jacksabbotts

[jacksabbotts]

𓍯𓂃 ꨄ︎ NOT THE SHARING TYPE  ❪ robby x r3!reader ❫

. possible trigger warnings fem!reader ◞ jealous!robby ◞ age-gap/power dynamic "relationship" ◞ messy kissing ◞ wc 1.5k

it starts the way most trauma nights do—loud, chaotic, and vaguely sticky.

the overhead lights flicker once as the rig rolls in through the ambulance bay, sirens still wailing in the distance. you’re at the nurse’s station, elbow-deep in a chart, hair pulled back and scrub top sticking slightly to your back from the heat of the shift. there’s a pen between your teeth. you’re trying to remember how to spell 'pericardiocentesis' when the emts swing the doors wide.

“unrestrained driver,” someone calls. “mid-thirties. blunt trauma, hypotensive en route. eta—now.”

it’s all go-mode after that. you’re halfway to trauma bay 2 when a voice stops you. smooth. confident. too confident.

“hey, doc.” you glance back. it’s one of the new paramedics—tall, square-jawed, textbook pretty in a way that feels deliberate. you've seen him around. he's harmless enough, usually. until now that is.

he leans one forearm on the edge of the desk beside you, a crooked grin playing at the edge of his mouth. “you look way too good to be emergency department doc. you always this dangerous with a stethoscope, or is it just for me?”

you snort softly. not because it’s funny, but because you don’t know what else to do. “i’m just trying to chart, man.”

he laughs. “fair enough. you ever get tired of babysitting the old guard?” he jerks his chin toward the trauma bay, where dr. robinavitch’s voice is echoing through the curtain. “bet you’d kill for a shift with someone closer to your speed.”

you blink. your brain misfires for a second, caught on the way he says it. you almost what to smack him across the face because where does he get off talking about robby like that.

but you reign yourself in because you also know that this thing between you and robby was over. he had made that very clear the last time you'd locked lips in the hospital storage closet.

you’re about to respond, about to open your mouth to calmly tell him that he is being disrespectful not only to you but to your mentor—but your cut off, firmly—when a second voice, low and lethal, cuts in from behind you. “excuse me?”

every molecule in your body goes still.

because you know that voice. everyone knows that voice. but you especially know that voice. that is the voice who had pushed you to a orgasm with its cadence alone. fuck, you yearned to hear that voice whispering filth into your ear.

you turn slowly—like maybe, if you move gently enough, you’ll undo the moment—but deep down you knew that it was too late.

dr. michael robinavitch is standing ten feet away. sleeves pushed up. gloves off. trauma glasses hanging from the collar of his scrub top. there’s blood drying on the cuff of hoddie where his wrist meets the fabric, but his eyes? his eyes are clean and sharp and fucking furious.

the paramedic shifts awkwardly beside you. “hey, uh—dr. robinavitch. i was just—”

“just what?” robby steps forward once. controlled. heavy-footed. “making jokes? chatting up my resident when you should be restocking your rig?” the way he said my resident. god, if you weren't in the middle of the emergency department—at your place of employment—you might have lunged at him. tackled him to the ground until he agreed to fuck you senseless.

“i didn’t mean anything by it.”

“oh, i know. guys like you never do.” it almost jarring the way he says it. his words are harsh but he is smiling and his eyes shine. almost like he is enjoying taking this man down a peg.

the air goes still. every nurse in a six-foot radius goes silent. you feel your stomach drop through the damn floor. “you want to flirt, do it somewhere else,” robby says, calm as a fucking scalpel. “and don’t speak to her like that again. she is more competent than you'll ever be so treat her with some fucking respect.”

he turns. you think it’s over. but then—right as he’s walking past you—he pauses. looks over his shoulder. and delivers the kill shot. “and she’s not fucking available.”

the paramedic stiffens. you can feel him glaring daggers into robby’s back. but he doesn’t say a word. just walks away.

you, meanwhile, are standing there with a chart in your hands and a fucking hurricane going on in your chest. your ears are ringing. you’re not even sure what part of it hit you the hardest—the tone, the words, or the fact that michael robinavitch just claimed you in front of the entire er like you belonged to him.

or the fact that it was probably the hottest and most aggravating thing that has ever happened to you.

you find him after the dust settles. not in the locker room. not in the break room. trauma bay five. charting. like nothing happened. like he didn’t just set the er on fire and walk away like some kind of martyr in compression socks.

you push through the curtain fast, blood still thrumming in your throat. he barely looks up. “something you need?”

you stare at him. “what the hell was that?”

he raises an eyebrow, flipping a page in the chart. “you’ll have to be more specific.”

“don’t play dumb,” you snap. “you tore that guy’s head off like he tried to steal your car. and then you said—”

his jaw ticks. “i know what i said.”

you’re practically vibrating. “you told me we couldn’t do this. that it was a mistake. that it couldn’t happen again.”

“it can’t.”

“then why—”

“because i don’t want to watch someone else put their hands on you.” the words slam into the air like a dropped tray. he finally looks up. really looks. “i don’t want to watch you smile at someone else. i don’t want to listen to them try to make you laugh because i don’t want to fucking share you.”

the silence between you is molten. heavy.

he steps closer—just a few inches—and sets the chart aside like it never existed. his voice drops, rough and quiet. “you want me to take it back, i will. but you don’t stand here and pretend you didn’t like it. i saw your face when i said it.”

your breath catches. “you don’t get to say that.”

“i do,” he says. “because i’m the one who knows what you sound like when you’re falling apart. i’m the one who had you in my bed, begging me not to stop. and i’m the one who still sees it every damn time i look at your face.”

you don’t move. you can’t. he swallows hard. “so yeah. i said it couldn’t happen again. that it wouldn't but i guess i lied.” you don’t even remember who moves first.

one second he’s standing there, voice low and eyes on fire, and the next—he’s got both hands on your face, hauling you in like he’s been waiting months to do this.

and then he’s kissing you.

no—he’s devouring you.

it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet. it’s messy, brutal, all tongue and teeth and desperation. his mouth crashes into yours like he’s trying to make you forget how to breathe. your back hits the bay wall with a dull thud, but you barely register it.

all you can feel is him—everywhere.

one hand tangles in your hair, the other gripping your jaw, holding you right where he wants you. his mouth moves like he’s starving, like he’s furious you ever let anyone else so much as look at you.

you gasp into it, and he takes that sound like a challenge, sliding his tongue past your lips and dragging a moan out of you so raw it makes your knees buckle.

and then—the worst part. no, the hottest part. he pulls back just enough to whisper, voice wrecked, “you taste the same.”

you whimper. actually whimper. and he groans like he feels it in his spine. and then he’s kissing you again—deeper, filthier, wetter. you’re half off the ground, your scrubs bunched in his fists, saliva slicking both your lips and his.

your mouth is hot and swollen and so fucking wet, but he doesn’t stop. his lips drag down your jaw, back to your mouth, up to your cheek, back again—sloppy, greedy, unrelenting. like he can't decide what he wants to taste more.

every time you gasp for air, he chases it, mouthing at your tongue, sucking at your bottom lip like he wants to bruise it. like he wants you walking around the er looking used.

and when you finally manage to pant, “robby—someone could—”

he grabs your chin, tilts your face up, and mutters, “let ‘em watch." then he sucks on your tongue so hard you actually whine. there’s saliva on your mouth, on his, maybe on your chin—doesn’t matter. you’re dizzy. floating.

he mouths against your lips between kisses, breath hot and fast. “didn’t stop thinking about this. about you. the way you sounded. you’re mine. i don’t give a fuck anymore.”

and you—you’re gripping his scrub top so hard your knuckles ache. you’re breathing like you just ran a trauma code. your mouth is wrecked.

he finally slows the kiss, panting, forehead resting against yours.

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ main masterlist || join the taglist || inbox || more robby ✮ ⋆ ˙ dividers by @cafekitsune + @ithemes

is it bad that i can hear robby staying this dialogue in my head???

🔖 . want to join the resident!reader taglist??? click here!!!

[jacksabbotts]

✮ ⋆ ˙ 👕 📘 🧢 .༄ DEREK MORGAN ⟡ ݁ . . ݁₊ ⊹ MASTERLIST ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁

*ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ THE ARCHIVE ft. tech analyst!reader ✎ᝰ. series masterlist

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ main masterlist || join the taglist || inbox ✮ ⋆ ˙ dividers by @cafekitsune + @uzmacchiato

# Ⓒ all rights to canon characters belong to the original creators. my character and non canon compliant events belong to me. under no circumstances are you to repost, copy, or redistribute anywhere with out permission. also mdni, this 18+. ageless blog will be blocked!

