#the Pitt 2025

[drmelking]

The Pitt + text posts (2/?)

[frombookstoretobookstore]

A Teaching Moment

Abbot x Wife!Reader Summary: When Abbot's wife tries to sneak in with a small medical emergency, some of the doctors of the ED decide to use it as a teaching moment. Of course, Abbot finds out his wife is in the ER and he's none too happy. Tw: Blood, stitches, Walsh teasing Abbot. Masterlist

“Ow, ow, ow, still ow!” Y/n says as Robby laughs quietly as he continues to clean the various cuts on her hand.

“You want the good news or the bad news?’ He asks, hands on his hips as he looks up at his friend from the stool he’s sitting on.

“I’d love for you to just finish this up so I can go the hell home!” She says exasperated.

“Good news, you only need two stitches.”

“The bad news Robert; spit it out.” She says, her eyes narrowing.

“Dana might be looking for your husband to let him know you’re here.” Robby says apologetically, pulling her hand back to inspect it for any other pieces of glass. He grips her wrist as she falls back with a groan.

“What part of ‘I may need a few stitches please be discreet’, did you not fucking get?” She’s gritting her teeth against the pain as Robby continues flushing the wounds out.

Before he can apologize, Abbot’s ripping the curtain aside; his chest heaving and a bewildered look on his face. He rushes forward, taking Y/n’s face in his hands.

“What happened? Are you ok? Dana said you…” His panicked stream of words is cut off as Dana leans against the wall in the entryway to interrupt him.

“Dana said his wife had lost a battle with a glass vase and was perfectly fine and wouldn’t even need any stiches. I even mentioned how smart she was to come into the ED to make sure she was fine.” Dana says in the third person, rolling her eyes as Abbot continues to fidget over his wife.

Y/n bats his hands away. “Oh my god I swear I’m fine, the vase shattered, and I tried to catch it before it hit the floo- the fuck Robby!” She swears and hisses as Robby injects lidocaine to numb her hand before adding a few stitches.

“Pinch and some burning.” Robby says as he starts stitching two smaller cuts on her thumb. He chuckles softly when he can feel the ‘no shit’ look he’s getting from Y/n. He looks to Abbot who is still standing with a panicked look on his face.

“Scratch that, she’ll need two stitches, why don’t you go check in with your gremlins while I finish up here, hm?” He shoots Abbot a look and the vet glares back. He presses a kiss to the side of his wife’s head.

“You’re stitching up my wife and you think I’m going to just walk away? You’re so very funny.” He jokingly sneers at his friend.

Just as Abbot is about to sit, intent on staying with his wife before he clocks in for his shift, Dr. Walsh is strides in with the med students in tow.

Abbot groans and sits down heavily on a rolling stool to the right of his wife, his gaze on the ceiling.

“And here you can see a great misuse of company resources. Two senior attendings, one of which isn’t even clocked in, and our charge nurse all on one, simple, stitch up.” She’s beaming as the med students cluster into the small trauma room, clearly confused on why they’re being dragged into this.

Abbot groans and lays his head on the bed, trying his best to will himself not to crash out at this woman.

“And here we see a wonderful surgeon who has clocked in for her nightshift and is misusing her time parading around exhausted med students. Hi Walsh.” Y/n is swaying her feet side to side as they’re propped up on the exam table, she’s been sat up in.

“Y/n here is the lovely partner of our brooding Dr. Abbot.” Dana says with a smirk. “And she’s been nice enough to stress out her husband by hurting herself before his shift to join us at the ER.” Abbot groans from where he has his head down, He props it up on his hand and fixes Walsh with a glare the med students find off-putting. 

“Send the ducklings home Robby, I can handle it from here.” Y/n says, picking up some gauze to wrap her hand from the metal tray next to him. “All of you go home, shows over.” She raises an eyebrow.

“You heard her, go.” Abbot waves his hands, prompting the med students to scatter out the door.

“You need to stop scaring the med students, they’ll be on your shift soon enough.” Roby laughs, Abbot shooting him a look.

“Oh please,” Abbot says as he stands. “Y/n has practically adopted them already.”

“Alright, you know the drill. And I doubt he’ll let you forget anything.” Robby laughs as Abbot studies his stiches.

“She won’t be lifting a finger. Better yet, she’ll be reduced to bed rest until her stitches come out and she’s consulted with ortho.” Abbot’s stare remains serious as his wife scoffs as she stands from the exam chair.

“It’s a flesh wound, not an open fracture.” She’s rolling her eyes, Abbot already fretting over her standing so soon after her trauma. “Jack Henry Abbot, I am not taking a wheelchair, I can walk back to the car just fine.”

Robby can’t help but laugh as he exits the room to head home. He leaves his friend to fret over his wife.

“You drove here?!” Abbot says, his eyes wide.

“It was a smattering of a few small cuts!”

“You could have bled out!”

“I couldn’t have bled out if I tried!”

“What if you threw a clot?”

“I’m going to pretend we aren’t having this conversation anymore and go home.” Y/n starts to leave but Abbot isn’t done with her.

He catches her arm gently, his grip firm enough to halt her without causing any pain. “Y/n, please. Just give me a minute. I need to know you're going to take care of yourself.”

Y/n sighs but softens slightly at the pleading look on Abbot's face. “I promise, Jack. I'll take it easy. Bed rest, no lifting, no sudden movements.” She lays a hand on his chest. He smiles and lifts her bandaged hand to his lips, pressing small kiss to her knuckles.

“Maybe if you behave tonight, I’ll let you take out my stitches. If not, I’m letting one of the med students do it.” She laughs and presses a kiss to the side of his mouth before making her way towards the exit to the parking lot.

“You wouldn’t dare.” He yells after her, unable to stop the smirk on his face.

“Try me!” She hollers back as she steps out into the night. ___________________________________________ A/N: I'm working on so many pieces right now, a few requests, and possibly (possibly) a Pope Cody fic. As always I appreciate any feedback!

[dexxtrosee]

Safekeeping

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!reader

Summary: A baby got to the ER thirty minutes ago and hasn't stopped crying since. It's starting to get on everyone's nerves. He is, unfortunately, the one in charge, so it's his problem to deal with.

A/N: Set a few months after the last episode of The Pitt's S1. Mind you, this was supposed to be me testing the waters with the fandom and instead I got dunked, I just can't get this man out of my head. Oh well. Part one, I guess?

There´s a baby crying two rooms away from the one he’s at. 

The baby hasn’t stopped crying in thirty minutes, a world of difference from the case Robby is currently using as a teaching lesson for Santos and Whitaker. He doesn’t need to be a genius in emotional expression to notice she’s bored to death, while Whitaker seems relieved to be away from an immediate life threatening situation for once. He won’t admit it, not even to Dana, but he is using it as both a punishment for her and a break for him. He barely got between her and an abusive mother just a few hours ago before they drew blood. He managed to save Santos from being escorted out in cuffs along with the mother by sheer force of willpower and some favors owed by the cops.

And he won’t say it to her either, but if he were thirty years younger and a tad more stupid, that would have been him. She doesn’t need to know that, though.

“Are you a smoker, miss Rossi?”

The lady, a seventy year old woman who insists on them calling her miss, because she’s “divorced, dammit”, shakes her head and turns to look at her granddaughter. Robby can practically hear her thoughts (Can you believe this boy?) and has to bite back a chuckle. 

“Do you, by any chance, often cook on firewood?”

Miss Rossi shakes her head again, this time with an added eye roll. The baby hasn’t stopped crying. 

Whitaker is starting to play with his hands, glancing nervously at the granddaughter and at Santos. The boredom seems to have eased a bit, now replaced by amusement from seeing the poor boy suffer. Robby doesn’t interfere. 

“Have you done strenuous activity recently?”

At this, the teenage girl sitting by her side perks up, glancing at her grandmother with pursed lips. Robby smiles when Whitaker catches it and latches onto it like a starved animal. 

“Maybe cleaning around the house? Too long walks? Heavy lifting?”

Miss Rossi finally seems to think about it. Santos starts fidgeting where she’s standing, checking her watch. He suppresses a sigh and writes a mental note about mentioning it to her. The baby hasn’t stopped crying. 

“Well, I went with the kids to the park this morning. Had to chase them around when they grabbed the youngest and put her inside the basket of one of the bikes! Can you believe it? Those fuckers.”

They all let out some chuckles and sighs of relief. 

“Are you from Allegheny, miss Rossi?”

She nods, smiling for the first time since they both got here. “Born and raised, boy.”

Robby nods at him, giving him a thumbs up. Santos tries to hide her own smile. 

“Alright, seems you can handle this one.” Robby glares briefly at Santos, and she nods with so much annoyance he shakes his head. “I’ll go check on other cases, call me if anything happens.”

He doesn’t wait to see the answers, just steps out and walks straight to the room with the crying baby. 

Before he enters, he notices Dana standing inside and talking softly to, he assumes, the mother. She has her back to him, shoulders shaking and head hung low. Samira and McKay are bent over a cradle. A hole inside his stomach appears when he notices how anxious they both seem to be. 

“Good morning, I’m doctor Robinavitch. What seems to be the problem here?”

Dana turns, frowning and looking at him like he’s the worst thing to happen to her today. He reels back slightly, tries to peek behind her back. She shakes her head, motions him to fuck off. 

McKay doesn’t move. Samira stands up straight like he just pulled her back string, nervous. “All good, sir. We can handle this one, no worries.”

Robby frowns, bites back the need to tell them all off. “Well, that poor thing hasn’t stopped crying in more than half an hour. Are you sure?”

McKay waves at him from her bent position, shaking her head furiously without actually turning to look at him. 

Without saying anything, he turns to Dana again. She sighs, lets go of the mother’s hands and pushes him out of the room with no explanation. Before she closes back the curtain, he tries and fails to catch a glance at the mother.

“What the fuck is going on?”

He loves Dana, he truly does. Still, sometimes he wishes he could work with someone less hardheaded. He has enough of it in himself.

“She doesn’t want any men near her baby.”

Robby tilts his head, frowns deeper. “Should I call the cops?”

Something inside him burns and itches when Dana shakes her head. “They’re already aware of anything worth reporting.”

Robby nods, clenches his hands. He doesn’t know what to do with himself when the baby lets out a louder cry. “What the hell is wrong then? They haven’t figured it out yet? Should I bring Collins here?”

She’s busy dealing with a broken leg from a teenage boy that got too excited with his skateboard, but the cries are starting to get on everyone’s nerves, he can see it. 

“Maybe you should, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

He turns away, walks to Langdon and grabs him away from the nurse bay. He doesn’t protest, hasn’t since he came back last month. It still weirds Robby out. 

