Kendrick REALLY Won That Rap Beef… Drakes Being Called A Pedo At Fhe Grammy Awards LMFAOO

kendrick REALLY won that rap beef… drakes being called a pedo at fhe grammy awards LMFAOO

Columba

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end)

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite.

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you.

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch.

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine.

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?"

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty.

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him.

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?”

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category.

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.”

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.”

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile.

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes.

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup.

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind.

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.”

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours.

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again.

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them.

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.”

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say.

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.”

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt.

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you.

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin.

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission."

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face.

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone.

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed.

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat.

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need.

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him.

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed.

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt."

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds.

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.”

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you.

Gods, he’s big.

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in.

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing.

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax.

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing.

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust.

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.”

His words steal a moan from your lips.

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him.

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.”

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.”

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan.

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.”

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away.

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you."

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Then you shall."

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite.

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him.

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.”

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful.

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts.

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him.

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer.

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes.

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.”

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth.

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you.

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat.

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply.

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again.

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.”

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?”

His lips trail along your jaw.

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.”

“And if I never request your leave?”

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?”

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses.

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown.

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes.

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it.

“What if I decline your offer?”

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.”

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind.

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?”

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.”

You see no flaws in his answer.

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears.

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.”

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm.

“I will, my Dove.”

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

1K notes View Post

espressheauxs

1 month ago

"No miseries worth complainin' about."

WUNMI MOSAKU as ANNIE SINNERS (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

14K notes View Post

espressheauxs

2 months ago

honestly mad respect for pope francis cause he used his dying breath to pray for gaza and to shit on jd vance and that’s an inspiring way to go out

3K notes View Post

espressheauxs

2 months ago

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 2] l Harry Castillo

Summary: you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: fluff, a little bit of angst, friends to lovers (maybe?), some wine, almost kiss, mentioning ex-boyfriend, Reader feels insecure

A/N: I'm giving you this chapter. Be gentle with me, please. I don't have much to say, except that I'd like to thank every single person who left a sign under the first chapter. I was afraid to write this, but with you it's somehow easier. Thank you,

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

"Harry asked about you." Susan leaned out from behind the monitor and looked at you over her glasses. "You're fifteen minutes late."

"I know!" you groaned, throwing your bag on the desk. "The whole street was jammed. I was texting him."

"I know, he told me. But he asked anyway." she smiled, reaching for the cup of coffee you brought her. "Thank you, honey. You know, that guy would die without you. Me too."

“He'll be fine. He's Harry Castillo, he'll always be fine.” You replied, trying to calm your breathing and smoothing your skirt with your hand. “How do I look?”

“Like you ran three blocks to get here.”

“I did!” you laughed, glancing toward the glass doors leading to Harry’s office. “Okay, wish us luck.”

You entered Mr. Castillo's large office and immediately noticed him talking on the phone, leaning against one of the windows. He nodded to you in greeting without interrupting the conversation, then pointed to the folder lying on his desk. You quickly put it in your bag.

“I could send a car for you,” he said, pocketing his phone, frowning. “Did you run here?”

“A lot of people run in the morning. Are we ready? Mr. McCullen should be in his office in an hour.”

Harry took his jacket off the chair and put it on. You quickly walked over to him and straightened his tie. "I'm ready now."

The offer had landed on Castillo's desk out of the blue, but it was so good it piqued his interest. Mr. McCullen's company was about to be sold, and Harry was considering buying it. You didn't have much time to prepare, since your sources told you there were a lot of companies interested.

However, everything was going to go your way that day. You had arrived at the company building early, so you quickly mumbled, "I have to go to the bathroom," and disappeared down one of the hallways leading from the conference room.

You were already washing your hands when you heard a quiet sob in one of the toilets. You anxiously wiped your hands on a paper towel and cleared your throat. "Excuse me? Is everything okay?"

The sobbing came from the last stall, where you noticed a pair of shapely legs in red heels. "Ummm... Do you need anything? A tampon or a tissue?"

