospital, if you get a parking/traffic infraction from the campus police, your direct supervisor gets an email about it. I can just imagine all of the emails Robby gets about his delinquent residents and attendings as chief of the emergency department.

At the end of every month, he prints them all out, stands at the central desk hub, puts on his old man glasses, and reads them out like a herald in town square as a way to shame them for cluttering his work email inbox.

“On the 3rd of the month, Samira Mohan parked outside of the designated parking lot lines. Photos attached. Fined $50.”

“Frank Langdon was pulled over for going 40 in a 15 miles per hour zone. Fined $75.”

“Dennis Whitaker parked in attending parking spaces three times this month. Fined $50 each time.”

“Jack Abbot ran a stop sign last week in front of the children’s outpatient surgery clinic. Fined $50.”

“On the 14th, Heather Collins parked in the covered parking garage intended for patients. Fined $25.”

“John Shen failed to report his new license plate number to the Department of Parking and Transportation. Fined $25.”

if i could disappear beneath the leaves || michael robinavitch

summary: between awake and asleep, dreams are not always what they seem.

pairing(s): m.r x reader, j.a x reader, m.r x reader x j.a

warnings: none, really? aside from some small allegories to sexy times.

note: i wrote this with a shiteating grin lmaoooo please don't hate me for how this ends. a million thanks for @superhoeva for proof reading my nonsense. inspired by this post and that one the marias song.

p.s: if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

----

LONG BEFORE THE SUN WAKES UP AND THE STARS DISAPPEAR to make space for the clouds, brown eyes that were once heavy with sleep suddenly find themselves opened up just before the light shines through the curtains. 

No matter what Robby did, or how late he’d go to sleep when he got home, he’d always wake up at the same time. 

He lets out a low yawn, rubbing the sleep off his face as much as he can with his free arm, before looking over, all of him stupefied and hazy with sleep. 

He smiles softly when his favorite view in the world is no longer blurred, his heart beating in a flurrying thump badum thump badum, and his stomach flipping in a dizzying woosh at the sight of you and Jack curled up together. Your back is to Jack’s chest as his arms curled around you, and your foot tucked just so under Robby’s ankle to keep tethered to earth. 

It makes his heart melt, knowing you wanted to hold onto him even while you’re still in dreams. Your consciousness floated away somewhere, completely unaware of everything else but the comfort and safety that the two men that are with you provide. 

As lithe and fast as he is, Robby is still two hundred something pounds and over six feet tall. So even on the rare days he gets to stay in and sleep with you, he tries to be as careful as he can be as he regretfully leaves the bed you share. 

He hates it, leaving the two of you. He really wants to stay in bed and kiss you two awake, but he’s been waiting for ages to do this for you, with you.

And as much as he’s enjoyed reuniting with you in more ways than one, few and far between were the days where he simply got to do something just because he wanted to do it.

“Shh, shh, shh…” He coos softly, as his big, warm hand cradles your face and caresses your brow bone softly with a calloused thumb. Knowing you’re still far too deep to reveal your eyes to him, he gently coaxes you further back into your dreams. 

Softly pressing a kiss to where his thumb had just been, he adjusts the thousand thread count blankets – and with a gentle squeeze to Jack’s bicep, he reluctantly tears away his adoring gaze to get started on his surprise - breakfast in bed. 

There’s a slight draft in the brownstone’s kitchen that chills Robby’s skin, but it doesn’t bother him. The hospital was always far colder than this. And yet, even with you in the other side, he feels warmed all over by you. 

He can’t explain the feeling that blooms through him as he mills about the kitchen, as bare feet softly pad about the tiled floor while he gathers all he needs to make breakfast. He truly tries to be as quiet as possible, cursing himself as he rattles the cutlery drawer with his hip. 

A familiar song is whispered from Robby’s lips as he works. And for a moment, he thinks – he hadn’t been religious for a time longer than he can remember, but he knew he had to believe in a higher power when his life became more colorful with you in it. He knows Jack would agree. 

Strawberry studded pancakes are stacked on your favorite plate set, and Robby grumbles at how some of them are so not uniform. He turns to the other counter, where he preps the French press to make enough coffee for the three of you. 