[jacksabbotts]

introducing . . . TECH ANALYST!READER

⚛︎ ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| SPOOKY_GARCIA.EXE — SYSTEM FILE : ACTIVE

you've got black boots, matching nail polish, a septum ring, two nose piercings, five earrings on the left and four on the right. your hair fades into pale mint green, you wear wireframe glasses when your focused, and you haven't smiled at anyone in weeks.

penelope’s on a classified assignment. in her place, her younger sister—dry, deadly, and twice as good with a keyboard.

you don't do small talk.

you don't do mistakes.

and you definitely don't do derek morgan. ( at least not yet. )

֎ ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| WELCOME TO THE ARCHIVE. you here to ruin the database and your favorite agent—one snarky quip at a time.

. please wait ֎

. loading ⟳ ▂▃▅▆▇▉

. success /// DATABASE BOOTING UP

. ⌦ SYSTEM ACCESS GRANTED : SPOOKY_GARCIA.EXE

📂 STANDALONES.EXE { PROTOCOL_SPOOKY.LOG }

📂 DRABBLES.LOG { HR_VIOLATION.LOG } { HR_VIOLATION.DUPLICATE }

📂 AESTHETICS.ZIP ⚠︎ ERROR /// no files found ⚠︎

📂 file.no.207 ᯓ ➤ README.TXT fem!reader described as having facial/ear piercings, pale green highlights. NO other physical descriptors are given ( readers skin tone, body shape, and or hair color is not described. ) no minors allowed, ageless blogs will be blocked. all canon character belong to the creators. all non-canon characters and events belong to me. so don't steal!!! © jacksabbotts as of 2025

🔖 . @alexxavicry @dumb-fawkin-bitch @kmc1989 @will-run-for-gin @bobsbri @breegirlxoxo @hiireadstuff @summer-paris-lights @tinker7bella @saidinpassing @qardasngan @eugene-emt-roe @loverofmenandcats @rather-be-a-dragon @anglophileforlife @rh1nestonecowg1rl @ahleecollaborations @spooky-librarian-ghost @barackosteaa @bigplantdaddy @britt217

want to join the taglist??? click here!!!

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ main masterlist || more derek morgan || inbox ✮ ⋆ ˙ dividers by @cafekitsune + @uzmacchiato + @omi-resources

[jacksabbotts]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 1-800-DEADAIR  ❪ aaron hotchner x so!reader ❫

. ˚ ༘ possible trigger warnings reader is a phone sex operator!!! so phone sex operator stuff ◞ small mention of sick!mother and having to provide for her ◞ masturbation ⊰ f. ⊱ ◞ WC 2.2k

the clock on your nightstand glowed 11:58 pm, its red digits bleeding against the dark of your bedroom. you leaned back in the chair at your tiny desk, headset balanced over one ear, fingers drumming absently against the keyboard. the screen in front of you displayed a queue of calls—two waiting, one incoming in thirty seconds.

another late night.

you’d already worked a ten-hour day at the bau. aaron's unit to be precise. and as always, he’d been the reason you’d kept your composure, even when the cases shredded you from the inside out.

aaron hotchner wasn’t just your boss. he was . . . well, god, he was aaron. stoic, impossible to read, quiet in a way that demanded attention. his voice was always smooth, clipped, steady—a voice that could make a suspect crumble and make you, embarrassingly, shift in your seat during long briefings. not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

you shook the thought away. you didn’t get to have crushes on men like aaron. not when your real life was a mess of bills, medical expenses, and the need to provide for your mom.

which was why you were here. why, every night, you put on a different voice and made rent by pretending to be whoever a stranger on the other end of the line needed.

your system beeped, pulling you back to work mode. you straightened in your chair, exhaling slowly, letting your voice dip into that practiced, sultry register.

“hi, sweet thing. welcome to the hot line—let me make your night filthy.”

silence.

for a moment, you thought the line had dropped. you tilted your head, listening for background noise, for a breath, anything. then you heard it—a sharp inhale, subtle but there.

“mm, i hear you,” you murmured, leaning into the mic. “don’t be shy. i like when they start out quiet.”

still nothing.

your lips curved. a quiet one. those were always the most fun to unravel.

“let me guess,” you said, your voice low and playful. “you’ve had a long day. you’re tired. stressed. and now you’re calling me because you want someone to make it better.”

a faint breath escaped the line, just enough for you to know you’d hit something.

“don’t worry, baby,” you continued, letting the words roll off your tongue like honey. “you don’t have to talk yet. i can paint the picture for you. want me to do that? want me to tell you exactly how i’d take care of you?”

your headset caught the sound of his breath hitching. god, he was really quiet—painfully so—but you could almost feel the tension on the other side of the line.

you shifted in your seat, crossing your legs. you didn’t get off during calls—not ever. it was a job. a performance. you faked moans, whispered filthy things, coaxed men to the finish line, and then hung up, counting the minutes as money.

but something about this one was different.

you bit your lip, thinking of hotch—your real life. the long days, the endless tension at work. the way his tie always looked like it was strangling him by the end of the night. what would it be like if a man like him ever called a line like this?

the thought shouldn’t have hit so hard. it shouldn’t have made you shift slightly, heat creeping between your thighs. you told yourself it was just the fantasy, just your own voice betraying you.

“let me guess,” you whispered into the mic, your tone velvety soft. “you’re sitting somewhere quiet. somewhere dark. i bet you’re still in your work clothes. bet that shirt of yours is tight across your chest. bet you’ve been thinking about loosening that tie . . . or maybe letting me do it for you.”

a sharp exhale came through the line, and your stomach flipped.

then, unexpectedly, a voice—low, rough, hesitant. “i . . . don’t usually do this.”

you blinked.

the timbre of it was deep, commanding even when quiet, and something about it stopped you cold. you’d heard that voice before. here on the hot line. not on this line though.

i think i dialed wrong.

that was what he’d said last time. it clicked instantly. the mystery man from the misdial last night.

“oh, sweetheart,” you said softly, leaning closer to the mic, “that’s what they all say. but i can tell you need this. i can hear it.”

a pause. then, almost like he couldn’t stop himself : “you sound confident.”

the way he said it—not as an insult, but like he liked it. like he needed you to be. it sent an unexpected jolt of heat down your spine.

there was something different about him. most callers dove in, crude and eager. but this guy? he was silent, tense, waiting. his quiet wasn’t discomfort—it was control. the kind of control you usually heard in men who could break you apart without raising their voice.

something about that got under your skin.

“i am confident, sweet thing,” you murmured into the mic, your tone soft but edged with promise. “you don’t have to do anything. i’ll do the talking. just sit there and listen, okay?”

a sharp breath hissed through the line—barely audible, but enough to send heat pooling between your thighs. you shifted in your chair, crossing one leg over the other, too aware of your own body suddenly.

“you’re sitting there, aren’t you?” you whispered. “are you still in your work clothes?" you asked. you didn't expect an answer so when you didn't get one, you weren't upset.

"yes, on the work clothes, your tie tight around your throat, shirt buttoned all the way up. god, i’d undo it for you, one button at a time. my fingers brushing your chest, slow, just so i can feel how fast your heart’s beating.”

normally, this was nothing. just words. you never felt anything when you worked. it was a job—fake the moans, fake the tension, fake the pleasure until they hit their finish line.

but this guy? the silence on his end wasn’t dead weight. it was electric, like he was listening to every syllable, like his breathing alone could make you come undone.

you uncrossed your legs, your heel digging into the floor as a sharp ache bloomed low in your belly.

“let me tell you how i’d do it,” you whispered, voice breaking into a lower, huskier register. “i’d climb right into your lap, straddle you, and grind my hips just enough to make you feel me. you’d feel how wet i am just for you—soaked through my panties—and i’d whisper every filthy thing i want to do to you.”

another breath from him—rough this time, almost like a groan—and your own thighs clenched in response. god, you weren’t supposed to like this.

your hand slid down your stomach, nails skimming your waistband. just to check how turned on you were. call it a professional curiosity.

you weren’t prepared for how damp you felt.

your breath hitched.

no.

you didn’t do this. you never touched yourself during a call. you faked it. you played a role.

but tonight, your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, brushing over your panties. you bit your lip to hold back a gasp as you felt the heat and wetness there. just the lightest pressure made your hips tilt against your hand.

“do you want me to tell you what i’d do if i were on my knees in front of you?” you purred, voice trembling slightly—not from acting, but from feeling. “i’d kiss up your thighs, slow. i’d take my time, make you beg me to—fuck—take you in my mouth.”

a low, broken sound came from the other end. and then, his voice : "fuck, where'd you get such a dirty mouth?" something about the way he said it—like he was almost ashamed—made your chest tighten and your body heat spike.

the words punched through you like lightning. your stomach flipped.

your fingers pressed harder against your clit, rubbing small circles over the fabric of your panties, your voice dropping to a desperate whisper.