The stall door opened and a young girl with swollen eyes stepped out. She sniffled and blew her nose into the toilet paper she was holding. “You can’t help me…” she said in a hoarse voice. “Until you find me a new job.”

"Oh! You know... You shouldn't worry so much about work, it's just..." you started, but the girl rolled her eyes. You clearly didn't understand her at all.

“I should care, because I’m about to lose my job!” she groaned. “I’m only working for this company until the boss closes this stupid deal, and then he’s moving to Los Angeles. That idiot got himself into so much debt…” she shook her head. A cold chill ran down your arms.

"What are you talking about?" you asked. "Not Mr. McCullen, right?"

She leaned against the counter and wiped her red nose, then crossed her arms over her chest. “His company is a bottomless pit. He’s desperate to sell it, and the guy buying it is a fucking idiot. He doesn’t even know what he’s signing up for.”

It was your second run of the day, your footsteps echoing through the empty hallway as you made your way to the conference room, but then your heart stopped. Harry was already sitting inside with two other men.

Everyone was chatting happily, or so it seemed to you, because the men were sitting with their backs to you, and all you could see was your boss's face.

"You can't go in there now." the female voice rang out as you grabbed the door handle.

“I’m Mr. Castillo’s assistant,” you said firmly, but the woman sitting behind the desk just tilted her head, unimpressed, looking you up and down appraisingly.

"I don't care. I said you can't go in there."

You huffed angrily and reached into your bag. You clenched your hand around your phone and a moment later you were dialing Harry's number. He must have felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket because he looked up and saw you behind the glass wall. He shook his head slightly.

“Shit!” you hissed. You had to think of something. You pulled out your folder and grabbed the first sheet of paper, then pulled out a pen.

Harry's brown eyes widened when he saw the piece of paper in your hands that said "BULLSHIT! DEBTS!"

one year earlier

You glanced around the hallway and took a deep breath, clutching your briefcase like it was a lifeline. The pretty brunette sitting across from you smiled, but you were so nervous you could barely lift the corners of your mouth.

How were you supposed to compete with them? Each of the five women waiting with you outside the glass doors to Mr. Castillo's office was simply beautiful and certainly had excellent references. And you? Your inner critic certainly had her hands full.

An hour passed, a very long hour. You were alone now, and the woman sitting behind the monitor glanced at you from time to time.

"He won't eat you alive, sweetie." she finally said.

"Huh?" you looked up, looking at her with fear. "You think so?"

"I've been working for him for a few years now. Just be yourself, girl."

You looked down at your nervously twisted fingers. It wasn't good advice.

Finally the girl came out of the office and you were invited in. The office was spacious and brightly lit by the rays of the setting sun. Behind the solid desk you saw a man, he was already over forty years old, broad shoulders, a prominent nose and a charming smile. He looked up from the paper and you saw beautiful brown eyes.

Your name flowed from his lips. "Please take a seat, it won't take long."

You sat on the edge of the chair feeling like your soul had already left your body. Mr. Castillo was looking at what must have been your job application.

"You don't have much experience." he said, there was no disapproval in it, more curiosity. "Why did you decide to apply?"

You barely recognized your voice when you spoke. "Can I be honest?"

Mr. Castillo made a gesture with his hand as if he was encouraging you to do so.

"I need a job. I know I don't have much experience as an assistant, not as much as previous candidates, I'm sure, but it's either that or going back to customer service."

"Mhm." he mumbled, rubbing his chin with his finger.

“Mr. Castillo.” Brown eyes focused on you again. “You’re looking for an assistant. I spent over an hour outside your office and saw other candidates. They’re beautiful women with references, and I understand that I can’t compete with them, but… I’m hardworking, loyal, and a quick learner. If you give me a chance, I assure you that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re not disappointed.”

“I like your energy,” Castillo murmured, leaning back in his leather chair.

“Yeah? It’s more like desperation.”

He chuckled, and you finally smiled back. You stared at each other for a few seconds until Castillo finally closed the folder in front of him and reached for his phone, signaling that the conversation was over.

"Thank you for giving me your time." he said politely. "We'll call you back."