“I need you to finish Collins’ case, she has to help out with a different one.”

“I can do it,” The need for approval drips from his words. It still twists Robby’s chest. He shakes his head, doesn’t explain, pushes him inside and motions Collins out with just a smile to the parents.

“Need you to help in Room Two, I’m sorry.”

She gets it immediately, smiles softly and nods. She’s trying again, Robby knows. Still, he’s tried his best to keep her away from any babies. 

When they go back, Dana steps out and grabs Robby. He lets her lead him to the corner between rooms, crossing his arms. “I’m not going anywhere near the baby unless it’s completely necessary, I know. What now?”

“She wants to talk to you.”

The mother, he guesses. He nods, interlaces his fingers and then unthreads them when he notices how tense he feels from it. 

“Just… be gentle, Robby. She looks six seconds away from throwing up out of stress.”

There are so many things he could say to that. Instead, he just nods. Dana goes inside, doesn’t come out again.

When the mom steps out, the first thing that crosses his mind is “wow, holy shit”.

Then he starts berating himself because, holy fuck, what the hell was that?

You take a few steps closer to him, playing with your fingers, and cleaning a few stray tears away from your face. His hands twitch by his sides.

“Hi.”

Dear God, take him now. Warmth spreads all over his chest when your voice reaches his ears. 

“Hello,” he starts. He has to clear his throat before continuing. “Dana mentioned you wanted to talk to me, I’m doctor Robinavitch. Or Doctor Robby, if you prefer.”

You nod, trying and failing to smile at him. “Nice to meet you. Are you… like, the boss around here?”

He nods, unsure of how you may react. He doesn’t notice any disgust or annoyance, but there’s no positive reaction either. He relaxes his shoulders and makes sure to leave his hands visible. 

“Indeed I am. What can I do for you?”

He has to hold his breath when you raise your head to look at him straight to his eyes. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Can you make sure no male nurses or doctors come near her?”

Irrationally, he wants to sit you down and make you spit out any and all information about your baby. Why you seem so scared one second and ready for combat the next, why your eyes are so pretty, why you don’t let him near the babygirl.

Instead, he just nods, asks softly “Is there anything or anyone we should be worried about?” 

You shake your head, give him a satisfied smile that seems to pull the ground from under him. “No, not anymore.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He feels lightheaded, unsure of where he stands. You tilt your head slightly, then jump when Collins comes out. He realizes now that the crying stopped. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but can we have a word?”

Your face falls. It makes him irrationally mad, wants to twist the world around until you’re smiling again. He doesn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Is it serious?”

Collins puts her hand on your hand in an effort to comfort you, shaking her head. He glares at her hand like it personally offended him. “Nothing serious, it seems like she just had an allergic reaction to formula. Could you tell me which one she's taking?”

It’s almost like he vanishes into thin air as soon as there’s something related to the baby anywhere near you. You turn around, back to him while you pull up a picture in your phone and show it to Heather. She nods and smiles, letting you know it’s nothing too bad. He notices your entire body relaxing, and the tips of his ears turn red. 

“So what should I do at home now?”

The anxiety you exude makes him tense, almost angry. He’s bothered by not being able to get an actual look at the situation, relegated to talking to you only and away from what seems to be the center of your universe. He takes a deep breath to try and push out the uncomfortable feeling of uselessness.

“We would like to keep her here, at least for today just to keep an eye on how she reacts with different formulas, and maybe give her some fluids in case she’s dehydrated.” Heather’s voice is tender, gentle in a way he’s not sure he could manage now, not after so many years of hoping it would help and seeing it turn people into aggressive maniacs. 

But you just nod, pocketing your phone before turning back to look at him again and knocking the air out of his lungs. 

He's sure he's earned his year in Hell when faint excitement blooms as he realizes you'll be around for a few hours. He doesn't understand what's happening, why he's acting like a teenage boy with a crush or a fresh student handling his first case with an attractive person. Fuck. Fuck.

“Can you make sure the people from other shifts respect what I ask?”

He’s already mentally preparing his speech for Jack. “Of course. And I’ll see if we can keep you here along with your baby, just to be safe.” 

You beam at him, and once again, he feels like the Earth tilts under him. “Thank you, doctor Robby.”

He notices Dana staring at him from inside the room, grinning.

Oh, he’s absolutely fucked.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

AO3

[winterseige]

people said robby was giving a miranda

Oh.

[bullet-prooflove]

Three Days: Jack Abbot x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @gabsgabsvaz @fadeinsol

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.

Jack loves the way you say his name.

He loves the loud breathless sound you make as you hit that high, your nails raking across his back, your thighs tightening, drawing him deeper.

He loves the way you fall apart under his hands, gripping every inch of him as he spurts his release deep, his mouth claiming yours in the moment.

That’s the first time he has you.

But it isn’t the last.

He spends three days making love to you in every position imaginable. He goes down on you in the kitchen, fucks you on the couch, blows his load on your tits in the shower. He wants to sear the memory of himself on your heart, brand you as his own, ruin you for any other man because he doesn’t want there to be another man, he just wants there to be him.

Jack Abbot, your one, your only.

“I have to go home soon.” You tell him that night as you lay face to face his bed, his thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek. “I’m not wearing your sweat pants to work tomorrow.”

“I know.” He murmurs, his lips brushing over yours. “But you’ll stay tonight right?”

“Yes Jack.” You whisper, your fingers combing through his silver curls, drawing a low gravelly moan from the depths of his chest. “You can have me all night long.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[ryanxross]

The Pitt literally has everything. Socially awkward and highly competent autistic coded character. Sarcastic asshole with a heart of gold. Nervous white boy with the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen. Nepo baby child prodigy. Milf with a mysterious past. Noah Wyle. Need I say more

[sweetestcowboy]

i desperately need abbott. it’s no joke.

Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have

pairing : dr. jack abbot x resident!reader (afab!reader)

summary : The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury. (Lowkey inspired by Big Love by Fleetwood Mac—because obviously.)

warnings/content : trauma aftermath (mass casualty event), hospital setting, attending x resident dynamic, mutual pining, emotional repression, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, verbal rejection, explicit sexual content (f!receiving, protected sex), semi-public/backseat sex, emotionally loaded dialogue, swearing

word count : 4,212

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : I am just so obsessed with Abbot, like oml I do not need a new hyperfixation at this point of the semester but here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this!

There’s blood on your forearms.

Not a lot—just the dried trace of a life you couldn’t save, stuck to your skin even after the first scrub. You’ve already changed out of your soiled gloves and gown. You sanitized twice. But still, you scrub again, because your hands won’t stop shaking and focusing on the motion keeps you upright.

The shooting at Pitt Fest has left the trauma bay soaked with the sound of screams you can’t forget. The floors were slick. Supplies ran out faster than anyone could track. You can still hear the rhythmic buzz of the trauma pager, the overhead call for more gurneys, the shrill monitor that never quieted until it did.

Your white coat is somewhere in the hallway—discarded and stained, a casualty of triage. There’s a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, just beneath your eye. It’s from when the mother of the boy thrashed in panic, her elbow colliding with your face. You didn’t notice it at first, not until someone pointed it out with a grimace. Said it was turning purple, already swelling. Said you should ice it. You didn’t.

You press harder on your hands.

Jack Abbot hasn’t spoken to you since he snapped orders across the gurney three hours ago, voice razor-sharp, eyes like flint. He’d taken over compressions without blinking. His personal protection gear streaked in blood. His shoulders set like stone. His voice—steady, calm, cold.

You’d hesitated.

Just a second. Maybe less. But he’d seen it.

“You’re too shallow—switch out. Now.”

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stepped in, hands already moving, chest compressing with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

He moves like he did on the field. You’ve heard stories—Jack the soldier, desert heat in his lungs, fingers suturing flesh with a kind of brutal grace. You’ve seen glimpses of it before, but tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t a glimpse. It was a full transformation.

You backed away, stunned into silence. Not because he took over. But because of how he did it. Like you were a liability. Like you didn’t belong.

You told yourself it was adrenaline. It wasn’t.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

You keep your eyes on the mirror—don’t move, don’t breathe—until his reflection comes into focus beside yours.

His eyes go straight to your cheek.

The bruise.

His posture changes. Shoulders tense, mouth tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of something behind his eyes is unmistakable. Not surprise. Not guilt.

Anger. Not at you—but at the fact that you’re hurt.

He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter. His eyes flick to your cheekbone again. The bruise is deeper now, ugly in the fluorescent light.

“You paused,” he says finally, voice low.

You dry your hands slowly. The paper towel crinkles between your fingers.

You turn, sharp. “I froze because I’ve never had to treat a gunshot wound in a fifteen-year-old while their mother screamed in my ear.”

You don’t stop.

“She was grabbing my sleeves, pulling at my hands, sobbing and shouting his name—over and over. She kept trying to touch his face. I could barely see where the blood was coming from. I wasn’t even sure where to start.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “That’s what the job is.”

You laugh, and it sounds like it’s clawing its way out of your chest. “Don’t lecture me on what the job is, Jack. I’ve been here three years. I know what this place does to people.”

His jaw tightens. There’s something in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or guilt. You can’t tell with him. You never can.

He pushes off the counter.

“You think I don’t know what it does to people?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he steps closer, the air between you tight enough to snap.

“You think I wanted you in the bay?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

Jack’s voice dips lower. “I saw your name on the call sheet. I almost pulled you off rotation.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t get to do that.”

He’s close now—too close. He smells like hospital soap and something else beneath it—deep, expensive cologne that cuts through the sterile air. Teakwood. Mahogany. That warm, slightly spiced scent that always lingers a second too long after he leaves a room. Clean. Controlled. Intentionally chosen. Just like him.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart,” he says.

Your heart slams. The words hit harder than they should, because they’re the first ones he’s offered that sound like anything real. Not just protocol. Not just war-worn discipline.

“I already have,” you whisper. “And you didn’t notice. Not when I told you how I felt. Not when you shut me down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

He swallows hard. His posture stiffens.

“You didn’t even look at me after that,” you say, voice shaking. “I told you I had feelings for you, and you acted like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Like caring about you was a mistake I should be embarrassed by.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

You shake your head, eyes burning. “For you, it’s easier to pretend this thing—whatever it is between us—doesn’t exist than admit you’re scared of something real.”

You don’t have to spell it out. You’ve seen the way he distances himself—the way he locks things down before anyone even gets close. You’ve felt it.

The silence now is a living thing. Loud. Brutal. The air is laced with too many unsaid things.