“oh, wouldn't you like to know,” you said, breath catching. a pause. then, a rough, quiet. you slipped your hand into your panties and groaned softly into the mic as your fingers found your slick, sensitive clit.

“god . . . you feel so good already,” you whispered, your head tipping back, letting the headset slip slightly as your fingers rubbed in a quick, steady rhythm. “you’re listening so well. you’d be so good for me if you were here. i’d let you touch me . . . slow, just like this . . . ”

you could hear him breathing. heavy, fast, like he was coming apart. and it was too much—you couldn’t fake this if you tried. “say something,” you gasped softly, hips rocking against your own hand.

"are you touching yourself?" another beat of silence. then, his voice, low and strained, “you’re . . . very good at this.”

you swore under your breath.

no one ever talked to you like that on this line. most men filled the silence with crude fantasies and desperate whimpers, but this? this was quiet praise, delivered with such raw honesty that it shot straight through you like lightning.

your fingers slowed, but still dragging deliberately over your clit, pressing just enough to send a sweet ache rolling through your stomach.

“mmhm,” you hummed softly, finding your voice again. “you don’t know the half of what i’m good at, sweetie.”

you kept talking, because that was what you did—but this time, the words weren’t rehearsed. they spilled out unfiltered, carried by the sharp, consuming heat building between your thighs.

“if you were here,” you whispered, voice trembling, “i’d let you put your hands on me. big, strong hands gripping my hips, holding me right where you want me. i’d ride your thigh first, get myself all wet and desperate just for you.”

the sound that left him—barely audible, more exhale than word—nearly made you come on the spot. it was low and guttural, like a man barely holding himself together.

you leaned back in your chair, eyes fluttering closed, hips arching subtly as your fingers circled your clit in tight, aching loops. the slick heat coating your fingertips was humiliatingly real, but you couldn’t stop now. not with him breathing like that in your ear.

“god, you sound so good,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady and failing. “do you have any idea what you’re doing to me right now? i’m touching myself, sweet thing. i’m—fuck—i’m so wet, and it’s your fault.”

your breathing quickened, soft little gasps slipping between your teeth. you weren’t faking this time, and the thought made you dizzy. this wasn’t for a paycheck. this wasn’t performance.

this was for him.

you didn’t know what he looked like, but your mind supplied an image anyway—broad shoulders, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose around his neck, jaw clenched as he listened to you fall apart. you imagined his hand wrapped around himself, knuckles pale, strokes timed to your voice.

a fantasy that reminded you a lot of a certain bau unit chief.

a fantasy that made your thighs squeeze tighter, your hips rocking against your fingers as your pace quickened. you felt yourself teetering, each stroke sparking fire under your skin.

a sharp inhale cut through the line, followed by a quiet, choked sound—like he was about to say something and thought better of it.

you panted into the mic. “say it,” you coaxed, your own voice gone breathless. “say anything. tell me what you want, baby. tell me you want me to keep going.”

his reply was ragged, almost broken.

“don’t stop.”

that did it. those two words, rough and commanding, sent a shockwave through you. your hand moved faster now, fingers circling your clit with desperate precision, your back arching against the chair.

“oh my god,” you moaned, heat building, threatening to spill over. “if you were here, i’d let you push me down. i’d let you fuck me, hard, right here on this desk, while i begged you for more—fuck—just like that . . . ”

you were shaking now, your thighs trembling, breath coming in shallow pants. you could hear him too—his breathing, heavier and louder, almost in time with yours.

“don’t you dare hang up,” you whispered, hips rocking helplessly. “stay with me. i’m—fuck—i’m almost there. please . . . ”

a low, strangled sound came from him, and you broke.

your orgasm slammed into you, sudden and violent, your body tensing hard as waves of pleasure ripped through you. your free hand gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, while your fingers kept working, milking every last pulse of bliss.

“god—oh, god . . . ” you gasped into the mic, barely remembering you weren’t alone.

you slumped back in the chair, fingers slipping from between your thighs, your body trembling with aftershocks. the room was silent except for your breathing—ragged, unsteady—and his, still heavy in your ear.

you waited for him to say something. anything. but the line went dead.

you stared at the blank call log on your screen, chest still heaving, heart pounding in your ears. you’d just gotten off during a call. that had never happened before.

and all because of him.

a man you didn't even know the name of. the mystery man with the quiet voice. the one who’d said “i think i dialed wrong” last time, and “i don’t usually do this” tonight.

what the hell was he doing to you?

dividers by @cafekitsune + @uzmacchiato + @muerdida ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚   main masterlist ||| more aaron hotchner ||| inbox

🔖 . @questionably-intelligent69 @kmc1989 @loverofmenandcats @will-run-for-gin @eugene-emt-roe @dearveras @carmybearz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @alexxavicry @Antisocialbutterfly611 ◞ wanna join the phone operator!reader taglist??? click here!!!

[jacksabbotts]

Another idea for Jack and Morgue tech girl - just them making out haha. They’ve had their first kiss but now they both can’t get enough of each other. Bonus if she rides his thigh and he makes her cum that way.

OMFG yesssss. this is featured in chapter eleven/tweleve!!!!!!

along with "I'm ur fic Breathe, Jack says “gotta use your words baby. 'member what we talked about.”, i was just thinking if we could have this conversation on the current series! They talking about about it its essential, awareness and everything! 🤍" from anon

and

"hiii this is my first time requesting but you asked for some freaky requests and this is kinda tame but I’d love to give it a shot. Some praise smut with morgue girl but specifically she thinks she doesn’t like praise because of how dirty she felt with that other character, but then Jack lets it slip and it has a really big effect, maybe this takes place after a really hard day at work for morgue girl or something but I just neeeeed some nasty praise and dirty talk from Jack for morgue girl, poor bby deserves those words of affirmation." from anon

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER !  ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings heavy makeout ◞ over-the-clothes touching ◞ grinding ◞ PRAISE kink ◞ mention of past sexual harrasment ( not from jack but towards reader ) ‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 6.2k

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · .  AFTER THE HEAT ━━ chapter twelve . ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary after a rough shift, jack joins you in your apartment for a quiet, rain-soaked night that turns into something far more intimate. what starts as soft teasing and over-the-clothes heat transforms into a deeply emotional moment as you reclaim something that was once stolen—jack’s praise guiding you to your first real release in his arms.

the rain hit like static, a low hiss against the windshield that filled every pocket of silence. the kind of late-night rain that felt like it had weight, sticking to the streets, the windows, your skin.

you’d been sitting in jack’s truck for three minutes now, both of you too wrecked to move, letting the defroster hum while the world outside blurred into muted neon smudges.

neither of you had spoken since you left the hospital garage. there was no need. the day—or the night, whatever this hellshift qualified as—had already said everything for you. you could still feel the sterile hospital air in your lungs, the antiseptic bite of it clinging to your hair and clothes. your fingers ached. your knees ached. even your thoughts ached.

jack’s hand rested on the gearshift, steady, unshaking, like it always was. he hadn’t looked at you much during the drive—eyes mostly on the wet stretch of road—but you felt him. felt the weight of his awareness like the slow burn of a space heater.

you shifted in your seat, the vinyl squeaking softly under you. he caught the movement from the corner of his eye. “tired?” his voice was low, almost hoarse, like he’d spent too many hours shouting over trauma alarms. like the gravel in it was rawer than usual.

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “exhausted.”

a ghost of a smile brushed his lips. “yeah. me too.”

the windshield wipers squeaked and dragged, filling the silence that followed. you wanted to say something—anything—but your brain was mush. the dinner plans you’d both half-joked about yesterday suddenly felt more laughable than ever. you could barely keep your eyes open, let alone pretend to be a functioning adult at a restaurant table.

“jack?” you hesitated, your voice smaller than you intended. “about tonight—”

he glanced over, his brow lifting slightly. “yeah?”

“could we . . . maybe not?” you asked softly, staring down at your hands. “i just—don’t have the energy for crowds tonight.”

there was a pause. long enough that you risked looking up.

jack’s eyes were on you, warm even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “sweetheart,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling in that soft, devastating way, “you think i wanna sit in some loud-ass restaurant after the day we had? hell no. i was kinda hopin’ you’d say that.”

you blinked. “you were?”

he shrugged, hand flexing casually over the gearshift. “figured you’d either pass out in your soup or cry someone who looked at you wrong. neither of those scream ‘first out in public date’ to me.”

a laugh escaped you, shaky but real. “wow. thanks for the vote of confidence.”

jack grinned, tired but warm. “i’m just saying—there are other ways to spend the night.”

your chest tightened. “like what?”