You nodded, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you and goodbye,” before quickly leaving the office, your legs feeling like jelly. The walk to the elevator wasn’t memorable, nor was the entire ride down.

You knew you had fucked up this interview. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you wanted to wait until you were outside the building to cry. As you stood on the sidewalk, you took a deep breath and a sob tore itself from your throat. You felt pathetic, small, and weak. What were you even thinking, coming here, standing in front of this office? Fuck. You idiot.

The phone in your pocket vibrated and you rolled your eyes reaching for it, you couldn't even cry in peace anymore.

"Yes?" you said, not caring how you sounded.

“Hello, this is Harry Castillo. We spoke a few minutes ago.” A pleasant male voice spoke on the other end, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “Would you be interested in starting work on Monday?”

“Mrs. Diane Kruger-Waltz will be here next week. She would like to meet with you.”

Harry handed you a glass of wine and sat down on the couch next to you with a quiet sigh. “Okay, let me know when she’s available. We’ll work it out.”

You took a sip and set the glass down on the small coffee table, then quickly typed something on your computer. It was a pleasant, albeit rainy evening. After returning from Mr. McCullen's, Harry met with his accountants, who confirmed the information you had received in the ladies' room.

You both breathed a sigh of relief, this deal would cost the company millions and you didn't even want to think about what the consequences would be.

To celebrate this small success, if you could call it that, Castillo made a call to one of the best restaurants and ordered a takeaway. They didn't do that, but they made an exception for their regular customer. And then both of you, avoiding the slowly intensifying rain, hid on the couch in his spacious living room.

"Done." You announced, closing your laptop and putting it aside. "You should get your suit from the cleaners tomorrow morning. The sponsors' party starts at six in the afternoon, so you should be able to make it."

"I'll pick you up twenty minutes early, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be ready."

You sighed quietly and rubbed your forehead with your hand. It had been a long and hectic day. No wonder Harry had changed into sweatpants in search of comfort in his own apartment. Your clothes suddenly seemed extremely uncomfortable to you.

"What's going on?" he asked, feeling and seeing you shift nervously.

"Nothing. It's just... I'm tired, you know, every seam in my clothes irritates me." You mumbled.

"I already told you to keep something more comfortable at my place." you rolled your eyes and Harry chuckled "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not keeping my clothes in the boss's apartment." you replied, taking a sip of cold wine "That's unprofessional."

"Now this," he pointed at himself and you sitting on his couch, "that's professional, right?"

"Oh, never mind." you snorted but couldn't hide your smile and after a moment Harry also chuckled.

He liked spending time with you. There was something about it that made him feel free, like he could take off his tie and just be himself. Yes, he was a mature man, he knew his worth, but with you, a lot of things just seemed easier. Like he didn't have to pretend to follow rules and regulations. He didn't have that with other employees, only with you.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You already did." you replied, and seeing his face you lightly nudged him in the shoulder "Sure, ask."

"What was between you and Daniel? Of course, if you don't want to, you don't have to answer, but I was wondering... You seemed really upset after you met him."

You were silent for a moment and Harry thought that he might have crossed some line. Maybe the question was too intimate, too personal. But finally he heard your voice.

"We met through mutual friends. He started as a lawyer, quickly climbing the career ladder. I did my own thing, you know, but I wasn't as flashy as he was. We were together for two years, I think..." you closed your eyes, wrinkling your nose slightly as if you wanted to remember something, Harry was silent, watching you

"I was really in love. I supported him in everything he did, I practiced what he was supposed to say with him, ironed his shirts and stuff like that. I totally gave myself to him... At one of the parties he met Beth. I wasn't there because I had to be at work, the boss wouldn't let me off. Beth is different from me, better than me, you saw it yourself."

You smiled, looking at Harry, but the corners of his mouth barely twitched. He was staring at you attentively, listening carefully to every word. You lowered your gaze.

"Daniel started dating her. He didn't even tell Beth he was in a relationship... I found out by accident. It was like a slap in the face. We started arguing and he blamed everything on me... I believed him. I believed every word he said. I was in a bad place at the time."