You can feel it—beneath the calm, beneath the scrub shirt and military precision—Jack is burning.

But he still doesn’t reach for you.

So you do what you always do.

You leave before he can stop you.

You don’t get far.

The trauma bay doors hiss shut behind you and the night air hits your face like a slap—cool, sharp, soaked in hospital exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You pace once. Twice. You don’t cry.

You breathe. You think you might scream. Instead, you lean back against the cold exterior wall of the hospital and close your eyes. And there it is—the echo of his voice, thick with something too raw to name.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart.”

But it wasn’t just tonight that gutted you. It started before. When you said too much and he gave you nothing.

It was three days ago. Late enough that the hospital had gone quiet—the kind of quiet where your thoughts get too loud, and nothing feels safe to admit.

You were both at the nurses’ station. Jack sat at one of the desktops, the screen glowing pale blue in front of him, his fingers motionless on the trackpad. You were across from him, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other absently toying with a pen.

You’d been circling it for weeks—maybe longer. This thing between you. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the quiet, in the unspoken, in the almosts. In the way your skin prickled when he entered a room. The way air shifted when he stood behind you—close, but never touching.

It was in the way his gaze found you during rounds, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The way his voice dipped when he said your name, soft and unreadable—like a secret slipping between his teeth. The way your breath caught when he brushed past you in the hallway, the fabric of his scrubs grazing yours, sending a bolt of something electric down your spine.

It was professional. It had to be. But it never felt neutral.

Every look felt like contact. Every silence, a dare.

The tension wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It sat just under the surface—constant, quiet, undeniable. Like gravity. Like something pulling you toward him whether you wanted it or not.

But it wasn’t just you.

Jack watched you, too. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he was trying not to want you and failing anyway. He always looked away too slowly. Cleared his throat when your laugh caught him off guard. Said your name differently than everyone else—lower, rougher, like he was holding it in his mouth too long.

There were moments you caught him looking at you like he was already sorry for it.

Like he knew what it would cost if he gave in.

There were nights you couldn’t sleep without replaying the way his hand brushed yours, or the heat of his body behind you in the elevator, or the flicker of something in his eyes before he shut it down again.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

He wasn’t supposed to let you.

But you did.

And he did.

And both of you kept pretending it wasn’t real—even as it took up more and more space inside your chest.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… happened.

“I care about you,” you’d said, voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just need you to know.”

Jack didn’t look up. Not at first. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw set like someone had flipped a switch inside him. When he did meet your eyes, it wasn’t with warmth. It was with something colder. Sharper. Like he was bracing for impact.

“This can’t happen,” he’d said. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was reciting a rule he’d memorized a long time ago. “You’re a resident. I’m your attending. You know that.”

You’d nodded, tried to smile, tried to make it easy for him. Tried to act like it didn’t sting.

But he kept going.

“And even if you weren’t… it’s not a good idea.”

He hesitated. Just a second. But enough.

"You don’t know me," he added, eyes hard. "You think you do, but you don’t. You see what I let you see. And that version of me—that's not real."

And then, like he needed to twist the knife just to make sure it stuck :

“Whatever you think this is—I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”

You knew, even as he said it—he didn’t mean it. Not like that. But he wanted it to hurt. Needed it to. Like if he made you hate him, it would make walking away easier. That was the part that stayed with you.

You hadn’t cried then. Not in front of him. You nodded again, eyes dry, throat burning, and told him you understood. But you hadn’t said anything else. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask him why.

And he hadn’t offered.

Not an apology. Not an explanation.

He hadn’t said a single word to you since—not until today, when his voice finally cut through the chaos to order you off the boy’s chest. Cold. Clinical. Like nothing had ever passed between you at all. Like you were just another resident.

But you’d felt it. In the way he walked into a room and wouldn’t look at you. In the way his voice would hitch when you brushed past. In the way his fists curled tight at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but refused to let himself.

He was trying to be cold. Trying to keep the line drawn.

And still—still—he’d almost pulled you from trauma rotation tonight.

You open your eyes. The ache in your chest feels ancient. Familiar.

Big love. That’s what it was. The kind that never had a chance to grow, but still bloomed under your skin like it owned you.

And Jack? Jack let it die before it ever had the chance to live.

It’s been a week since Pitt Fest.

The hospital has started to settle into something like normal, but you haven’t. You still flinch when a trauma page comes over the comms. Still hear that mother’s voice, shrill and ragged. Still feel the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing yours when he took over compressions. That wasn’t the moment you broke, but it was the moment you knew you couldn’t pretend anymore.

So tonight, you go out. Against your better judgment.

Whitaker begged you. Santos threatened to show up at your apartment with a bottle of tequila. King and Mohan promised only one drink, just one, come on, you need it. Javadi was supposed to come too, but she bailed last minute—something about studying for boards and not wanting to get caught at another bar underage.

So now it’s the five of you crammed into a booth at this dive bar near the hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, the one with sticky floors and pool tables missing half the balls. The music is too loud, but the company is easy. Whitaker is doing some elaborate retelling of a patient who tried to fake a heart attack to get out of paying his copay. Mohan is crying from laughter. You’re sipping something sweet and strong and trying to let it all melt away.

It’s working.

Until you see him.

Jack.

He’s across the bar, half-shadowed under the neon sign, nursing a beer like he doesn’t want to be seen. But he’s not alone.

Robby’s with him. Of course he is.

They’re leaned in close, not talking much. Just sitting. Watching.

No—he’s watching.

You.

Your drink stills halfway to your mouth. Your stomach twists, not violently, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Jack doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Just holds your gaze like it hurts him. Like it should.

You force yourself to blink, to laugh at something Whitaker says. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking. You pretend you don’t feel your entire body tuning itself to the sound of his silence.

He rejected you. You know that.

But the way he’s looking at you now? It doesn’t feel like rejection.

It feels like longing.

And maybe that’s worse.

You down the rest of your drink in one go. It burns less than it should.

There’s a man at the bar. Mid-forties, maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Expensive watch. He catches your glance and offers a smile that’s a little too polished, a little too practiced—but you return it anyway. Because he’s older. Because he’s sharp-eyed. Because he reminds you, in all the wrong ways, of someone else.

You excuse yourself from the table before anyone can stop you.

You take your drink, your heels, and your broken pride, and you slide onto the stool next to him.

Jack sees. Of course he does.

You make sure he does.

“Can I buy you another?” the man asks, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile. “Yeah. Why not?”

You laugh too easily. Let your shoulder brush his as he leans in. He says something you don’t hear because your pulse is thundering in your ears.

Across the bar, Jack’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around his beer bottle, the label peeling beneath his thumb.

You tilt your head back and laugh again—this time louder, brighter, crueler.

Because if you’re going to hurt, you want him to feel it too.

And he does.

You can see it in the way he breaks eye contact first.

You can see it in the way Robby says something and Jack doesn’t respond.

You can see it in the way he stands up a minute later, like he can’t stand to watch anymore.

But he doesn’t leave.

He moves.

Across the bar. Slow, deliberate. Controlled rage in every step.

Robby calls after him, eyebrows lifted, confused—but Jack doesn’t answer.

He stops a foot away from you, the stranger mid-sentence, and you feel it before you even look up—heat rolling off of him like a storm about to break.

“Can I talk to you?” Jack says. Voice low. Measured. Barely held together.

You arch an eyebrow, take a long sip of your drink. “Busy.”

The man beside you glances between the two of you, sensing something sharp in the air. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Jack’s eyes are locked on yours. Not the stranger’s. Not anyone else’s.

“You need to come with me,” he says, lower now. “Now.”

And it’s not a command. It’s not even a plea. It’s desperation wrapped in control, fraying at the edges.

You consider refusing. You want to.

But you rise anyway.

And follow him out the door.

The air outside is colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just him.

Jack doesn’t speak right away. He walks fast—toward the lot behind the bar, where his car is parked beneath a crooked streetlamp. When he finally stops, it’s with his back to you. One hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair. The kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.

You follow, heart hammering. He turns.

“What the hell was that?”

Your arms fold across your chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

His eyes flash. “The guy. The flirting. You were trying to—”

“Trying to what?” you snap. “Move on? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Jack exhales, sharp and uneven. “You don’t get it.”

“No, Jack. I really don’t. You said this couldn’t happen. You told me to forget it, forget you. And then you stare at me like that? Like you’ve got any right to be angry?”

“I’m not angry,” he bites out. “I’m—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretches. You can hear the distant music from inside, laughter spilling through the front entrance. But here? It’s just you and him, and everything you haven’t said.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” he says finally, voice frayed. “Push you away. I just… I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”

Your voice lowers. “Why would you want it to stop?”

He steps forward once. Close, but not touching. His hands stay at his sides like he’s afraid of what will happen if he reaches for you.

“Because it scares the shit out of me,” Jack says. “Because you matter more than you should. And because I don’t trust myself not to fuck that up.”

Your heart twists. “So instead you say things to make me hate you?”

“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier for both of us.”

You laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s not.”

His voice breaks. “I know.”

You look at him. Really look at him. There’s pain there—old and festering. The kind that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he’s been dragging behind him since the war, since before.

You take a breath. “So what now?”

Jack steps even closer. You can feel the heat of him again. His eyes drop to your mouth, then snap back up like he’s furious with himself for even looking.

“You came out here,” you say.

“I didn’t want to watch someone else touch you,” he admits.

“Then don’t make me someone you can’t have.”

There’s a beat.

And then he’s kissing you.

Rough. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for years and it’s finally breaking loose. You answer it without hesitation, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him down like you’re daring him to finally stop pretending.

He presses you back against the car, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His mouth is on yours—hungry, ragged—like if he slows down, this will disappear.

“Back seat,” he growls. His voice scrapes through your chest.

He opens the rear door behind you, hand never leaving your hip, guiding you with him. You climb in first, crawling across the backseat with your heart in your throat. By the time you turn, he’s already sliding in after you, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid, final thud.

He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you again, harder this time, like his life depends on it. You climb into his lap, straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed close and flushed with heat. He shoves your coat off your shoulders, pushes your shirt up. You tug his top over his head and toss it somewhere in the car.

“God,” he mutters, eyes raking over you. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does.

He unhooks your bra with one hand—like muscle memory—his mouth already on your chest, teeth and tongue working in tandem. His other hand splays across your lower back, holding you close as your hips grind down into his.

You’re panting. He’s shaking.

You reach between you, working open his belt, and feel him throb beneath the fabric. Jack shudders when your hand slips inside, groaning low into your skin.

“Wallet,” he mutters against your neck, voice breathless. “Inside pocket.”