“like . . . ” he glanced at you, his smile softening. “movie? couch? maybe a quiet night in where we don’t have to talk about morgues or trauma bays.”

the words slipped out before you could stop them. “i don’t . . . have a couch.” you were now realizing that jack had never actually seen the inside of your apartment. only the walkway and the front door. it was a studio and the only thing you could afford on your salary in this city but it did it's job alright.

jack tilted his head. “no couch?”

“no.” you fidgeted with your sleeves. “just . . . a bed. and a very tiny tv.” you don't like how suggestive that sentence sounded. because you were not just trying to get jack abbot into your bed.

the truck went quiet again—except for the rain and your heart pounding against your ribs. jack didn’t smirk. he didn’t make it weird. he just looked at you like you’d just told him something important.

“your bed, huh?” his voice was softer now, quieter, with that rough undertone that made you shiver. “you inviting me over, morgue girl?”

your throat worked. “i-i-i didn't mean it like that. i mean-only if . . . you want to. it was your idea.” that last part was definitely not meant for him to hear, it died off into a whisper.

jack’s gaze lingered on you for one long, heavy second. then he smiled—slow, steady. “yeah. i want to.”

the weight of it settled between you—warm and terrifying all at once. he didn’t push. he guiding the truck through the wet streets toward your place like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he chuckled, the sound low and rough, like gravel being poured into something warm. his right hand slid easily off the gearshift and settled on your knee, fingers splayed, the heat of his palm soaking straight through the fabric of your jeans.

you froze.

not because it was unwelcome, but because it wasn’t. at all.

you could feel every nerve ending in your body responding, sparking to life under that single, deliberate touch. you swallowed hard, trying to will your muscles to relax, but your fingers only curled tighter around the seatbelt strap.

the rest of the drive blurred past in a haze of rain and your own heartbeat. every bump of the road, every low hum of the engine felt louder than normal, like the whole night was poised on a knife’s edge.

when he pulled into your street, the truck lights illuminated the slick pavement, glistening like black glass. jack killed the engine, the sudden quiet leaving you both suspended in the sound of rain.

“come on,” he said, already reaching behind the seat for an umbrella.

you hesitated and then he shot you a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, as he flipped the umbrella open with a sharp click. 

your lips twitched despite yourself. he came around to your side, pulling the door open with one hand while holding the umbrella high with the other. the rain pelted down around him, beads sliding off his henley sleeves, darkening the fabric over his forearms.

you hesitated again, blinking up at him, and that soft, crooked grin appeared again. “you waiting for a royal escort? c’mon, morgue girl. out.”

you stepped down onto the slick pavement, and the cold instantly hit you. jack shifted closer, holding the umbrella wide enough to cover you but letting the rain soak his own shoulder. his hand found your lower back instinctively—warm, solid, there—and you tried not to shiver from the contact.

the short walk to your apartment felt longer than the entire drive. the sound of rain on the umbrella was oddly intimate, like being sealed into your own little world with him. jack’s body heat radiated close to yours, and every step felt heavier with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

at your door, he angled the umbrella so you could dig for your keys without getting soaked. “got it?” he asked quietly, eyes scanning your face as though he could tell you were more rattled than the rain warranted.

you nodded, fumbling a little because of course you did. his hand lingered on your back—steady, patient, like he wasn’t going anywhere.

the door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly your apartment—your safe little cave of solitude—felt too small. too warm. too aware of the man now standing just inside, shaking the rain from his hair like he belonged there.

jack glanced around, taking in the one-room layout: the narrow kitchen counter, the scuffed bookshelf, the unmade bed tucked near the window. his presence filled every corner, his broad shoulders dwarfing the tiny entryway. he didn’t say anything, just offered you that slow, crooked grin like he was already picturing you unraveling in this space.

you kicked off your wet shoes, trying not to stare. “uh… here,” you mumbled, darting for the closet. “i’ll get you a towel.”

“sweetheart,” he said behind you, voice warm, amused, “i’m not gonna melt.”

“still,” you shot back, too flustered to look at him. “you’re dripping on my floor.”

you grabbed the first towel you could find—soft but worn, a little frayed at the edges—and handed it over without meeting his eyes. he took it with a quiet, “thanks,” and started rubbing it over his hair, the motion pulling his shirt tighter across his shoulders. you stared at the floor like that would stop your brain from short-circuiting.

“you want something dry to change into?” you blurted, then immediately regretted it. “i—oh, god, i don’t have anything. i mean, i live alone, so obviously i don’t have men’s clothes, and that would be weird, and—”

jack chuckled low, cutting you off. “not a fan of other men’s clothes—unless it’s you wearing mine.”

your brain stopped. like, flatlined. your mouth opened and closed, but all that came out was a strangled, “i—wha—”

he smirked, tilting his head like he was watching you try to form a coherent sentence. “what? i meant it. can’t say i’d hate seeing you in one of my shirts.” his voice dropped, soft and rough all at once. “wouldn’t hate it at all.”

your knees went wobbly. “uh. right. okay.” smooth. very smooth.

jack grinned like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, then tossed the towel over a chair and shrugged out of his damp jacket. “what’s the plan, sweetheart? still want that movie night?”

“yeah,” you said too fast, voice cracking on the single syllable. “movie night. sure.”

movie night was a lie. you both knew it.

your little bed doubled as the couch because your studio was too small for anything else, so you laid perched nervously on the far edge of it, remote in hand, trying to look normal. jack sat next to you, close but not too close, his weight dipping the mattress just enough that you felt every movement.

the movie played on, some half-forgotten dialogue murmuring in the background, but you weren’t hearing any of it. all you could feel was him. jack was right there, an entire stretch of bed between you, but it might as well have been a mile.

his left hand was draped lazily between his knees—close to where you assume he laid limp. too close for your nervous brain to really comprehend.

you kept stealing glances—at his broad shoulders where his henley clung, at the way he sprawled against the pillows like he owned the space. like he owned you. his other arm was propped casually behind his head, bicep flexing with each subtle shift, and the soft flicker of the screen threw warm shadows across his jaw.

he didn’t look at you. not directly. but you felt him noticing. every time you fidgeted with the hem of your cardigan, every time you tucked your feet beneath you or crossed your arms to keep from reaching, you felt his attention like static.

the space between you was literally suffocating you. you hated how much you wanted to fill it.

stop being weird, you told yourself. it’s just jack. he’s literally just watching a movie.

but the silence burned holes in your chest, and your pulse wouldn’t settle. before you could talk yourself out of it, you shifted closer. just a little at first. barely enough to be noticeable. but then—jack turned his head.

and smiled.

not a smirk. not teasing. something softer. quieter. like maybe he’d been waiting for you to make that first move. his arm—heavy and warm—shifted down from behind his head, sliding onto the pillow between you. not touching, not yet, but open. welcoming.

you froze halfway through leaning into him, suddenly aware of how close you’d gotten.

jack chuckled low under his breath. not at you—never at you—but like he couldn’t help himself. then he tilted slightly toward your side, closing the last bit of distance until his arm brushed your sleeve.

it was barely a touch, but it made your breath stutter. “better,” he murmured, just once.

you didn’t realize you were holding your breath until his hand shifted—fingers brushing the curve of your arm, slow and deliberate. he didn’t pull you in. he didn’t need to. the quiet weight of him beside you was enough to make you fold.

you leaned closer, careful, your temple brushing his shoulder.

jack exhaled—long and slow. then his head tilted just enough that you felt his lips ghost your hairline. the movement was so slight, so natural, it didn’t feel like a question. it felt like inevitability.

you turned your head, the movie already forgotten, and that’s when you found his eyes.

god.

the way he looked at you. like you were something fragile and wanted at the same time. like he couldn’t believe you were his.

the air between you evaporated.

this time, jack didn’t wait for words. he shifted just enough to face you fully, his hand sliding from your arm to your jaw, and kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t demanding. it was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savor every single second you let him have.

and you melted.

his lips lingered on yours, soft at first—like he was letting you set the pace. he kissed you once, twice, and then his hand slid up, fingers curling against the side of your neck. not hard, not insistent, just there. warm and solid.

your breath hitched. “relax,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper against your mouth. “we’re not in a hurry.”

god, that voice. it coiled low in your stomach, spreading heat through your chest, and you kissed him back harder without meaning to. jack made a soft sound in response—half groan, half approval—and shifted so he was lying back more fully against the pillows, his arm tugging you closer.

you went. hesitant, yes, but you went. the mattress dipped beneath his weight as he leaned just a little sideways, pulling you with him until you were pressed along his side, your knee brushing his thigh.

the kiss deepened. his mouth opened just slightly, and when his tongue brushed yours—light, slow—you made a sound you didn’t recognize. a startled, desperate little noise that had his grip tightening fractionally on your waist.