You fell silent again for a moment, those memories must still be hurting you. A little hesitantly, but Harry reached out and squeezed your forearm in a supportive gesture. You smiled slightly.

"Huh! We broke up, of course. Daniel got together with Beth, officially. She was and still is a beautiful woman by his side, now carrying their child. It took me longer to get myself together and now I'm here. I'm drinking wine with my boss and telling him the pathetic story of my relationship."

You wanted to laugh, but just like that time at the wedding, the laughter died in your throat. Harry leaned slightly towards you, his voice calm and soothing.

"Daniel told you that you were a lot to handle?"

You nodded and quickly put your hand to your cheek, trying to wipe away a tear unnoticed.

"I'm sorry." Harry said quickly, placing a hand on your shoulder and caressing you "I didn't mean to..."

"No, it's okay!" you replied quickly, although your voice trembled "I'm telling it for the first time in so long, huh, I thought I was over it. But it hurt a little when I saw him, with her, so happy."

"Yeah, I understand that."

You finally looked at him, smiling even though your eyes were slightly red from the tears that had gathered in them. Your hand found his, squeezing it lightly.

"It's okay, really. Don't worry. I'm even glad you asked. I haven't talked about it with anyone. It's good to get it off my chest."

"I still feel guilty." Harry mumbled.

"Unnecessarily, really." You drank the wine to the end and put the glass on the table. "It's a bit embarrassing, sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for anything. To be fair, Daniel should apologize to you. He shouldn't have done that, he should have been honest with you from the beginning."

You waved your hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter anymore, Harry. I'm in a different place now. I have a cool job, my boss is okay too. I manage somehow."

You both laughed quietly until silence reigned again. And then Harry decided to say what had been on his mind for some time. Maybe it wasn't the right time, but when would there ever be one? He was still holding your hand, you were sitting so close, and he felt like he had to get it out.

"You're not a lot to handle." You looked up at him, surprised. "To tell you the truth, I think it was my lucky day when you showed up in my office for the first time. Remember?"

"This is embarrassing too, Harry. Let's not go back to this." You said, the corners of your mouth twitching even though your eyes were still scared. You waited to hear what he was getting at and you felt fear welling up inside you.

"It wasn't your fault. And you're not a lot to handle. Don't even believe it. You're worth so much more..."

You stared at him as if enchanted. Harry had such wonderful eyes, you noticed it from the first day, and since then you reminded yourself of it every now and then. And in that moment you saw almost everything in them - care, sincerity, sympathy.

"Don't say that, or I'll fall in love with you." You joked, but he didn't laugh.

"Would that be so bad?"

Something tightened your throat when you saw him leaning closer to you. He was too close, your lips inches apart, his scent filling your nostrils. "I have to go." You blurted out quickly and jumped up, freeing your hand from his.

"I..." Harry began uncertainly, but you had already grabbed your laptop and quickly shoved it into your bag "Listen, I didn't want to..."

"It's totally okay!" you said a little too quickly and too nervously, throwing your bag over your shoulder and slipping your shoes on "I really have to go now."

Harry wanted to say something else, but his head was completely empty. So he just watched as you gathered your things, threw a quick "See you!" and headed for the exit, closing the door quietly behind you.

Harry fell onto the sofa and rubbed his face with his hands, letting out a quiet groan.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist: @nrschuster30 @maried01 @lunariantears @thatesqcrush @suzysface @youkeeno @legoemma @nuo0n @sarahhxx03 @hazzzy418 @pedrofan @peepawispunk @readingiskeepingmegoing @maryfanson @anoverwhelmingdin @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @axshadows @picketniffler @underneath-the-sky-again @kaysfanficcorner @noisynightmarepoetry @xmaykeca @orcasoul @sincerelywithheartt

517 notes View Post

espressheauxs

3 weeks ago

😭😭😭😭

a guard dog with a death wish | jack abbot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“my little planner.”

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

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

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

none of them glance up at you, but one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“anything that feels right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“so you stole my bag.”

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

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

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

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

–

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

“so. husband.”