You grab it. Your fingers move fast, practiced by adrenaline. You find the condom tucked there, tear it open, and hand it to him. His eyes meet yours as he rolls it on—slow, deliberate. Controlled, even now.

You brace yourself on his shoulders and lower down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you.

The stretch burns in the best way. You gasp. He swears.

You don’t move. Not yet.

He kisses your jaw, your collarbone. Holds your hips steady with both hands like he’s savoring the feel of you. And when you start to move—hips rolling slow and deep—he leans his head back and groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he breathes.

You ride him hard, your rhythm building, mouths colliding again and again between moans. His grip bruises your thighs as he thrusts up to meet every movement, his control slipping with every second you stay on top of him.

Then suddenly—he shifts.

His arms wrap under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts you.

You gasp as he turns, guiding you onto your back across the seat. He stays inside you the whole time, never letting go, until your back hits the cool leather and he’s towering over you, braced between your legs.

“You okay?” he asks, breath ragged.

You nod, already whining for more.

Then he starts to move again—deep, relentless, rocking the car with every thrust.

He shifts, bracing one hand beneath your thigh to push your leg higher, opening you up to take him deeper. The angle hits something devastating—you cry out, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

Jack leans down, mouth hot at your neck, breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked and raw. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jack.”

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip for leverage—then slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit and start to circle, firm and focused, his pace never faltering.

It sends you over the edge.

You break apart beneath him—back arching, thighs trembling, his name ripped from your mouth like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.

You’re still shaking when he comes—groaning into your shoulder, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time and lets go.

Afterward, you don’t speak right away.

You’re tangled together. His chest is against yours. His arms still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. Your heartbeat stutters beneath his palm. The windows are fogged, the car soaked in heat and the weight of everything that just happened.

You stroke a hand through the back of his hair, calming him more than you.

Finally, he shifts, settling beside you, your body still half-curled on top of him.

And quietly, you say:

“I followed you out because I thought you were going to leave again.”

He freezes.

You feel his breath catch against your shoulder.

“You left once,” you say. “After I told you how I felt. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just made it clear I’d imagined all of it. And tonight? I thought you were about to do it again.”

His voice is tight when he finally speaks.

“I almost did.”

You nod slowly. “Why didn’t you?”

Jack exhales hard. “Because I saw you with him, and I knew—if I walked away again, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d be choosing to.”

He turns your face toward him.

“And I couldn’t live with that.”

You search his expression. His hand brushes a strand of hair from your face, and then settles on your cheek.

“I tried to kill it,” he says. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it is. And it’s too big to ignore.”

“Big love,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. The kind that burns everything else down.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I waited. Through all of it—every time you pretended you didn’t feel this, too.”

His eyes close. Like the truth hurts more than anything else tonight.

“I don’t know how to want you without wanting all of it,” he admits.

And you don’t need him to explain what all of it means.

The chaos. The risk. The weight.

You nod. “Good. Because I don’t want halfway.”

He leans in—presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, soft now. Careful.

And finally—finally—he says, “Then I won’t run anymore.”

You believe him.

But only because Big Love doesn’t let you run.

It lives. Loud. Messy. Permanent.

And tonight, in the heat of a parked car, Jack finally lets it have him.

[ovaryacted]

GREEDY

─ Dr. Jack Abbot x fem! reader || WC: 3k

SYNOPSIS: You crave to feel your lover differently, and Jack is happy to satisfy your needs.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. SMUT. Age gap implied [Jack is late 40s, reader is late 20s/early 30s]. Power imbalance mention [Attending/Resident]. Established "secret" relationship. Creampie. Unprotected sex (p in v). Mentions of oral (f! receiving) & fingering. Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. Dirty talk. Brief mentions of birth control & safe sex practices. They fuck nasty and are down bad for each other. Reader is described to have hair. Jack Abbot is a really good partner. Brief mentions of Jack’s scars & allusions to a vasectomy he had in the past.

A/N: This all came to me in a dream lmao. I just had a certain itch I needed to scratch and I wanted to talk about getting creampied by a fine ass old man, so this was the product of that thought. I hope you all enjoy this and join me in feening for this man. Proofread by moi. Reblogs, comments, and likes are always greatly appreciated! <3

NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | AO3

You’d never really consider yourself a greedy or selfish person, but when it came to Jack Abbot, you just couldn’t help yourself.

On your first day of residency at the Pitt, your attention instantly gravitated to him. He carried himself so confidently at times, never crossing the line of stepping into arrogance like some of the surgeons he complained about. He kept his head high, back straight, and shoulders flared as he maneuvered around patients and rooms alike, commanding every space with a calm confidence you almost envied.

Coffee and light teasing exchanged in the emergency department turned into cold beers and tipsy laughter at the local bar everyone frequented after long shifts or on their off-days. One drink too many resulted in a not-so-accidental one-night stand with the enigma of a man that was Dr. Abbot. You wondered if he regretted it by the time you woke up in the morning, hair a mess over your head, going in different directions; doing your best to bury the disappointment tugging at your chest when the other side of the bed was found empty.

Much to your surprise, light clanking from your kitchen forced you back on your feet, spotting Jack working over the stove, the smell of eggs and fresh toast wafting through your apartment. His jeans hung low on his hips, unbuttoned, with his black briefs hiding the rest of him. He turns when he senses your presence, the corner of his lips tugging upwards in a small grin at the sight of you, slightly disheveled and wearing nothing but his shirt from the night before.

“Morning. Stole some of your coffee; hope you don’t mind.”

You were doomed from the start.

It never stopped after that; a one-night stand turned into several over the course of one month, and one month turned into two. You found yourself in the consistent presence of Dr. Abbot, who was always there to satisfy your needs, whatever they may be. He learned how to read you, your likes and dislikes, your quirks, and the things that made you happy and tick in agitation. The few weeks you spent with him in secret amounted to the moment Jack popped the question of exclusivity one night, and you were more than happy to say yes.

Now here you were, Dr. Abbot’s favorite night-shift resident at work and his girl when you two were alone. You already had him wrapped around your finger, hitting close to five months of being with him and selfishly enjoying his company in this bubble you’ve created for yourselves away from prying eyes.

And yet you still wanted more.

You couldn’t quite explain what happened along the way, why you simply couldn’t stop finding any little moment to touch him, to kiss him, to taste him. You just knew you wanted every part of him to yourself, and he was ready to give it.

All but one.

Your sex life with Jack was already more than satisfactory, and even using a word as simple as that was a disservice in describing your experiences with him. Hell, you’re pretty sure he’s ruined you for anyone else, and you don’t plan on finding another to take his place any time soon. But there was this one pesky thing that still kept you separated from him.

The damn rubber.

Jack was almost too good for you—a softie despite his take-no-shit attitude, always sweet and considerate when it came to you. Of course, that translated to when he fucked you, prioritizing your safety and pleasure above all else, including maintaining recommended sexual habits. You can’t blame him; he’s not an idiot, and neither are you, but at times it irks you to still have something getting in the way of feeling him the way you wanted.

It almost pissed you off how badly you craved him, desperately holding on to him and pulling him closer when he was too busy fucking you into the mattress. His face dug into the crook of your neck, grunting as your walls fluttered around his length, your arousal covering the thin non-latex material that separated your bodies. Just the thought of it made you whine, clawing at his shoulders and wrapping your legs tighter around his waist.

You knew he was getting close from the way his breathing rumbled deep within his chest, his grip on your hips tightening as his thrusts picked up in force. The words that had been swirling in your head for the past 30 minutes slipped out of your mouth and into his ear before you could stop them.

“Fill me up, baby.”

He groans when he hears you, slamming his hips hard against yours, a curse tumbling from his mouth as he fills up the condom. He draws a final sigh from you before pulling out to dispose of the wretched thing while you remain occupied with taking a peek at his ass as he heads to the bathroom.

Having sex without protection was something Jack didn’t think to bring up or mention. The last thing he wanted was to make you assume all you were to him was a toy to be used when it's convenient and discarded when he grew bored of you. He already had the displeasure of approaching sex that way when he was younger and reckless; he vowed to never do that again, especially with you. And of course, you didn’t want to potentially ruin the relationship you’ve worked so hard to build with your attending.

As much as he wanted to deny it, your words tormented him, playing in his mind on loop so frequently he started dreaming about feeling you with no barriers, claiming you properly. He knows once you hit that stage in your fairly new relationship, there’s no going back. From the way you struggled to hide the slightest tinge of disappointment whenever he ripped open the foil wrapper in front of you, he knew the conversation would happen eventually.

“What if next time, we just don’t use anything? Protection, I mean.” You blurt out to him in the kitchen, wringing your hands together as Jack busied himself washing the dishes after dinner. He finished up and dried his hands, pivoting to face where you leaned against the island.

“Is that what you want?” He asks carefully, his eyes boring into yours gently, the way he always did when speaking to those he cared about. “Surprises aren’t exactly what I’m worried about; we’re good on that end, but, it’s whatever you want to do, sweetheart.”

“Yes, I want to try it out.” You feel his hands coming towards your waist, a comforting gap of space between as you mess with the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s not that our sex life isn’t fun or anything; I very much enjoy sleeping with you.”

“I sure hope so considering how much I risk pulling my back doing all the work.” You playfully slap his chest, rolling your eyes at his teasing smirk.

“I just…I want to feel you, all of you. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch sort of thing, and it feels stupid explaining it, but it’s a thing, okay. Don’t fucking laugh at me.”

Jack couldn’t help but chuckle dryly at your mild panic, shaking his head as he stepped closer to you, planting a kiss on your cheek and squeezing your hips in reassurance.

“Not laughing at you, I just think it’s cute how flustered you’re getting when you’re begging me to fuck you raw.”

“Now why are you saying it like that? It sounds raunchy coming from you.” He only laughs harder.

“I think we’re way past the point of calling what we do raunchy in our relationship, don’t you think?” There’s a faint glint in his hazel eyes when he takes in your features again, his fingers pinch your chin, holding your gaze. “Besides, you aren’t the only one who’s been thinking about it. I was just waiting for you to crack first.”

That’s how you found yourself in this position now.

Your cunt pulsed from the lavish attention bestowed by the older man above, who already made you cum once using his mouth and again in combination with his thick fingers. Even with the two orgasms you gladly took, your body clenched around nothing as you watched Jack lazily jerk himself off, dark eyes raking over your bare body. By now, he’d be tearing open another one of those flimsy foil packets and slipping inside you. Instead, your legs subconsciously widened even more, beckoning him closer to you in an attempt to take you.