“yeah,” he breathed against your lips, his voice gone lower. rougher. “just like that.” your whole body burned. you didn’t know what to do with your hands—one was clutching the hem of your sweater, the other hovering stupidly near his shoulder like it had lost all function. jack noticed—of course he did—and reached down, wrapping his hand around yours.

“here,” he murmured, voice coaxing. he placed your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. “feel that? that’s all you.”

your stomach flipped. his heartbeat was a steady, heavy thud beneath your fingertips. you swallowed hard, your fingers curling reflexively into the soft fabric of his henley.

“other hand,” he said quietly, nudging your arm from where it was frozen against your side. he guided it to his jaw—warm, rough with stubble—and left it there. “good. now hold on to me.”

you couldn’t breathe. couldn’t think. all you could feel was the weight of him, the heat of his body against yours, and the lazy, devastating way he kissed you like he had all night to break you apart.

when his hand started to slide up from your hip, you didn’t even register it at first. his palm traced your ribcage, hovering just below your breast, and he paused—pulling back just far enough to murmur, “okay?”

you nodded, too fast. “y-yeah.”

jack smirked faintly, but it wasn’t teasing. it was warm, slow, approving. his hand moved lower, over the curve of your waist, back to your hip again. his thumb brushed the seam of your leggings, and your stomach clenched so hard you gasped into his mouth.

“easy,” he said softly, kissing you again. “i’ve got you.”

and then—oh god—he shifted. just a little. his hips rolled forward as he leaned over you, and you felt it. the hard, solid press of him against your stomach, the heat of his arousal through the denim of his jeans. you jolted, breath stuttering against his lips.

“feel that?” jack rasped, breaking the kiss for half a second to breathe against your cheek. “that’s what you do to me.”

you froze. not because you wanted to stop, but because the sheer intensity of it knocked your brain clean out of your head.

jack noticed—of course he did. he was specially tuned to you whether you liked it or not. he pulled back just far enough to look at you, thumb brushing your jaw. “too much?”

“no,” you whispered. shaking your head. “not too much. just . . . i don’t know what to do.” he smiled—soft and slow and devastating. “then let me help.”

his hand slid down, curling gently around your wrist, guiding it to his stomach. his warmth burned through his henley. he waited—always waiting—before sliding your hand lower, to the waistband of his jeans.

your breath caught. “jack—”

“you don’t have to do anything,” he said, his voice like gravel now. “just feel me. that’s all.”

your palm hovered over the firm line of muscle just below his belt, your fingers trembling. jack leaned in closer, kissing you slow, steady, like you had all the time in the world. and when you shifted—accidentally pressing against him—his breath hitched hard.

a low, rough sound left his throat, deep enough to make you shiver.

jack’s kisses slowed, deepened, his breath mingling with yours as his hand left your wrist and slid back to your hip. his thumb traced lazy circles there, the pressure feather-light but maddening. then, lower—fingers brushing the outside of your thigh, inch by inch.

you stiffened—because every nerve in your body was suddenly screaming awake. “hey,” jack murmured, pulling back just enough to see your face. his lips were swollen, his voice rough. “just breathe, sweetheart.”

“i am,” you whispered, though it didn’t sound convincing.

jack’s grin was soft but knowing. his palm swept up your thigh again—slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that wasn’t trying to rush you but still sent heat blooming low in your belly. “can i . . . ?” he didn’t finish the sentence. he didn’t need to. the way his fingers hovered near the edge of your leggings, just shy of where you were throbbing, said everything.

your pulse spiked. you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. not right away. “baby, look at me,” he said gently, hand still and waiting. his tone wasn’t a command, not really—it was an anchor, a thread pulling you back into the moment.

your gaze flicked to his.

he searched your eyes, patient and steady, like he’d wait all night if that’s what it took. “do you want me to touch you?”

the breath you dragged in was shaky. you nodded.

“uh-uh,” jack said, soft but firm. “use your words, baby. remember what we talked about?” your stomach dropped, heat crawling up your neck. "you want me to touch you. you gotta say it out loud."

“i… yes. please.”

he shakes his head, disapproving. "uh-uh, gotta say the words."

"i-i-i want you to . . . touch me, jack." his exhale was low and harsh, like you’d just knocked the wind out of him. “that's my girl,” he muttered, his voice hoarse—jack’s words were molten, reverent, like he was praising you for trusting him.

and then his hand slid between your thighs.

not on your center yet—just the inside of your leg, his palm warm even through the fabric. he started low, just above your knee, his thumb tracing lazy, featherlight strokes up, up, up—pausing at the edge of your leggings where the heat of your body radiated through the cotton.

you gasped. your hips shifted without meaning to, trying to chase the warmth of his hand.

jack groaned—soft and restrained—his forehead dropping briefly to yours. “fuck. you’re killing me, sweetheart,” he breathed.

he kissed you again—slow, deep—his fingers brushing over you now, the lightest pass over your clothed cunt. not pushing, not rushing, just enough to make your entire body shiver. “like that?” he whispered against your lips.

you couldn’t even answer. just a breathless, shaking nod.

jack’s hand is warm, heavy against your center, sliding in slow, deliberate passes. every stroke of his palm feels like it burns, like the fabric of your leggings can’t hold back the heat pooling there. his mouth is everywhere—kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your lips—while his fingers toy at the edge of where you need him most.

“relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet. “you’re wound up so tight you’re shaking.”

“i—” the word dies in your throat when his thumb skims right over the seam of your leggings, close to your clit. no pressure, not really—just enough to make your hips twitch. he groans into your mouth when you gasp, a low, hungry sound that vibrates against your lips.

“that’s it,” he whispers, coaxing. “just feel me. nothing else. yeah?”

your breath hitches. you nod, though it feels like your brain is melting. he takes that as permission to press a little more firmly, his fingers tracing slow, teasing circles over the fabric, each one tighter than the last.

“jack—”

“i’ve got you,” he soothes, kissing you slow and deep, his hand molding against you like he’s learning every inch of your body by heart. “just like that. keep moving for me.”

it’s instinct. your hips roll—hesitant, unsure—but when you grind against the heel of his hand, the sound jack makes is nothing short of sinful. his head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he grind his cock into your thigh. “fuck. you feel that? you’re making me crazy, baby.”

heat sparks through you like lightning. you can’t stop the way you rock into him, desperate and trembling, chasing the friction. his hand guides you—steady, encouraging, the pressure of his palm firm enough to make you dizzy.

“you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice breaking with it. “you don’t even know how good you feel like this. god, i could stay here all night, just watching you.”

your whole body jerks when his thumb finally drags slowly over your clothed clit, a shudder ripping through you. he kisses you hard when you gasp, like he can’t stand to let the sound escape.

“such a good girl.”

the words hit like a brick to the chest.

everything stops.

your breath catches, and not in the way he means. it’s too sudden, too sharp. all at once, you’re not here—you’re standing in that sterile morgue again, shepherd’s voice slimy and low as he said the same words, good girl, like you were something to belittle. something to control.

your body freezes. jack feels it instantly.

“hey.” his hand is gone from between your legs before you can process it, his palm cupping your cheek instead, his voice low and concerned. “sweetheart. what’s wrong? did i—shit, did i go too far?”

“no,” you blurt, too fast. too desperate. you don’t want to think about shepherd. you don’t want this to stop. you grab jack’s wrist with trembling hands and try to guide him back down, back to where you need him. “please, jack. i’m fine. just—keep going.”

but jack doesn’t move. his hand stays right where it is, fingers brushing your hip but not pushing further. his eyes are dark, tinged with worry.

“you froze up on me,” he says gently. “sweetheart, talk to me. what happened?” you shake your head, frustrated, embarrassed. “nothing, i promise. i’m fine.”

jack’s jaw tightens. he doesn’t believe you. “no,” he says, voice firmer now. “something’s happened and we're not doing anything until you tell me what.”

your throat works, but no words come out. jack is still watching you, all warmth stripped from his expression—his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched, his hand still stubbornly resting high on your hip instead of where you want it.

“sweetheart,” he says again, quieter this time, though there’s steel under the softness. “look at me.”

“i said i’m fine,” you whisper, but your voice cracks right down the middle.