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

“i know a little something about that.”

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

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

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

“you don’t know a god damn–”

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

“accountable?” you reel backwards.

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

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

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

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

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

610 notes View Post

espressheauxs

1 month ago

thinking about night shift reader getting jealous when a pretty temp nurse or patient won’t stop flirting with jack

YESYESYES!!🤭 i need that imagine him trying to convince her/ console her and she’s actually so jealous and mad w him

the squeal heard around the world. i loved writing this. i am soo sorry i am terrible at writing about the girl we are supposed to be jealous of, even though this was my own damn idea. i hope you like ♡ this is about 3.6k. oops

Thinking About Night Shift Reader Getting Jealous When A Pretty Temp Nurse Or Patient Won’t Stop Flirting

jack abbot is great at being your boyfriend, and he's even better at being a doctor.

he's the kind of boyfriend you spent all of your youth dreaming about, as though he had read the scribbles in your journals growing up, like he'd been right next to your friends when you'd tell them about what you want in a relationship.

sweet, devoted, caring. he takes care of you in ways that you didn't realize you needed to be cared for—does it so effortlessly that you're left wondering how it comes so easily to him. you know he's been in more relationships than you—he was married, and that is something you don't take lightly. he had already found the person he was going to spend forever with, and because of some cruel twist of fate, he ended up alone again.

you can't imagine that. you've been on the night-shift maybe six months, which means you've been official with jack for coming on four months now, and you can't even imagine what a single day without him would be like.

(you've experienced it in the broadest sense of the word—he once got called in at three in the afternoon on a day you both had gotten off. the two of you had only woken up an hour or two ago, and had spent the following time indulging in an afternoon delight, and when his phone went off, you were about to drift off to sleep again against his chest, to the sound of his heart. you still hold a grudge against shen for that day, and you know what it's like to be without him when you're so spoiled by what it's like to be with him—you were miserable until he came back home at ten that night.)

jack abbot is a great boyfriend. he surprises you with your favorite flowers, makes you breakfast because he worries about you not eating enough, and even though he's an old man, he replies to your texts as soon as he gets them, as soon as he can. (but he doesn't really need to, since you're always together anyways.)

but sometimes, your boyfriend is really fucking oblivious.

there's a travel nurse taking over for one of your favorite night-shift nurses' maternity leave. you were sad about it already, being without her, though it's hard to stay upset when she sends you photos of her cute baby napping and videos of him realizing he has fingers.

and you are nothing if not sweet, if not welcoming. you had been the newbie not that long ago, and even though you've settled into a great routine (that only partially includes jack, because despite the fact that the scheduler loves you, you don't get every shift with your boyfriend. that would just be wrong. and distracting, you think), you still remember how hard it was in the beginning.

so you beam at her with your smile, ask her about her hobbies and give her recommendations for the best coffee nearby. you do all the things you'd do if it was anyone else, trying to make sure she feels welcome. (jack told you once that you have a complex about making sure people like you. you told him to shut up.)

the first few shifts with her were fine. you've been on with shen and ellis for a week—that's just the way the schedule was. you and jack both have a golden weekend coming up soon, and there was another couple of days he took off to go visit his sister upstate, so you knew it would be a mildly sad few weeks without him there every night with you. it would be worth it for the forty-eight hours you had been daydreaming about, all of them in jack's apartment, not a single one outside of his bed.

but she'd been on with you every night you'd been there, and nurses only work three times a week—that's what's running through your head when jack comes in for his first shift this week with you. he'd come from his apartment, calling you to tell you that he'd made it back home safely and that he was going to sleep before heading in. you had ended the call securing a promise to get breakfast at the diner after tonight's shift, your usual routine.

but you feel sick to your stomach at eight-thirty, staring at the new nurse and your boyfriend, standing in front of a patient's bed.

jack looks good—he always looks good. his hair isn't as messy yet, his scrubs are still clean. he shifts his weight a little because he's had a long drive back from his sister's, and he didn't get to sleep that much, another reason why you are so excited for this empty weekend. were so excited.