There’s something about the smell that brings him back to the days of his med school youth, where he could barely get through the day without the caffeine. Nowadays, he’s happy to be dragged along by you to whatever the latest coffee shop was, and only a little begrudgingly pay for, in his opinion, overpriced coffees and sweet treats. 

Dishwashing is left for later, wanting the two of you to wake up to the breakfast spread on the tray that was sourced at a vintage market you had dragged him to months ago. 

As his surprises for you normally tend to go, they always get found out somehow. 

Just as he places the dish towel back on the counter after drying his hands, a sound by the kitchen’s threshold snaps his eyes to the door. The sight of you wearing his shirt and looking so disheveled melts his heart, even more so than the whipped cream used on you last night. 

“Robby…” You mumble, making grabby hands as you reach out for him while walking over. “Hey…what’re you doin’ up so early, huh?” He whispers, practically scooping you up in his arms and off the floor. He’s that much taller than you, and the way you gasp always makes him chuckle low in his chest. Robby kisses the crown of your head softly, letting you seek safety from the cold of the world that’s yet to wake up. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s held you like this - just because he wanted to, just because he could. Just you and him and nothing else or no one else in the world. Holding you always makes him feel like you’d always belonged in his arms. 

“Went to the bathroom,” your voice is muffled on his chest, “you weren’ there anymore.” 

You meant the bed, he knew it. And the way you say his name with a sleepy moan in that lilt of your voice makes Robby’s heart tighten only a little. 

“Go back to bed, honey. Bringin’ us breakfast.” He kisses your head again when you whine, urging you to go along, “go on, doc’s orders.” 

Only when he gently swats your behind do you listen to him. 

Robby follows close behind with said breakfast, smiling as he watches you crawl back into bed and Jack’s arm, resuming the same position as before. Jack was always the big spoon, and you were the little spoon. 

Seeing the two of you cuddled up again makes Robby feel only a little guilty for making such a big deal out of something so trite, but he figures that the array of food will more than make up for it. 

“Room service is ready, you two.” He wheedles, settling the breakfast tray on the side table that’s on your side of the bed. 

Robby only rolls his eyes a little, clearly cognizant that both of you are purposefully ignoring him, wanting to sleep as much as possible on a rare day off. But the smell of the coffee and sugar practically teased you both awake. 

He supports his weight on his arms by caging you protectively, arm on either side of you. 

“Come on, up you get.” He murmurs against the warm skin of your shoulder, slowly working his way up and places a kiss on your temple - stealing one, two, three smooches. 

The small commotion stirs Jack awake, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He blindly grabs your hand, lacing his fingers with his hand on top of yours and a small squeeze follows. 

“Mm, do we have to?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

Breakfast is quiet and syrupy slow for the most part. Robby is more than happy to sit back in bed, breakfast tray in his lap as the food and coffee is shared between you three. 

Plans are made but very few of them end up happening. At least not right away they do. But the day starts of slow, the warmth of twilight still keeping you three tucked away. 

With the tray and plates set aside, the three of you settle into bed once more. You’re in the middle, with Robby and Jack on either side of you. This time, Robby is the big spoon while you face Jack, holding onto his hand after sharing a saccharine kiss. 

It’s always been easier to sleep this way, the weight of them with you reminding you that they’re real and that you weren’t stupid at all to have fallen for them both. 

The rumble of Robby’s chest as he slowly falls back asleep lulls you back to your dreams, Jack scooching over to be close to you while he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. 

There’s the sound of a car alarm going off in the distance, but you’re far too sleepy to care. 

– 

The shrill beep of the snooze button set for the umpteenth time snatches you awake. 

For a moment, you forget where you are. But the fact that your joints crack as you stand up from the overused bed makes you realize where you are as you look around. 

The call room. 

Your dream was just that, a dream. 

You let out a sigh as you walk towards the door and motion to grab the doorknob, willing yourself to walk back out into the chaos. But you bang your forehead on the door softly, unwilling to face the very unreal fantasy on the other side. 

What were you gonna do? 

--

© espressheauxs, 2025