“sweetheart.” his tone leaves no room for argument. it’s not harsh, not even close. but it’s steady, grounded, the kind of voice that wraps around you like a hand at the back of your neck. “you think i can’t tell when something’s wrong?”

your throat feels tight, unbearably so. you squeeze your eyes shut. don’t say it. don’t bring him here. not into this. not into jack.

but jack’s thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “talk to me,” he murmurs. “you can tell me anything. always.”

your voice is a whisper. “it’s nothing. just—something stupid. i don’t wanna ruin this.”

the words hit something in you—deep, aching. it’s not like shepherd. it’s not like anyone else. and maybe that’s why the truth spills out in the smallest, ugliest whisper.

“you’re not gonna ruin anything,” jack murmurs, leaning in just enough that his forehead nearly brushes yours. “but if something’s in your head, i need to know. i’m not gonna let you sit here and pretend you’re okay when i can feel you aren’t.”

his thumb rubs an absent circle on your hip—comforting, not demanding. you shake your head, breath catching. “it’s not you.”

“ok,” he says firmly. “but i can’t fix what i don’t know, baby. what happened?”

you’re silent for a moment, wrestling with the words. the memory of shepherd’s voice slithers through your mind, unbidden, good girl. you flinch just thinking it.

when you finally speak, your voice cracks. “he said it. that . . . that name.”

jack doesn’t move. but the temperature in the room changes. he pulls back just far enough to see your face, his expression shifting—slowly, dangerously—from confusion to realization. his brows knit tighter. “who?”

you swallow hard, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. “shepherd. dr. shepherd. he . . . he called me that once.”

jack’s brows knit, confusion flashing into something sharper. “called you what?” you wondered for a second how someone so observant could be so oblivious.

your chest is tight, tears stinging at the back of your eyes. “good girl,” you whisper, and the words taste like ash. “and it didn’t—it didn’t feel right. it felt . . . ” your voice trails off, trembling.

jack’s whole body goes rigid. his jaw clenches so hard you can hear it. “that son of a—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face like he’s fighting the urge to throw something.

“jack—”

“no.” his voice is low, rough with fury. “no, sweetheart. he doesn’t get to do that. he doesn’t get to leave his shit in your head, not when you’re here with me.”

your breath stutters.

jack looks at you then—really looks, with that dangerous softness you’ve only seen once or twice. he taps two fingers lightly against your chest, right over your heart. “he doesn’t get this. he doesn’t get you.”

the tears come faster than you can stop them. “i didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit, voice breaking. “it felt different when you said it. better. but i couldn’t stop thinking about—”

“hey, look at me.” his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing away a tear like it’s an offense to his hands. his eyes are steady, warm even through the storm brewing in them. “you think i’m gonna let him take that from you? not a damn chance.”

you choke out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “jack—”

“no, listen.” his forehead tips to yours, his voice lowering to something so soft it wrecks you. “when i call you that? it’s because you are good. because you make me feel things i can’t even put words to. because you’re perfect to me. you hear me? that’s all it means. nothing about him. just you and me.”

something in your chest caves. you nod, shaky.

“say it,” he murmurs.

“say what?”

“tell me that you understand it,” he says, not rough, not claiming, but with a quiet conviction that makes your pulse skip.

“i understand,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he breathes, kissing your forehead like it’s the only answer that matters. “you’re my good girl. and i’ll say it until it feels like yours again. not his.”

the words wreck you. utterly. you nod into his chest, clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

your other hand slinks around his wrist and tightens around it. jack’s hand freezes midair when you push it back down, pressing his palm into the heat between your legs through your leggings.

“sweetheart…” his voice is tight, warning, but his eyes darken instantly. “you sure? we don’t—”

“say it,” you whisper, breath shaky but fierce. “say it again.”

his throat bobs, and for half a second, he just looks at you—like he’s trying to decide if you mean it, if you’re ready for what that word will feel like when it’s his.

then his lips curl into the faintest, roughest smile, and he presses his hand down firmer, fingers dragging slow against the seam of your leggings.

“good girl,” he rasps, and your body jerks like it’s the first time you’ve heard it. his. not shepherd’s. not poisoned or cruel or degrading. jack says it like it’s the only thing you’ll ever be—like it’s holy.

your breath stutters. “again,” you demand, your voice a whisper that somehow sounds more like begging than commanding.

he groans low in his chest, his hand moving with deliberate, steady pressure, rubbing you in slow circles through the soft barrier of fabric. “god, you feel so good under me. so wet already, aren’t you? that’s my good girl, letting me take care of you like this.”

your thighs tremble, hips twitching into his hand. “jack—”

“shh,” he murmurs, his tone roughening as his fingers speed up just slightly. “don’t stop saying my name like that. you like me touching you? you want more?”

you nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “yes, yes, i—jack, please…”

“please what?” his words come between hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his voice rough against your pulse. “please don’t stop? please make you come? tell me, sweetheart. use your words like i asked.”

“please—don’t stop,” you gasp, your hips rocking now, chasing every drag of his fingers over the damp spot growing in your leggings. “say it again. say i’m your—”

“my good girl,” he growls into your throat, this time harsher, more desperate. “you’re mine. all mine. nobody gets to touch you like this but me. nobody gets to make you feel this good.” his hand presses harder, fingers curling like he’s trying to mold you to his palm, and your body arches.

“again,” you cry out, because the word feels like fire in your veins now. “jack—say it again.”

“good girl,” he repeats, rougher this time, his voice breaking as his thumb finds a rhythm that has you keening, your leggings slick and hot under his hand. “good girl, taking it so well. fuck, you’re perfect. that’s it. just like that. you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?”

your head falls back, mouth open, a sound tearing from your throat that you didn’t even know you could make. his free hand grips your hip to hold you steady as you rut against his palm, breathless and shaking.

jack’s hand is relentless now, the slow, teasing patience gone, replaced by something darker and hungrier. his fingers press hard against the damp fabric between your legs, working you with a steady rhythm that makes your breath hitch with every drag of his palm.

“you’re soaking through these,” he mutters against your jaw, his voice low and frayed. “christ.”

you can feel him—hard and heavy—grinding against your side where you’re pinned beneath him. each rut of his hips sends a fresh bolt of heat through you, the friction of his jeans against your thigh paired with his hand on you too much to handle.

“jack,” you gasp, nails clawing at the fabric of his henley. “i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growls, his forehead pressed to yours now, every line of his body shaking with restraint. “you’re so close, sweetheart. i can feel it. don’t hold back on me. be my good girl and come for me.”

the words hit like a lightning strike—raw, rough, too much. your hips jerk up against his hand, chasing the friction, and jack groans loudly, his breath ragged against your mouth.

“god, that’s it—ride my hand, baby, just like that. fuck—” his voice cracks as his hips grind harder into your side, the roughness of his jeans brushing the soft curve of your waist.

you whimper, desperate and shaking. “say it again.”

“good girl,” he snarls, his tone rough and desperate as his thumb presses down over your clit through the fabric, circling with just enough pressure to make you see stars. “my good girl, taking everything i give her. you’re so fucking perfect like this.”

your head tips back, lips parting on a sharp, breathless cry as you chase the pressure, rutting against his hand while he works you faster. jack’s other arm braces beside your head, holding him above you, his bicep flexing as he moves with you. he’s sweating, groaning, losing it.

“jack—jack, i—”

“yeah, i know,” he pants, his hips jerking faster now as he grinds against your side, chasing his own high. “i’m right there with you, sweetheart. come for me. come with me. i wanna feel you fall apart while i do.”

the combination of his words, his hand, his body moving against yours pushes you over the edge with a sharp, broken cry. your thighs clamp around his hand, your body arching as wave after wave crashes through you.

“yes, fuck, that’s it,” jack groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. his hips stutter against you once, twice—and then he’s falling with you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his groan muffled against your skin as he comes in his jeans.

the world goes quiet for a moment. the rain outside. the sound of both of you panting, hearts racing. his hand slows, soothing, as he eases you down from the high, fingers brushing lightly against your trembling thighs.