you didn't even think you were the jealous type. how could you have known—with no one ever being so close to you that you had any reason to be jealous? you try to rack your head through a couple of first-dates and your sweet but boring short-term college boyfriend. no, you conclude, you've never been the jealous type.

except now, you suppose, watching the pretty nurse lean in a little too close to jack, showing him something on the tablet in her hands. she stares up at your boyfriend, and he stares at the tablet, and then the patient, and you stare at them. and then you see it—he looks at her and stays something, and she laughs. loudly, flirtatiously. you know that laugh, you see it all around you in a hospital full of flirts. and before either of them can catch you staring, you turn around and find a patient to take care of.

you tell yourself for the next thirty minutes that being jealous and getting angry is awfully immature of you, while stitching up a man with terrible knife skills who had secured his visit tonight during a failed attempt at making hibachi for dinner. you don't even hear him when he asks you when he should return to get the stitches out, and the nurse helping you looks at you in confusion. you never zone out while talking to patients, never leave them hanging. she fills in for you, telling him two weeks while you meander back to central.

and you feel a white hot ball of anger burning in your chest again. she's talking to him again. god—don't they both have jobs to do? she's doing the thing again, leaning in towards your boyfriend, looking at him with an expression that is entirely too familiar to you. it's the one that's constantly on your face—the one that the other night shift crew are probably sick of seeing by now. it's something like adoration and reverence and paying attention to every word he says so you don't miss anything. but hers isn't like yours, there's something else there too.

jack is talking to the patient now, taking a step closer to the bed and away from the nurse, and your thudding heart calms down for half a second before the nurse follows right behind him. and she touches his arm. not a tap, not a poke to get his attention. she wraps her fingers around his bicep, holds on for a little too long, and your boyfriend turns to look at her, and that's when you realize you need a moment.

you shut your eyes. it's times like this that you realize how green you really are when it comes to the whole 'dating a really handsome, really smart guy' thing. but jack has never given you a reason to be worried, has never said or done anything that even made you think he would entertain something like this. you know he wouldn't, he's too good for that, too nice of a boyfriend for that.

but it still stings. and so you turn away immediately, heading back to the desk and leaning against it. you report the two cases you dealt with to ellis, who asks you questions that take you too long to answer. you try to avoid staring at either your boyfriend or the nurse for too long, a storm cloud brewing inside of you when you see her trailing right behind him again.

you haven't even talked to him tonight yet, you think bitterly. miserably. and that nurse has been with him for two hours.

and unfortunately, you're also pretty green at hiding the fact that you're upset too. not to your patients—though you do let shen and ellis run the incoming and settle for debriding and wrapping up a burn instead, sitting behind a shut curtain so jack couldn't find you, if he was looking.

(of course he was looking. you're just caught up in your own head.)

and after that, it's almost ten. jack has a cup of coffee waiting for you, if he can find you. he tells the nurse who's been following him around all night if she can track you down for him, and then the patient with the chest pain he's been monitoring wants to speak with him, so he walks away to do that, stretching his neck to see if you're at one of the beds nearby. you have a pair of pink sneakers you wear, though every single person in your life had told you to buy black ones, him included. you don't listen, and times like this he's thankful, searching for the bright shoes under a few beds before giving up. maybe you had just walked away, maybe he had just missed you.

you're back at central, sending in an order for antibiotic gel and finishing a note. you're not a mean person, it doesn't come very naturally to you, but you do have to try really hard to resist the urge to roll your eyes when you see the nurse walking towards you.

you've been nice to her every day so far. it would be obvious if you started being mean—whatever your version of mean is—now. but it doesn't seem like she would notice, with that same love-sick expression as she sits in the empty chair next to you.

you're grumpy and tired and frankly too busy to deal with this, but when she starts talking, you listen anyways. (screw jack and screw your goddamn complex. you need to learn how to be mean.)

"how is this the first time i'm meeting him?" she asks, and you bite your cheek so hard you think it might be bleeding. you keep typing your note, looking in her direction and forcing a smile—stupid. complex. "he's so handsome."