Notching the tip of his length at your entrance, he groaned at the feel of you, shifting his hips to grind against your heat as more of your wetness coated the underside of his cock.

“Last chance to take it back, sweetheart.” He quirked, meeting your hazy eyes—glossed over and feral as you admired his broad silhouette and tempting movements.

“Shut up and fuck me already.” You only seemed to be thinking with your downstairs brain, your thirst for more overriding common sense, not that he was complaining.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He angled himself over you, keeping his observant eyes on your face as he started pushing into you, slowly sinking deeper into your welcoming body. Jack didn’t expect you to feel so damn hot, your walls surrounding his cock like a vice, like you were made for it. Your hands flew to grasp his bicep, gasping at the bare feel of him for the first time. Eyes fluttering closed, a whimper lurched out of your mouth when he was down to the hilt, the trimmed hairs by his pubic bone rubbing against your sensitive nub, causing you to twitch around him on instinct.

As he sat inside you and let you adjust to him, you could feel everything—every ridge, every vein, every swell and throb his body gave you, even his damn pulse. It was bringing you closer to the deep end.

“Jack…” You mumbled his name, blinking slowly as his nostrils flared.

“Hold on, hold on, don’t move.” Large hands clutched your hips, keeping you pinned to the mattress with his strength. “You feel so good.”

“Yeah?” The compliment took the rest of the empty space in your head, your thighs taking their rightful place around his waist, knees bracketing over his sharp hips.

“So damn warm and wet…God.” It sounded like Jack wasn’t talking to you anymore but reiterating his own innermost thoughts, filter gone. His attention trailed down to where your bodies were joined together, shifting his hips back to watch your lower set of lips part for him, your slick covering his skin. You moved towards him, already missing the stretch of him inside you, and Jack was just as eager to give you what you needed.

“Look at her. Taking me so well, like she always does.” Thrusting forward, he didn’t spare you an inch, drawing back just to pound into you again and again.

The friction of his hips intensifies the more he gets to feel you, and soon enough the four walls of your shared bedroom are filled with the audible slapping of skin as you lose yourselves in each other. Jack’s hips pummeled into you with a force you weren’t completely unfamiliar with, but this carnal need to have more of him creeps onto the surface. Your nails raked down his freckled arms and the planes of his shoulders, encouraging Jack to buck into you harder with your sweet cries.

It all felt too fucking good, like a dream.

You didn’t want him to stop, your legs winding tighter around his torso, mewling when he hit that textured spot tucked inside you with practiced accuracy, head thrown back against the pillow as you focused on catching each one of his harsh lunges. A hand sneaked to the back of your head, grasping the nape of your neck and angling your face to look up at Jack, the smallest bit of sweat lining up on his forehead.

“Keep those eyes on me, baby. Want to see your pretty face when you come for me.” He practically snarled over you, leaning down to roughly plant a kiss, his tongue swirling around yours, swallowing all of the petulant sounds he brought out of you. “Perfect fucking pussy, and all mine.”

“All yours, Jack.” You parroted, nodding dumbly from the impact of his movements against you. “I’m all yours, sir.”

His grin turned predatory at your needy words, both hands curling around your thighs to angle them higher up, your knees now pinned to your chest, allowing him to dig just a bit deeper into you. You jolted from the change in position, one hand rushing to press against his lower stomach, fingertips skimming the raised scars along his side, long faded and meshed with the rest of him. 

He was unfazed by your movements, holding you steady, and upped his efforts against you. Your arousal practically seeped out of you, pooling at the base of him and dripping down his balls. Another whimper echoed in the room, your clouded gaze glanced down to watch Jack fuck you, mesmerized at the shine you left over him. You didn’t need to warn him that another release was swirling in your gut; your body language did all the talking for you.

“Know you’re close, honey. Can feel you getting tighter around me, damn near choking me.” He grunts, adding a swivel to his precise advances into you. “C’mon, need you to drench me. Let me feel you.”

Three more drives into you, and your third orgasm hit you so ardently your whole body trembled, a silent cry flying out of your mouth. Jack observed your reaction with hungry eyes, cooing at your cock-drunk expression, drool starting to spill out the corner of your lip.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he hit his peak, the tension in his body building in his core, and with the way you haven’t stopped convulsing around him, it will catch him off guard sooner than later. Through the haze of ecstasy, you found your voice and mumbled at him, the lust-filled mania that started this whole ordeal possessing you.

“Jack,” his attention was drawn to your face, plump lips and warm cheeks mirroring his ravenous stare, “I need you to come inside me.”

“You want it that bad, huh?” He was struggling to keep it together, his mind already hyper-focused on finishing inside until you took every damn drop. “So desperate to have your old man fill up your greedy pussy, hm?”

“Yes! Yes!” Tears streaked down your face at the mere thought of getting to feel him like this; the promise of getting what you wanted after so long was enough to overwhelm you. “Please, Jack. I need it; need to feel it. Want to feel you tomorrow, baby.”

That fired him up; the sight of your watery eyes motivated him to flex his forearms and force you to take all of him as he chased his prolonged release. A few more jabs and he was done for, digging his face into the crook of your neck and biting your shoulder to suppress the loud growl that buzzed through him. His hips were flush with yours, giving you everything he had to give, his thighs trembling and stomach almost cramping from his violent climax.

His orgasm felt never-ending; he just couldn’t stop, your body melting from the inside out as you held him above you until he plopped on top of you, pelvis subconsciously grinding into you more, never wanting to leave your warmth.

“Jesus.” You heard Jack murmur against you, placing light kisses over the indents of his teeth on your shoulder. His mouth followed a path up to the column of your throat, your jaw, and to your lips, offering you sweet pecks. “You alright?”

“Mhm,” you hummed at his affections, the rest of your limbs becoming one with the mattress under you. “Didn’t break me yet, though I don’t think I can feel my legs.”

“Means I did my job well.” Both ends of his mouth curl upwards, mimicking his expression as he gently wipes your tears away.

Carefully, he took hold of your legs, bringing them back down to the bed, rubbing them with an apologetic smile as you quivered. With ease, Jack maneuvers himself to pull out of you, his eyes going to your pussy and the mess he made of you. He catches the way his spend drips out of your opening and stains the sheets below you, a sight he was committing to memory for the first time.

A carnal urge flares within him, his curiosity getting the best of him as he brings a hand to the most sensitive part of you, his thumb spreading you out to get a better look at you. More of his seed dribbled out of you, tainting the thick digit as he smeared more of himself over the rest of your cunt. You gasped at the sensation, his thumb circling over your slick pearl, squirming under his touch from the overstimulation.

“I get the appeal now,” he says to himself again, swiftly bringing two of his fingers to scoop the rest of him and sink them back into your hole, serving as a plug to keep his release inside you. You keened at him, clutching his thick wrist as he breached your body with his hand, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Jack…”

“So pretty when you’re so full of me.” You clench around him, the sensation sending a current of pleasure coursing through him, his cock twitching again at the thought of having you again. “You can take a little more, right?”

Who were you to say no to that? You couldn’t get enough of him, and when it came to Jack Abbot, you always made room for seconds and more.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[hey-sparcs]

the pitt + text posts

[frombookstoretobookstore]

Hi! I absolutely love your Jack Abott fics!! You’d are a wonderful writer! I was wondering if you would consider doing a jealous Jack fic? 😁

Aw thank you! Of course! I've had one in the works since I put out a poll. Enjoy!

Jealousy Looks Good On You

Summary: Jealous Abbot is quite possessive and isn't afraid to show it at work, or in the elevator ;) T/W: Bit steamy, Abbot isn't afraid to touch what's his. Masterlist

“You keep that Abbot furrow up you’ll burst a blood vessel.” Robby laughs from where he’s leaned against the nurses’ station.

Jack doesn’t answer, his jaw creaks as his teeth grind together. He can feel the headache starting to form behind his eyes from where his gaze is trained on you. A growl almost forms in his chest when he watches your eyes sparkle as you laugh at what one of the cops says. He can feel his nails digging into his palm as his fists clench.

“Seriously, Abbot.” Robby knocks his shoulders against Jack’s, breaking him out of his trance. “What has gotten into you?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jack says as he turns to his friend, willing a smile to his face. It drops as soon as he hears you laugh again, his scowl back as he turns towards your direction.

“I see lover boy is at it again.” Dana scoffs, patting Jack’s shoulder as she walks past him to drop off her bag as her shift starts.

“Some days I think the only security we need is to protect some of these guys against Abbot.” Robby smirks at the glare Jack sends him.

“Abbot, she’s just talking, cool your jets!” Dana says harshly, causing Jack to look down at his shoes. 

Jack’s irritation peaks when he sees the cop touch your elbow, his vision pinpoints on the contact between the two of you. 

His feet move before his brain can stop them, carrying him across the room toward you. He can hear Robby’s voice calling after him, but it’s just background noise compared to the storm brewing in his chest. By the time he’s standing a few feet away, he notes the faint flush on your cheeks as you clock his movement.

“Just finished with a consult, sorry to keep you waiting.” His smile is predatory as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your hairline. His hands instinctively pull you into his side as he wraps his arm around your waist.

“Anyway, let me know if you hear anything on it, I’m sure the rig will show up sometime.” Y/n waves as Jack is practically dragging her back to the nurses’ station, his only intent to pull you back unto his world, under his gaze and protection.

Dana snorts from behind her hand, clearly unimpressed with Jack’s attitude. He shoots her a look sharp enough to cut glass. You roll your eyes as even Robby is having to bite his lip to withhold his laughter.

“I guess we’re headed out.” Y/n says, raising her eyebrows in annoyance. She looks up to Jack who still has a hand on her waist. “Am I allowed to say goodbye or are you going to hulk out again?” He rolls his eyes with a huff; he leans back against the counter as you gather your things, his gaze sweeping across the room like a bodyguard looking for threats.

“He isn’t a man of sharing; the man covets peanut M&M’s like a kid at Halloween.” Robby laughs, rolling his eyes as he feels the bite of Jack’s gaze. 

Y/n barely has her things gathered before Jack is ushering them out of the ED; she calls out a parting goodbye as he stomps them out through the ambulance bay. He’s livid when he watches her shoot a sarcastic salute to the cop she had been talking to earlier.

Once out of ear shot, he winces as he feels her rally to call him out. “Jack, what the actual fuck?!”

“He was flirting with you.” He grunts, clearly still in full blown protective mode.

You grab his wrist to halt him, making him turn his broody gaze down to you. You burst out laughing at the dark look in his eyes that seems like it should be in a period drama, and not on your boyfriend’s face.