“jesus christ,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. he shifts just enough to cradle you, pulling you into his lap while you’re still shivering. “you okay? sweetheart, look at me.”

your answer is barely a sound, just a soft hum as you bury your face against his throat, clinging to him like you’re afraid to let go. his chest shakes with a quiet laugh, warm and fond.

you are glued to him. melted. dissolved. a trembling, boneless heap in jack abbot’s lap, clinging like the world might fall out from under you if you let go. your arms are locked around his neck, your cheek smushed into that perfect, sweat-warm spot just under his jaw, and you are not letting go.

he shifts just slightly to reach for something and you whine—an honest-to-god, unconscious little whine—and hold tighter.

he huffs a soft laugh against your temple. “god, you’re clingy after you come, huh?” he teases, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “not that i’m complaining. i could hold you like this all night.”

you don’t even deny it. you can’t. your voice is half-gone and your brain’s still buffering. the only thing that comes out is a soft, shattered hum and the barely-there whisper of—“jack…”

and his arms tighten immediately. big, broad hands splayed across your back, cradling, grounding.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like he’s soothing a spooked animal. “not going anywhere.”

you’re not sure how long you stay like that—folded into each other, hearts still racing, breath slowly evening out—but eventually, you feel him shift again. this time, he eases you back just enough to see your face.

your cheeks are flushed. lips kiss-bitten. eyes glassy and dazed. you look thoroughly wrecked, and he looks so proud.

“stay here,” he says gently, brushing your hair off your face. “i’ll be right back.”

and true to his word, he’s back in less than a minute with a towel—warm from the dryer, because of course it is—and a bottle of water. he sets the towel down and unscrews the cap, coaxing the bottle into your hands.

“c’mon, sip for me,” he says, guiding it to your lips when you don’t move fast enough. “there you go. that’s my good girl.” he mumbles when you do begin to sip.

you flush all over again. you try to argue, something weak and croaky like i’m fine, but he cuts you off with a look.

“you were perfect.”

you shrink a little at the praise, still half-embarrassed by how much you needed it—how much you liked it—but he just grins, wicked and fond, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. you open your mouth to argue that you didn't even do anything but whine and moan, but again he stops you cold. "don't argue. you were perfect, baby."

“you always clingy after?” he teases quietly, fingers lazily stroking your thigh. “or is this just a me thing?”

you don’t answer. you can’t. your eyes are fluttering shut and your breath’s gone slow and even. he chuckles again, low and fond, and shifts the blankets over both of you.

“yeah,” he murmurs, tugging you close, “that’s what i thought.”

🔖  .   @princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @imherefordeanandbones  @arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @i-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz  @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf  @britt217  @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore  @chuiisi  @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv

@Shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @Lumpypoll  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @Justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags  @generalstarlightobject  @twiddledeedumsworld  @dlljdhsh  @jetless  @Thedamnqueenofhell  @Topnerd03  @misshoneypaper  @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040 @Sabi127  @Coleground  @sevenberry   @idontcarenoughtonamethis  @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @Sammiib444  @painment  @namgification  @Cherry_cosmos  @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca  @hello-lisa1026  @emma8895eb  @thesnugglingduck

@134340-cm @amindfullofmonsters @FloofMC @moonriseoverkyoto @alldaysdreamers @karavt @beefbaby25 @cruelchants @kiwikitty13 @faerykingdom @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @laerrynseelie @violetswritingg @braindead-raccoon @timeofmadness @bmoplanet @high-functioning-deadgirl @silas-aeiou @BxdBxtxh @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @kaiaspapayas @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @JillB12 @Emmyfairy @notgothenough @timeofmadness @valkyreally @narcolepticduck @hiireadstuff @dlljdhsh @beltzboys2015 @tealcelery @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @ahleecollaborations @pope-codys @breegirlxoxo @midnghtprentiss @sharkluver @fadeinsol  @trinket-007 @katydunn67 @beebeechaos @knifetotheback @starwars8979 @xxxkat3xxx @blue3delphi @blackwidownat2814

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!

[jacksabbotts]

★ 彡 QUESTION ❪ will we see morgue tech!reader interact with other nurses/doctors? secretly hoping they’re not all horrible to her ❫ from anon ★ 彡 ANSWER ❪ yes, so far we have seen morgue girl interact with dr. howell—aka her boss, aka the medical examiner—we have also seen her interact with dana, dr. shepherd, and obviously jack.

my question to you—the readers—is there other people we want to see morgue girl interact with?

i already plan to have morgue girl interact with mel—i know that mel and dana are day shift and jack is night shift, for the sake of this fic we are going to pretend they are all night shift lmao—and maybe ellis but i haven't thought too much about that. whether or not they are nice to morgue girl is totally dependent on who the character is. ❫

★ 彡 THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!!! want to ask a question??? send an ask or click here!!! ||| dividers by @cafekitsune + @uzmacchiato ||| Ⓒ jacksabbotts

[jacksabbotts]

Would Jack Abbot x Morgue tech ever get married? I feel like their whole engagement and wedding would be sooooo lowkey and personal. Like they decide to just elope??? Idk I’m really loving this whole series!!

yessssss they would totally get married and they’d one hundred percent go back and forth between having a wedding and just going to the courthouse and eloping. in the end tho i think they’d elope in secret ( not really in secret they are just private people and others would find out when jack/reader walks into work with wedding bands on ) 🫠

i need a jack abbot for myself

i WILL elaborate on this lmao, read it here when its posted !!!

[jacksabbotts]

Pls do more un-friend zone fics im BEGGING you 🥺🥺🥺

it is coming soooon ( i have a few written i just need to stop procrastinating and edit them 😬 )

[jacksabbotts]

i would love to send nsfw requests for morgue girl and jack but alas i am a virgin and have zero experience… i struggle to even think of scenarios! all i know is from fanfic 😭

i feel you ( i too have little to zero experience ) i just read copious amount of smut ( like a lot a lot ) so if anything i write seems unrealistic that is why lmao 🤷‍♀️

[jacksabbotts]

In act 2 will it be just the two loving each other or will there be any angst? 👀

oh boy is there angst??? ( yes! yes there is ) particularly chap. 12 👀👀😳🫣

[jacksabbotts]

just so you know i'm still thinking about jack and morgue girl's first kiss, i felt that in my bones!!!!! it was like jack was toutching MY FACE and i was feeeling butterflies in MY stomach THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE 🫡🫡🫡

THANK YOU LMAO i absolutely jump for joy when the reader share their thoughts. thank you for reading!!! 🤩🤩🤩

[jacksabbotts]

I need more morgue tech x jack nsfw so bad you don’t even know omfg😭😭😭 I am trying to think of ideas to send but my mind is completely blank ughhhh

But you are SUCH a good writer, I’m reading your works over and over again !!

THANK YOU!!!!! 😊

and yes i need alllllll the requests ( i am thinking of extending act two so i can include all the requests i have been getting idk uet tho 🤷‍♀️ )

[jacksabbotts]

I AM IN LOVE WITH THE MOST RECENT UPDATE OF MORGUETECH! AND JACK. Like bowing down to you and the way you write. Goddamn.

On a side note- what is the imagined age gap between them? Or are you leaving it up to our interpretation?

YAY I AM SO GLAD!!!! 🥳🥳

it is totally up for interpretation but if you want my opinion i’d say jack is mid to late 40s and morgue!tech is early 30s

[jacksabbotts]

hi queen! i’ve been off of the app for a while and hadn’t seen ur reply to my message! but can i just say I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ALL OF UR NEW STUFF!!! i cant wait for loki and hitch! ugh i love u

and i would LOVE to be 💐 anon

-a very happy 💐

THANK YOU!!!! welcome back!!!!

and ILY 🫶

[jacksabbotts]

I hope you’re doing good!! I literally get so excited whenever I see you’ve posted

i am doing GREAT!!! how are you????

i get so excited when i get asks in my inbox 🤩🤩

[jacksabbotts]

. ᵒ .༄ DBF!JAKE x ARTIST!READER !  ࿔* ━━ ⋅⋆ ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🎨 possible trigger warnings .' male!masturbation, sexting  ‧ 🛩️ ‧ ━━ WC 1.9k

series masterlist || inbox ━━━ request for dbfjake x artist!reader * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune + @dollywons + @bernardsbendystraws

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ imagine jake giving you hard dimensions

it was the buzzing that woke him. or maybe the sun creeping through the blinds. or maybe the half-hard weight between his legs reminding him of the conversation the two of you had six hours ago.

he groaned. rolled over. reached blindly for his phone on the nightstand, blinking against the brightness of the screen. he was still half-asleep, the sheets twisted around his hips, one leg kicked free in the night. his body was warm and lazy and hard.

8:03 am. two new messages. from you.

his brows lifted.

to jake 🐍 8:03 am

i need you to be so dead fucking serious with me for a second i need measurements like actual dimensions because i cannot for the fucking life of me get your cock right i’ve tried. i’ve really tried. i’m surrounded by sketchbook corpses and i’m on my last page

he let out a slow, disbelieving breath.

to jake 🐍 8:04 am

ok i think i’m sleep deprived ignore that last message lmao

he grinned.