"what's that now?" you grit, the screen in front of you not making much sense anymore. you backspace and delete the last two sentences that are filled with gibberish and abbreviations that don't exist.

"dr. abbot," she says to you and you think even your fingers are trembling. you are so, so incredibly bad at this. and you don't even realize why—so much anger and sadness pooling inside of you. normally you'd be caffeinated enough for a clear mind on this side of ten o'clock, but you've been avoiding your boyfriend, and therefore avoiding the cup he makes for you every shift.

the nurse rambles on, your heart beating faster with each word she says. dr. abbot is cute and nice and charming and, like, so funny.

i know, you want to yell. i know he's funny! you just met him three hours ago.

but you stay silent, stay nice, no matter how much it's eating at you. you are being extremely immature but everytime you think of how close they were standing and the fact that some other girl touched your boyfriend's arm, you want to black out.

she keeps rambling and you stay silent, trying for the most part to ignore her, until you hear it at the end of one of her sentences.

"he wears a wedding ring, though, i noticed it earlier when we were with that other patient. but i mean, he's a doctor right? they never care about-"

the thoughts you're thinking would get you put into the psych ward, you think.

"-oh, he was looking for you. you need to report to him, right? we were over by bed ten, i think, the guy with chest pain. we were-"

we, we, we. it's all she says.

"he was looking for me?" you repeat, tired of listening and frankly, a bit tired of the weight of your own emotions.

yes, you might be stupid for getting jealous about something like this, but if that's the case, then you accept your own stupidity. you would never touch some nurse's arm like that, not unless you were trying to give someone a hug after a bad loss. and you would never lean in close like that to anyone, no one besides jack. well, jack and that older radiologist who speaks very softly, so you always need to get real close so she doesn't have to keep repeating herself.

you guess you thought jack would feel the same about not doing those things for you. maybe he doesn't care, maybe it's nothing to him. but it's not to you, not right now, not while listening to a temp nurse gush about him all night.

"oh, there he is now. do i look okay? that other incoming was coughing up blood and we-"

you look up, meeting your boyfriend's pretty hazel eyes while he leans on the other side of the counter from you.

"do you need anything, dr. abbot?" she pipes up from next to you, and this time you do roll your eyes. fuck—you're really bad at this. jack sees it happen, shaking his head at her and turning his attention to you.

a few hours ago, this would have made you perfectly happy. but it keeps replaying in your head—the arm grab. maybe it's because you have your own complex about jack's arms, but it's not okay. and you won't pretend like it is either.

jack sets down your yellow mug by your hand. it's filled with a light colored coffee.

"here's your cream and sugar with a side of coffee." you stare up at him blankly, forcing a small smile.

"thank you," and then you turn your attention back to the screen. jack looks at you, confused with furrowed eyebrows. you can feel the nurse's eyes going between your yellow mug and jack. "i discharged hibachi guy with fifteen stitches. and the forearm burn wants to pick up the gel from his local pharmacy, i guess he knows the tech there or something-"

"you okay, kid?"

you release a breath you've been holding all night. when you turn to your side, you see the nurse is still staring, but not at you, just at jack. you turn your attention back to him.

"yeah."

you watch it happen in front of you. he turns to the nurse, and she beams, just like how you always do.

"would you mind giving us a minute?" he asks her, and you can see her deflate a little. you get a smug feeling, which you immediately curse yourself for. that's mean of you, and you don't like being mean—though you are very pleased he said that. she nods and gets up slowly, making sure to ask him again if he needs anything before she goes. and she walks somewhere away, though you're sure she can still see him.

"hey," he starts, and you do have to look up now. you can't ignore jack if you tried. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you lie through your teeth, ignoring how weepy you feel inside.

you don't know how to handle being jealous, and you want to say something mean and biting but you can't really think of it. so you settle for the next best thing, staying silent.

"c'mon, kid. don't lie to me. i haven't seen you all night."