“Oh my god.” You blow out. “Are you fucking jealous because I talked to the cop about a boat rig, they’d had stolen last night?” He turns away stiffly and continues walking towards the direction of your apartment building, ignoring the laughter that almost has you doubled over.

“We were talking about the boat that was stolen from the police department parking lot, trailer and all, and you’re acting like some damn brooding period romance wannabe Jack!” He’s still ignoring you, trying to quicken his pace. Now that the initial jealousy has worn off, he’s slightly embarrassed by his behavior.

He’s holding the door for you to grab before he’s punching his keys into the lock on the front door of your apartment complex. His jaw is tight again, a muscle ticking. He can feel the triumphant smirk on your face you’re aiming at his back. 

He leans against the back wall of the elevator, his arms braced on the railing. You chuckle slightly as you wait for the elevator to reach your floor, your arms crossed as you shift your weight as you stand in front of him. You startle as you feel a sharp slap delivered to your ass by Jack.

You scoff and turn to him, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Excuse me?” you ask.

He crosses his arms and drops his eyes down to you and then back up to the screen to watch the floor numbers climb. “Mine.” He growls softly.

“Don’t start.” You warn, turning back around. You jump again as he places one last slap to your ass before brushing past you when the elevator doors start to open.

“Jack Abbot.” You scold, hustling after him, his dark chuckle echoing back to you from down the hall. He’s leaning against the apartment door, his gaze still dark, his arms crossed. You take probably a bit too long studying the veins as you walk up, enjoying the ways his muscles flex.

You eye him with an eyebrow raised and a shake of your head. You dig into your pockets to find your keys.

“I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow am I.” You say as you push the door open, his gaze still heavy on you.

“Not if I can help it.” He says with a wicked smirk; his lips crashing into yours, his hand already possessively around your neck. 

“Jealousy looks really good on you.” You moan, chuckling softly at his lack of control as he pushes you across the threshold and into your apartment.

------------------------------------------------------ A/N: Slowly working through requests! Per usual I hope you and enjoy and lmk what y'all think!

[winterseige]

people were calling him a misogynist on twitter for fully blocking on walsh when abbot wanted samira to do the procedure and i was LAUGHING cause in earlier episodes we see residents and attendings and someone higher than the newbies of the ER given a chance and a time to do a risky procedure (garcia let santos, and langdon let mel) BUT i think people concluded that abbot might have been a misogynist because of how he and walsh were at each other's neck

to be honest i didnt in anyway saw that as something bad lmao, i thought it was an ER vs OR thing just like how langdon and garcia banter (well walsh and abbot banter seems more instense lmao)

damn we thought the beef with langdon and santos was a lot. who wants to bet that walsh and abbott probably kill each other, resuscitate each other then kill each other again every shift they have

[abbotsanatomy]

Can I request a Jack x reader where reader gets hurt while working and Abbot goes insane trying to make sure she’s okay 🤭

⨳ HEART IN YOUR THROAT

pairing: jack abbot x wife!doc!reader warnings: workplace romance, descriptions of injury, depiction of an erratic patient, assault of a healthcare provider. author's note: y'all i wrote this man stressed! (reasonably) he CANNOT lose another wife...

There's a tune stuck in your head, from the drive to work. You're humming it as you look over your most recent patient's labs. But you can't hear yourself anymore when someone yells from somewhere near the ER's ambulance entrance.

'Yell' isn't really the right word, it's more of a shrill screaming that chills you to the core. You're still leaning on the station counter, when you spot Jack running towards the screaming, followed by Ellis.

The computer's immediately abandoned, as you make your way through the ER in a sprint. You pick up a paper gown on the way out, and pull it on, tying it in the back. The emergency entrance's glass doors open automatically, as you make your way through them and onto the road.

It's chilly outside, as can be expected on a winter night in Pittsburgh. You can feel cold air making its way deep into your bones, but you know you have to move quick when you see the patient thrashing violently on a hospital gurney. You can tell Ellis and Jack have already gotten a few kicks to the face, trying to steady the patient's legs, where the blood is making it difficult to asses his injury.

You make for his arms, which are free and way too close to grasping Ellis by the hair. You're pulling him back onto the gurney as gently as possible, pulling both of his arms into yours. There's no way to be reassuring in this kind of situation, but you try anyway. He isn't taking any of it, though. His screaming directly at your face makes you flinch a few times. His wife shouting in the background isn't so comforting either.

Somewhere throughout the struggle, the patient gains on you. You can slowly feel your grip over him slip. With a rough shove from him, you're down on the floor, face planted directly onto the pavement. You can hear a sickening crack when you try to move your face across the concrete. An intense pain shoots up from your nose, and you swear you can feel it in your brain.

"Fuck!" you shout into the ground, and even that hurts.

You can hear John make his way out of the emergency entrance, he almost leans down to check on you, but you give him a thumbs up. You just want this idiot on the gurney out of your sight, then you might get up. He makes his way to help restrain the patient.

Jack's voice is distantly shouting a question at Shen that you can't quite make out. Then, he's right in front of you, pulling you up by your arms before you can protest. There's an almost alarming amount of blood on the pavement where your face was. When he pulls your face up to get a good look, you can taste your own blood making its way down your throat.

You wipe away the blood from your top lip. Any expression you make is so painful you regret ever even having a face. Jack's eyes are going back and forth, analyzing every part of you to make sure there's nothing else besides the glaringly obvious broken nose.

"I think it's..." you take a deep breath in through your mouth, "broken."

The gurney passes you two, crouched on the side of the road. Jack shoots the patient the nastiest glare you've ever seen. He looks ready to kill the man. You're pretty sure he would've at least put him in the hospital if he wasn't already here.

The moment he looks back into your eyes, his face twists into a more comforting expression.

"Yeah?" he smiles, but it barely reaches his eyes, "I think so too, honey. Let's get you up. I'll take care of it."

You let him pull you up to stand. He's still observing you for any signs there might be something else wrong.

"You hurt anywhere else?" he asks, his tone soft.

You shake your head.

Even if you were, you're pretty sure the burning sensation in your face is clouding your judgement. "Nope. Legs just a lil' sore."

"Alright. We'll get 'em looked at."

By that, he means he's going to move you into the ER and damn-near yell at anyone who even suggests he go assist with the patient and let someone else take care of you. You always knew Jack had a protective streak, but seeing it in action is entirely different. You're sure you'd be laughing and making fun of him for it, if speaking and smiling and breathing didn't hurt so bad.

He guides you to one of the ER chairs, and pulls the cubicle curtain closed. The first victim of his very thorough physical examination is your nose, which he packs to stop the bleeding and then gives you a local anesthetic injection in. It dulls the pain and makes the manual realignment feel like barely a gentle pull.

When he's done, he checks you everywhere else. He does a million tests you both know are incredibly excessive. You let him turn your limbs every which way, check your breathing a hundred times, and perform a neuro exam more than ten times, probably.

"I'm fine, Jack," you kindly inform him, for the fifth time since you've sat down, as he flashes a light into your eyes.

He puts the flashlight away and nods, finally acknowledging you. His arms come to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs stroking the skin there. Your eyes meet. When you smile at him, he grimaces.

"Oh my god. Am I really that deformed?" you joke.

He shakes his head slowly, "You could never be anything short of gorgeous in my eyes."

You're about to make another joke, when you realize his eyes hold an intensity in them that's usually reserved for those terribly intimate moments you share, almost exclusively, at your apartment. He looks really fucking scared, too. It’s a proper notch down from how afraid he looked outside, so you’ll take it.

"Where doesn't hurt?" he asks.

You point to your cheek. It isn’t completely pain-free, but it's the only place you can tolerate any kind of pressure and actually feel it. He leans down and presses his lips gently there. It makes your eyes flutter shut instantly. Your hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, keeping him there.

"I think you'll need to perform an even more thorough examination. At home. In bed," you whisper into his ear.

When he laughs against your skin, you turn your face to the side, so you can press your mouth to the side of his jaw. You instantly regret it, though, because your freshly split lip burns.

"Ouch," you complain.

Jack presses one last kiss to your temple, before he pulls away. He grabs his phone out of his front pocket.

"We leave in an hour," he confirms.

"You can nap here. I'll make sure no one wakes you up until it's time to go," his voice is soothing, but you know he's not really asking.

Luckily, you can already feel your eyes droop, so you’re barely arguing anyway. Jack's footsteps are heavy, and when he pulls the curtain open you can tell he hesitates for a moment.

It sounds like he has a smug grin on his face, "And, uh, you're only slightly deformed."

Your eyes shoot open, but before you can grab something to throw at him he's already out of eyeshot.

"You can't say that to your patients, Doctor Abbot!" you yell after him.

The last thing you hear before passing out is his distant laugh.

[noahwhyle]

that episode + Robby centric text posts

[abbotjack]

(18+ only) nsfw alphabet– frank langdon .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

a/n : this is for the langdon girlies

word count : 4163

content/warning : infidelity, explicit sexual content, rough sex, unsafe sex (implied), emotional repression, guilt, morally gray dynamics, aftercare, masturbation, possessive language, complex power imbalance, emotionally charged relationship, references to marriage and children.

♡ A = Aftercare Frank Langdon doesn’t do tender aftercare—at least not in the traditional, soft-limbed, cuddling sense. He’s not the type to pull you into his chest and whisper sweet nothings while brushing the hair from your face. He gets too in his head for that. Too aware of where he is, what he's done, and who he has to go home to.

Instead, his version of aftercare is practical and oddly precise. He’ll sit up slowly, still flushed and half-wrecked, and quietly reach for your water bottle, or grab a towel from the nearby chair. He doesn’t say much—just steadies himself with a palm on your thigh, as if silently checking that you’re okay. If you’re still catching your breath, he’ll stay. Not touch, not fidget—just stay. He lingers in the way someone does when they’re afraid that walking away will make the whole thing disappear.

“I didn’t… hurt you?” he asks once, voice gravelled and rough.

You shake your head.

He nods, looks at your body like it deserves more than he gave. Then, quietly, he says, “Good,” but he doesn’t sound convinced.

♡ B = Body Part Frank has never thought of his body as something to admire. It’s a tool, a vehicle, something that gets him through 12-hour shifts, sometimes 24 if the ER’s understaffed. But if you ask what part he’s proud of—not what he thinks you like, but what he secretly holds onto? It’s his neck.

Not in a showy, flex-in-the-mirror kind of way. Just… his neck. Thick and solid, always a little flushed when he’s aroused, corded with tension like he’s constantly swallowing down what he really wants to say. It's the place you kiss when you want to get to him fast. Where you bite when he’s already balls-deep inside you and trying not to come. You’ve told him before—“You make the best noises when I kiss you here”—and ever since, he’s been weirdly conscious of it. Not shy. Just aware.