“nope,” he muttered to himself, voice still graveled from sleep. “you don’t get to walk that one back.”

he thumbed out a reply, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world—even if his cock was starting to throb just reading your frantic little art breakdown.

jake 🐍 8:07 am

well good mornin’ to you too, picasso you gonna tell me where exactly you’re measuring from? base? tip? angle of elevation? curve radius? actually kinda flattered you ran outta pages before you got it right

he stared at the message for a beat, smirking. then, he tossed the phone beside him and stretched, cock twitching under the sheets at the mere idea of you—sleep-deprived and muttering curses, surrounded by crumpled paper and obsessing over his dick like it was some unsolvable math problem. then he added :

jake 🐍 8:11 am

you still want the numbers?

he didn’t even have to wait long.

to jake 🐍 8:12 am

jake. be serious.

he smirked and palmed himself over the sheets. oh, he was very serious.

i am bein serious this feels like a medical consult at this point you want soft or hard?

a beat passed. his cock twitched at the thought—hard, you wanted hard, obviously. hell, he was halfway there already. just from your desperation. from the image of you—sweaty, surrounded by crumpled drawings, pencil in hand and lip between your teeth, cursing the width of his shaft like it personally offended you.

jake 🐍 8:13 am

if you want hard you’re gonna have to give me a minute

he tossed the sheets aside. sat up a little, one hand already trailing down his abs, letting the phone rest against his thigh and finally wrapped a full hand around himself. jesus. he didn’t need the minute—but damn if he wasn’t going to enjoy it.

the slow hiss that escaped his teeth wasn’t voluntary. this wasn’t just teasing anymore. not with you in his head.

to jake 🐍 8:15 am

are you actually

he read it with a lazy blink and let out a low chuckle, rolling his wrist slowly and a low groan escaped his throat. he texted back with his free hand.

jake 🐍 8:22 am

patience, angel it’s a little hard to measure while i’m like this

and fuck, it was. he was already straining—thick and flushed and heavy against his palm, precum pearling at the tip. he gave it a slow, purposeful stroke, hips lifting off the mattress with a quiet grunt.

to jake 🐍 8:22 am

wtf does that mean??

he huffed a laugh. god, you were losing it. and he was enjoying far too much. jake wet his bottom lip. his thumb circled the head once, gathering slick, and he could feel himself starting to unravel—not quickly, but with pressure. the good kind.

jake 🐍 8:24 am

real stiff real warm real curious how bad you wanna know

he stared at the typing bubble. waited. he imagined your face. the way you’d look reading that—flushed, caught between exasperation and desire. imagined your hand twitching on the pencil, thighs pressing together. the image sent a pulse down his spine.

to jake 🐍 8:24 am

just put me outta my misery

well. if you insisted.

jake 🐍 8:26 am

you want the truth, baby? gonna need you to say it a lil clearer what exactly are you askin me for?

he slowed his strokes, drawing it out. slow. deliberate. shuddering.

to jake 🐍 8:27 am

i want the hard dimensions width. length. curvature. vein placement. don’t make me beg again

jake’s head dropped back against the pillow. he moaned.

out loud. no one to hear it but the quiet walls of his bedroom and the ragged rasp of his breath.

god, you were killing him. he bit his lip, let the tension build just a moment longer, and finally tapped out.

jake 🐍 8:28 am

good girl sit tight i’m nearly there

he threw back the pillow completely, needing space. spread his thighs wider. braced his phone in one hand and measured with the other, groaning as he did it—because fuck, even his own fingers weren’t enough. he thought of yours. of how much prettier they’d look wrapped around him.

his hips flexed up into his hand. five minutes later—hand still wrapped tight, stomach clenched, the image of your flushed face in his brain—he texted.

jake 🐍 8:33 am

7.8 inches just shy of eight little curve up thicker at the base two veins—left side’s more pronounced tip’s real flushed right now

he wiped his hand on the side of the sheet and smirked.  he was flushed too. chest rising, muscles tight. he wasn’t gonna last long—not like this. not with the way your voice was echoing in his head.

jake 🐍 8:33 am

need a cross section? happy to supply a diagram though you seemed to have one hell of an imagination already

he squeezed his cock, slow and cruel, pulling another drop of precome from the tip.

jake 🐍 8:34 am

gonna draw me again? or are your hands too busy right now

the tension was unbearable. his spine arched. he let out a quiet, choked-off laugh that turned into a grunt. his cock twitched in his palm. just the thought of you fucking your cunt with your own fingers at the description of his cock.

jake 🐍 8:35 am

need more inspiration, angel? i could send you something for reference, of course

and then, finally—

to jake 🐍 8:37 am

don’t tease me

jake didn’t hesitate.

jake 🐍 8:37 am

oh i’m serious say please

he reached for his phone camera, barely able to hold it steady with one hand. found the light. got the angle right. thumb tight at the base. veins thick and pulsing. he knew exactly how it would wreck you.

to jake 🐍 8:40 am

please.

he was right there, right on the edge, and you were the only thing in his mind—your voice, your sketchbook, your please. now you were asking to see his cock. and so nicely at that. he couldn't help but oblige.

jake 🐍 8:42 am

still need dimensions? or do you wanna measure it yourself?

jake was so close it was stupid. his hand worked in tight, slick pulls, his wrist flexing, hips shifting against the mattress like he couldn’t quite not chase the friction. the picture he’d just sent still glowed on his phone screen, half-lit with the filtered sunrise glow cutting through the window slats—his cock flushed and leaking, thick fingers wrapped around the base, one prominent vein bulging left of center just like you’d drawn.

just like you’d tried to draw.

he groaned, low and guttural, because the thought of you analyzing it—sketching it, erasing and redrawing—aching for it?

fuck, that did something to him.

jake 🐍 8:44 am

if that’s all… i think i gotta go take care of my problem i’ll be thinkin’ of you, darlin

he sent it one-handed, knuckles white around the base of his cock. his phone slipped from his grip and hit the bedspread with a muted thud—forgotten, discarded. his other hand was busy—so fucking busy—pumping faster now, chasing it.

and he did think of you.

not the coy, flirty version of you that bantered back. no—he pictured the one too breathless to finish a sentence, hips lifting off your chair, thighs tight together under the desk, the corner of his sketch burning a hole in your pocket.

his jaw clenched. he rolled his hips up into his fist, back arching, chest heaving.

you’d begged him.

and he lost it.

jake came with a full-body shudder, choking on a curse that never made it out. hot, thick pulses spilled across his knuckles and wrist, slicking over his abs, and he didn't stop—not right away. he squeezed through it, milked every last twitch until his body sagged like a snapped rubber band, limp and satisfied and absolutely fucked out.

the sheets were ruined. his hand was shaking. his mouth was dry.

but all he could do—after—was smile.

because you’d wanted the truth. and now you had it. every inch of it.

his breathing finally slowed.

sweat clung to his chest, a line of it cooling along the curve of his spine. the morning light cut across his room in warm, pale stripes—highlighting the wreckage he’d made of the sheets, the smears of cum across his stomach, the used-up look in his eyes as he reached for his phone again.

still buzzing.

still lit up with your name at the top of the thread.

jake dragged a thumb across the screen to scroll back through the exchange. every word. every needy message. every please. god, he was fucking obsessed.

he shifted against the headboard with a stretch, one arm slung over his head as he looked at the last photo he’d sent. the one that had you spiraling. the one that had him unraveling.

fucking hell, he thought. you were gonna ruin him.

not just because you’d drawn him—cock and all, from imagination—but because you’d obsessed over it. agonized over getting it right. you’d filled a sketchbook with versions of him that weren’t accurate enough. and then you asked him for measurements at eight am with shaking fingers and a brain full of want.

and that was the sexiest thing jake seresin had ever seen.

he rolled onto his side, lazily wiping his stomach with the nearest t-shirt. still smirking. still so fucking smug. and underneath it—hooked.

because if that was what you sounded like over text? what the fuck were you going to sound like in person? the next time he touched you, it wouldn’t be a whisper at your back or a teasing note tucked in your pocket.

it’d be his cock in your hand. his mouth in your ear. his voice saying : you ready to stop drawin’, baby? do you want the real thing?

and he laid there.

still naked.

hardening again.

and still grinning like the bastard he absolutely was.

🔖  .   @spooky-librarian-ghost  @Soupie_MeowMeow  @gardeniarose13  @kmc1989  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe @nubecita040 @moonriseoverkyoto @alldaysdreamers @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @timeofmadness @writergirl28 @alldaysdreamers @khouse712 @nightmenotyou @hiireadstuff @beltzboys2015 @bobsbri

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the artist!reader taglist??? click here!!!!