"i was on chairs," you say, eyes flicking between jack's arm resting against the counter and the cup of coffee he brought you. and then you look at the recently emptied seat next to you. "and you were clearly busy."

jack hasn't been dating you for that long, but he still knows you better than you know yourself sometimes. knows that you're too nice, knows about the new nurse that replaced your pregnant friend—distinctly remembers you telling him about it on the phone last week. he knows that he's never seen you like this, that you haven't given him that smile that makes his knees weak and his heart thud all night. that he was waiting for it after a few days without you.

you chew your cheek again, taking a sip of the coffee. it's perfect, just like every other night.

(you had once confessed to jack at three am during the first month you two were officially dating that your coffee always tastes better when he makes it. it's what he thinks about when he makes it for you—here, at your place, at his place, at the diner.)

"thank you for the coffee," you say quietly, briefly flickering your sad eyes to him. jack leans in, holding your hand that just set down your mug.

"hey," he starts quietly, and you try to wrestle your hand away, though he doesn't budge. "hey. what's going on? did i-did i do something?"

you stay silent, though he notices your eyes getting watery. it's so stupid, crying over this like you've just lost a patient or something. but you can't help it. jack abbot makes you feel every emotion like it's your first time feeling it all over again. your eyes look at the chair next to you again.

"i saw her touching you," you admit quietly. saying the words out loud lights a fury inside of you, getting angry all over again at the very idea that he didn't realize what was happening.

"oh, kid, i-"

"d-don't. you asked, i'm just telling you." it's hard for him to listen when he notices your chin trembling a little, thinking about how this might be the first time he's messed up in your short relationship.

he comes over to the other side of the desk, taking the seat next to you and holding onto your hand again.

"please tell me this is not about that-that nurse," jack starts, and you want to walk away from him so badly. "sweetheart. i have absolutely no interest in her, even if she does. i told her to find you for me, so i could get your coffee-"

"but she touched your arm," you say, not realizing just how sad that had made you. but jack realizes, knows that you must have seen it from somewhere where he couldn't see you. knows you didn't see him brushing her off, standing by the patient, figuring out how to get rid of his new shadow.

"hey, i'm sorry, okay? i would have made sure she understood that i'm very happily taken if i had known-"

"but you should have known," you say, though the words are covered with a tiny sob. "i-i'm not crying because i'm sad, i'm angry, i just don't know how to stop crying when i-"

"hey, it's okay. c'mon, let's go on a walk."

"no, i need to finish my notes-"

"sweetheart, come on." jack takes both your hands in his, turning you towards him. he stares right into your eyes and you feel slightly better—slightly. "i need to apologize to you and then i'm going to kiss you. and i know how you feel about me doing that sort of thing in front of everyone, so-"

"i don't know what you're talking about," you snip back. "i don't have any feelings about doing any sort of thing in front of any sort of people-"

and jack wants to laugh, not sure if you entirely understand how cute you are like this. he'll tell you all about it tomorrow morning, when he's got you in his bed, after he apologizes every single way he knows how, after he proves to you how little temp nurses mean to him when he's finally got you.

he leans in close, knowing he's got eyes on the two of you.

"is that so?" you have a habit of shutting your eyes when you know a kiss is coming, and your body does it automatically, despite what your brain is thinking. "so you're not gonna mind if i-"

and he bridges the gap, kissing you at central until he has to pull away to let you breathe. your eyes blink open, staring at hazel until you hear it from behind you—the charge nurse, clearing her throat, suppressing a laugh.

"doctors? if you're about done, we have an incoming mvc-"

"coming, bridget. thanks." jack speaks for both of you, and a little dazed, you stand up with him, still staring.

"i'm still upset."

"i know."

"she still touched you-"

"and i think she's gotten the message by now, but if she hasn't, i will make sure she understands."

"i haven't worked with you since last week." the last part you say sadly, realizing how long it's been since you've seen your boyfriend.

"i'll make up for it in the morning. promise." you take one last sip of coffee, knowing it'll be cold by the time you come back to it, following jack to the trauma bay. you walk right by the temp nurse, who you catch watching as you tie jack's gown and he ties yours, and though you really shouldn't, you beam your friendliest smile at her as she waits with you and the other nurse outside.

"you look great, by the way. and he is cute, isn't he?"