He feels your breath against his throat before he feels your hands. And if you press your lips just under his jaw, he’ll grip your hips tighter, pulse stuttering beneath your mouth.

As for you? He’s obsessed with your lower stomach. Not your waist. Not your chest. Not your ass, though he likes that too. No—your soft belly, the space between your hips and pelvis, where your skin is tender and warm and just slightly sensitive. The place he rests his palm over after he’s finished inside you, the place he drags his knuckles across when you’re lying on the couch.

It’s the quietest, most vulnerable part of your body—and it undoes him.

He once fucked you on your side, your back to his chest, his hand pressed firm against your stomach like he wanted to keep all of himself inside you.

And when you asked what that was about, why he held you there like that, he just said,

“I like feeling you. Right there. Where I know I left something.”

Then he kissed the spot again—slow, almost reverent—and didn’t say another word.

♡ C = Cum Frank tries to be responsible. Really. He’s too old to be careless, and the last thing he needs is another complication in a situation that’s already cheating on every level. But the moment you whisper something reckless—something like “Don’t pull out”—he’s gone. Gone in that way that makes his eyes roll back, his grip turn bruising, and his body collapse against yours like he’s coming apart.

His cum is thick, warm, and there’s something primal in the way he watches it drip out of you. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes speaks volumes: guilt, lust, possessiveness, a thousand unspoken regrets.

He’ll clean you up in silence, gently, with a trembling hand. Then he’ll sit back, ring still on, and mutter:

“We shouldn’t’ve done that… again.”

And yet—he never leaves right after.

♡ D = Dirty Secret Frank has this one recurring fantasy—one he’d never admit out loud, even if you pressed him with your tongue and teeth and teasing fingers. It’s not elaborate. It’s not even that graphic. It’s domestic. Dangerous in its simplicity.

He imagines waking up in your bed. Not rushed. Not hiding. No pager. No wedding ring. Just you, your bare legs tangled with his, and the soft sound of the coffee maker burbling in the background. He imagines brushing his teeth in your sink. Pulling your shirt over your head instead of unbuttoning it under stress. Maybe taking you right there against the kitchen counter while you laugh, not cry.

But that’s the dirtiest part of it: the wanting. Not just the sex, not just the high—you. The idea of you as his instead of hers. And he hates himself for it.

Which is probably why he fucks you the way he does. Like he’s trying to bury the fantasy before it makes him do something irreversible.

♡ E = Experience Frank’s the kind of man who doesn't advertise how much he knows—but you feel it. From the first time he touched you, it was obvious. He doesn’t second-guess himself. Doesn’t fumble with your bra clasp or ask nervous questions. He reads you.

But here's the thing: Frank doesn’t move like a man who’s had hundreds of partners. He moves like a man who’s had maybe a handful, and still memorized every one. He carries experience like he carries guilt—quietly, heavy, with no need to boast. He’s all practiced hands and measured control, but there's something about the way he watches your reactions that tells you this isn’t casual for him. It never has been.

His mouth on your chest, the way he mouths over your nipple and then waits—waits for you to squirm before he sinks his teeth in gently. His fingers inside you, knuckle-deep with that perfect curl like he’s been learning your body over weeks instead of minutes. His hips grinding in slow, devastating circles, his rhythm tuned not to get off but to undo you. Every motion says:

I’ve done this before. But not like this. Not with you.

You ask him once, “Where the hell did you learn to do that with your tongue?”—half-laughing, fully breathless. He just shrugs, lips shiny with you, voice low.

“Long nights. Now shut up and come again.”

He knows how to make a woman feel good. But more than that—he knows what not to do. He’s not reckless. He’s not performative. He doesn’t chase porn-inspired theatrics or put on a show. He listens. He adapts. And he never loses patience.

He’s the kind of experienced that comes from making mistakes and learning from them. From fucking someone the wrong way once and swearing he’ll never do it again. From years of hearing what women don’t say out loud.

And now? He’s the man who lays you back with calm hands, mouths at your throat, and says things like,

“Let me take care of it. I know what you need.”

And for once in your goddamn life—you believe it.

♡ F = Favorite Position Frank likes positions where he doesn’t have to think too hard—where muscle memory takes over and guilt has to get in line behind pleasure. That usually means either cowgirl, where he can watch your body bounce on his cock, mouth parted in disbelief as you ride him into delirium—or spooning, slow and angled just right so he can stay deep without ever seeing your face.

But when he’s feeling particularly frayed? It’s you bent over a surface. Something with leverage. Something that doesn’t require foreplay or forethought. Just a hand over your mouth, his other on your hip, and a growl in your ear:

“Stay still for me. Just like that. Fuck—just like that.”

♡ G = Goofy Frank isn’t goofy. He doesn’t have it in him—not during sex, and not outside of it either. Even when he wants to be light, the weight of everything he’s holding—his marriage, his kid, his job, you—pulls him back down like an anchor around the throat. But every now and then, right before everything tips over into sex, there’s a flash of something dry and sharp that slips past his guard.

“You gonna make me beg?” he mutters once as you straddle his lap, his belt still unbuckled, his cock hard and twitching against his stomach.

You raise an eyebrow. “Would you?”

He exhales a laugh—one you feel more than hear. “God, no. But I thought I’d ask.”

That’s the closest you get to playful. And it doesn’t last. Because once his hands are on you, Frank goes quiet again—like fun was never an option, only urgency.

♡ H = Hair Frank’s grooming is utilitarian—done out of habit, not vanity. He keeps everything trimmed low, clean, managed. His chest is broad and dusted with a thick layer of dark hair, the kind that trails down his stomach in a narrowing line that you’ve traced with your tongue more times than you can count.

He doesn’t talk about his body much. Doesn’t ask if you like it. But the way your hands explore him—the reverence in the way you touch the back of his neck or drag your fingers through the hair on his stomach—makes his ears flush pink.

The first time you knelt in front of him, mouth open and voice low, and said, “God, I love how you taste,” he went still. Not proud. Not smug. Just wrecked by it.

♡ I = Intimacy Frank is at his most intimate before the sex starts. It’s in the way he presses his forehead to yours when your lips are still inches apart.

The way he exhales through his nose like he’s grounding himself with you. There’s a heavy, trembling kind of closeness to it—a sense that he’s trying to earn this moment even as he knows it’s already broken.

He doesn’t call it love. Not out loud. But it seeps through everything he does when he lets himself feel instead of just fuck. His hands cradle your hips like you're fragile. His mouth brushes over your sternum, your shoulder, your lower back like he’s memorizing you in fragments. Sometimes he says your name, but it’s barely audible. Like speaking it too loud might shatter whatever spell you’re both under.

There’s one night where he’s buried deep inside you, rhythm slow, his eyes open the entire time. And he says—barely more than a whisper

“This should be you. This should’ve always been you.”

Then he kisses you like a man confessing, not apologizing.

♡ J = Jack off Frank jerks off with his jaw tight and his hand wrapped in guilt. It’s not frequent—he’s too tired, too wound up—but when he does, it’s never aimless. It’s always about you. Sometimes it's the memory of you spread out in the on call room. Sometimes it’s the way you moaned when he slid two fingers inside you while the ER intercom called his name. But the one that undoes him the fastest is the memory of your mouth—wet, open, eager, eyes locked with his while you sink down onto him like you need it to breathe.

He doesn’t stroke himself lazily. He’s fast, impatient. Like he’s trying to get it over with before the shame sets in.

He finishes with a grunt, low and strained, and then stares at the wall for several minutes—ring glinting on his left hand, heart still racing, and every part of him aching for a life he doesn’t have the right to want.

♡ K = Kink Frank’s kink isn’t loud or flashy. It’s not about toys or pain or showmanship. It’s ownership. Not possessive, but emotional. He wants to feel like he’s the only one who’s ever touched you this way, even if he knows it’s a lie.

He wants you to wear him. He wants to leave marks—thumbprints on your thighs, the shadow of his beard on your neck, his cum dripping out of you hours after he’s gone. He wants to fuck you slow and deep, whispering, “Mine,” like the word can undo the rest of his life.

He also has a fixation with your underwear. Specifically, the ones you leave behind. He keeps a pair in the glovebox of his car. Never told you. Just… couldn’t throw them away. One night, when everything felt like it was crumbling, he took them out, buried his face in the soft cotton, and fucked his fist until he came so hard he had to bite down on the seatbelt.

He told himself that was the last time. He was wrong.

♡ L = Location Frank doesn’t have the luxury of variety. He’s too cautious, too paranoid. But when it is possible? He likes confined, inhabited spaces. Places with walls. A door. Something that can be locked—not just for discretion, but because it’s the only way he can let go.

Your apartment is a rare treat. He doesn’t visit often, but when he does, he fucks you like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be wanted—not just used or needed or tolerated. Your bed. Your shower. That one time he bent you over your kitchen sink while your pasta boiled behind you.

♡ M = Motivation Frank is most turned on when he’s emotionally overwhelmed. Anger, fear, grief, guilt—he doesn’t process them the way others do. He bottles them. Carries them. And eventually, they come spilling out in your direction, usually with his hands wrapped around your waist and his cock buried inside you like he’s trying to forget the world.

There’s a hunger in him he doesn’t understand. It’s not just about needing to fuck—it’s about needing you. Needing your laugh, your defiance, your softness. The way you touch his face like it doesn’t scare you. The way you moan like you’re not afraid of what this could become.

Sometimes you’ll say something simple—“You look tired,” or “You could stay the night”—and he’ll snap. Not with anger, but with desperation. He’ll kiss you too hard, yank your shirt over your head, push you onto the couch like he needs to be inside you before the thought has time to settle.

He’s turned on by danger. But more than that? He’s turned on by hope. And that scares him more than anything.

♡ N = No Frank has a lot of rules—some spoken, most not. No overnights. No coming to his house. No calling after 10PM. No talking about his kid.

No unprompted “I miss you” texts.

But in bed, his no’s are subtler. He doesn’t degrade. He won’t humiliate you, even if you ask him to. He won’t call you a slut or slap you across the face or spit in your mouth, because no matter how far he’s fallen, some lines still feel sacred.

“I’m not that guy,” he mutters, the first time you ask. He says it like it’s a promise he’s barely keeping.

And above all else—he won’t let you say “I love you.”

Not during. Not after. Not ever.

If the words so much as hover, he’ll pull away—physically, emotionally, all of it.

He’s a lot of things, but he refuses to lie to himself that much.

♡ O = Oral Frank eats pussy like he’s starving and like it’s the last thing he’s allowed to enjoy. He starts slow—one hand anchoring your thigh open, the other curled around your knee—just tasting, just learning. But once he figures out what makes your hips twitch? He doubles down like a man obsessed.

He flattens his tongue and grinds it against your clit in wide, deliberate strokes, low groans vibrating in his throat while your fingers lock in his hair.

He’ll wrap his lips around you, suck softly, then lap like it’s a compulsion.

He doesn’t always look up at you. Sometimes, he keeps his eyes closed—like the taste of you is something holy. Like looking would break whatever spell you’re both under.

Receiving? He likes it. Quietly. Doesn’t demand it, but won’t say no either. Especially when you do it with that same reverence—like you’re trying to take care of a man who doesn’t know how to let anyone take care of him.

His favorite is when you kneel without asking. Not for power. But for intention.

♡ P = Pace Frank’s pace is a paradox—unrelenting but measured. He isn’t reckless. He doesn’t slam into you blindly or chase climax like a teenager. When he fucks, he fucks like he’s thinking about it. Calculating every thrust. Dragging the head of his cock against that sweet spot inside you until your legs shake and your voice breaks on his name.

There’s a rhythm to it. Intentional. Sometimes fast and unforgiving—especially when he’s punishing himself for wanting you again. But just as often, he’s slow—achingly, deliberately slow, grinding in deep with every pass like he wants to brand you from the inside out.

“You feel that?” he mutters into your hair, hips pressed flush to yours.

“That’s me. All of me. Right there.”

♡ Q = Quickie Quickies aren’t casual for Frank—they’re necessary. He doesn’t always have the time or privacy for long, drawn-out sessions. So when the urge hits—and it always does—he’ll take you up against a wall, over a sink, half-out-of-breath with one hand on your mouth and the other under your skirt.

He’s fast but focused. Two fingers inside you, thumb circling just right while he groans against your shoulder. Or he’ll unzip just enough, slide in without even getting you fully undressed, fucking you so hard and so quiet it leaves your knees shaking after.

But afterward? He doesn’t look at you. Not right away. He adjusts his belt. Runs a hand through his hair.

And then says, in a voice you’ve learned to decipher, “That can’t happen again.”

(It always happens again.)

♡ R = Risk Every part of this is a risk. He knows that. The affair, the secrecy, the emotion. But Frank takes calculated risks—never reckless ones. He’s not about spectacle. He doesn’t want to get caught. But something about the possibility of it? Of fucking you behind a closed office door while his wife texts him about dinner plans? It twists something in him.

He won't admit how much he likes it. But he’s more dangerous than he looks.

One time, he fingered you in the backseat of his car while parked behind the hospital dumpster, a security camera blinking red in the corner of the lot.

“You’re gonna get me fired,” you whispered.

His reply? A low, growled, “Then be quiet.”

♡ S = Stamina Frank can’t go all night. But what he can do is make one round feel like five. He draws it out. Foreplay like a slow burn. Hands and tongue and murmured filth until you’re practically begging for him. And once he’s inside? He lasts. He holds off until he’s sure you’ve come—at least once, usually twice—before letting himself fall apart.

When he does come, it’s with a deep grunt, whole body shuddering against yours, head bowed like he’s ashamed of how hard he needed it.

If the moment’s right? He can go again. Not fast. But again. Especially if you’re on top, your mouth at his neck, whispering, “Don’t think. Just fuck me.”

♡ T = Toys Frank doesn’t own toys himself, but he’s open. Cautiously curious. He doesn’t need them—but he’s not threatened by them either.

You bring out a vibe once. He watches you use it, pants unzipped, fingers loosely stroking himself while your thighs shake from the stimulation. Then, he replaces the toy with his tongue. And then his cock. And later, he asks, “You use that when I’m not here?”

You nod.

He kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Next time? He tells you to bring it before he shows up.

♡ U = Unfair Frank is brutal when it comes to teasing—but not in a playful way. In a psychological warfare kind of way. He doesn’t just edge you, he holds you hostage with it. Hands between your thighs, fingers stroking just shy of where you need him, lips dragging down your chest but never far enough.

“You want me to stop?” he asks.

You shake your head, eyes pleading.

“Then take it. Come on. Take what I give you.”

Sometimes he pulls out just to watch you squirm. Sometimes he fucks you with two fingers, murmuring, “Look at how desperate you get for me,” while refusing to let you come. It’s not about dominance—it’s about control. His own, and the way yours crumbles for him.

♡ V = Volume Frank is quiet. Too quiet. His sounds are guttural, close to his chest—like he’s afraid someone might hear. But when he’s really lost in it? He groans. Deep, low, filthy groans that vibrate through your bones.

He pants your name, curses under his breath, grits out lines like, “So fucking tight,” or “You feel like heaven.” And if he’s fucking you from behind? You might catch a rare, shaky moan when you clench around him just right.

The loudest he’s ever been was the time you rode him slow, keeping eye contact the whole time. He came with a strangled, “Fuck—baby, I can’t—shit,” and bit your shoulder to muffle himself.

You still have the mark.

♡ W = Wild Card Frank had a voicemail saved on his phone. He’s listened to it over a dozen times, never all at once, always in pieces. It’s your voice. It wasn’t even meant to be sexy—it was accidental, late at night, after a call he ignored because he was at home eating microwave spaghetti with his kid on the couch.

You hadn’t said his name. You hadn’t said much at all. Just a breathy laugh, some rustling sheets, and the quietest whisper:

“Wish you were here.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else. No background noise. No music. Just you. Lying in a bed you’d made room for him in. And then, click. Gone.

He couldn’t delete it. Still hasn’t. Keeps it tucked under fake contact info labeled "ADMIN EXT. 7" in case his wife ever scrolls.

One night, when things at home were at their most tense—after a fight about money, about time, about why he never seems present—he snuck out under the guise of a late call shift. He sat in his car, parked four blocks from your apartment, and played that voicemail on a loop. He never came to your door. Never called. Just listened.

Over and over.

When he finally showed up the next morning, eyes bloodshot, collar loose, you thought he’d been drinking. But he hadn’t.

He just missed you. Missed the idea of you.

The life he doesn’t have. The calm he doesn’t know how to deserve.

You opened the door, and he kissed you like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Didn’t say a word—just backed you up against the wall, one hand under your shirt, the other gripping your face like he needed to feel if you were real.

Later, when he came inside you with his mouth at your shoulder and your nails raking down his back, he murmured against your skin:

“I heard you. That night. I listened to all of it.”

And then—just barely—

“Don’t stop saying shit like that. Even if I can’t answer.”

He eventually deletes the voicemail. Not because he wants to. But because he knows if he doesn’t, he’ll never go home again.

♡ X = X-ray His cock matches the rest of him: thick, veined, a little curved, uncut. Not massive, but enough—the kind that stretches you just right, the kind that leaves you sore in the best way.

He doesn’t strut. He doesn’t talk about it. But when he sees your breath hitch as he lines himself up? He smirks.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “That’s it. You remember.”

♡ Y = Yearning His sex drive is tied to his emotions—always has been. He doesn’t want you casually. He wants you like a pressure valve. Like medicine. Like something he can’t name without unraveling.

He craves you when he’s mad. When he’s scared. When he sees you laughing with someone else. He’ll spend a whole day avoiding your texts, pretending he doesn’t want you—and then show up at midnight, half-drunk and out of excuses, kissing you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You’re not his mistress. You’re his escape. And that yearning? It’s never going away.

♡ Z = Zzz Frank never intends to fall asleep with you. He always tells himself he’ll leave. That he’ll zip up, slip out, and get back to the life he built before you broke it open.

But sometimes… he stays. Just a little longer. Just until your breathing slows. Just until your hand settles on his chest.

And then he’s out. Deep, quiet sleep—body heavy against yours, arm slung across your stomach, leg hooked over your thigh like he forgot where he was.

When he wakes up? He panics.

But in those few hours, he looks peaceful. Younger. Like the man he might’ve been in a different life.

[its-in-the-woods]

10/10

The Pitt + text posts (4/?)

[bullet-prooflove]

Commitment: Frank Langdon x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @julessworldd @yousigned-upforthis @travelingmypassion @julius-ceasar

Companion piece to:

Hypocrite - Frank struggles to make amends for a past wrongs.

Crash - Almost getting you fired wasn't the lowest point of Frank's addiction.

Rock Bottom - Frank hits rock bottom when he sees the devastation his addiction's caused.

Little Black Dress - Frank starts to spiral when he realises you're dating.

Every Damn Day - A drunk text leads to a confession.

Wet Dream (NSFW) - Frank sometimes dreams about the life you had together.

War Stories - A realisation about your coping habits leads you to Frank's door.

The Three Cs - Frank and you finally discuss your issues and pave away towards the future.

The Wall - A date at the climbing wall leads to a revelation from Frank.

Frank’s worried when he steps inside your new home. He’s worried because there’s twelve tiny liquor bottles, all empties lined up in a row along the back wall in your garden. Beside him, you light up a cigarette and the scent of tobacco floods his senses as he takes a deep breath, inhaling it.

“Is this you asking for help?” He asks, this mouth dry, his heart fluttering.

“No.” You say as you hand him the cigarette. He takes it gratefully, placing it between his lips. “This is me making a commitment and having fun with it.”

You take out the slingshot you confiscated from your nephew before scooping up a couple of stones from the rockery in the corner.

“These past few months with you have shown me that you are making a real commitment to your sobriety, to us and the reason I invited you here tonight is because I want to make one of my own.” You tell him, loading the slingshot. “From now on my home is going to be a dry home, no booze or anything like that. I want you to feel comfortable when you stay here, to not have to worry about being around things that might trigger you.”

“Ivy, we haven’t talked about staying over yet.” Frank reminds you, taking a drag of the cigarette. “And you still haven’t told me what the bottles are about.”

“Sleepovers are something we’ll be discussing in depth later over dinner.” You tell him before lining up your shot. “And I thought since we sucked so hard at glass blowing, maybe we’d be better at glass breaking instead. I bet I can do five of these by the time you’ve finished that cigarette.”

“No fucking way.” Frank says shaking his head before you release the stone. It sails through the air, smashing through the glass, creating an eruption of tiny glittering shards along the back wall.

“Five and you stay the night.” You barter and he hides his smile behind the cigarette.

“Ivy.” He says, blowing out a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth. “If you want me to stay, you don’t have to best me in a competition.”

“I know.” You say, concentrating on lining up that second shot. “But it’s more fun that way, don’t you think?”

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