warnings: 18+, sub pope, male masturbation, pet nicknames, dom! fem reader, orgasm, angst
Andrew wasn’t a casual sex guy. Hell, he wasn’t a sex guy, period. He had only ever been with women who, in some way, were part of a job. Whether it was sleeping with them to gain trust or to get them close enough to get information about the next bank, church, or warehouse him and his brothers were going to hit.
It’s not that Andrew didn’t like sex. he was rather good at it. really good. but after his release from Folsom, he found sex rather difficult. he was always the one providing in the bedroom. Making women submit to him at their mercy. He wasn’t mean or aggressive, only if they wanted him to be.
Deep down, Andrew was soft like putty. he would never admit it, but he was very emotional in the bedroom. He almost always cried when he was at the brink of his climax. And vocal! Oh, how vocal he was - whiny and just plain pathetic.
He should’ve known it was fait when he’d come across your advertisement online. He’d been scrolling the internet looking for something, no. someone. Someone to do whatever it was they wanted to do to him. He’d succumb to whatever pain and punishment they’d bestow upon him. Someone to hurt him while bringing him the utmost pleasure. Someone who’d make him feel worthless but wanted at the same time.
Your ad had read, “childless, career-driven woman called ‘selfish’ by childless, career-driven men” in big, bolded lettering, with a photo of you next to it. your long, dark hair curled to absolute perfection, your lips red and glossy, almost wet. Andrew was enamored. he had never seen a woman look like you before. or ever. he could feel his erection growing in his jeans just by the picture on his laptop. you were dressed in all black latex and leather - your top almost halter-esque, accentuating your perfect breasts, and the tiniest faux leather skirt with fishnets underneath and thigh-high leather heeled boots.
You stood in front of a floor-length mirror in what Andrew could only assume was a dungeon, or some sort of torture chamber. Ties and whips adorned the walls, and chains were strung all throughout the ceiling. and the face you were making in the photo had Andrew palming himself thought his jeans - your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes filled with lust and the slightest bit of evil.
Andrew wondered what you’d smell like, what you’d feel like, what you’d taste like. He closed his eyes and slowly unzipped his pants, his rock hard cock spilling out of his boxers, pre cum oozing at his bright red tip. His head fell back as he started stroking himself, slow and languid, imagining it was your perfectly manicured hand wrapped around him. He could only imagine the sound of your voice now - telling him how much of a good boy he was being, telling him he wasn’t allowed to cum without your permission.
He picked up his pace now, his lungs expanding in his chest as his breathing became harder, his low groans and pathetic whines escaping under his breath.
He looked back at the photo of you, his mind racing, vision blurring as he reached his climax. He’d be so obedient for you, on his knees begging for you to let him cum.
“F-fuck p-lease let me cum” he whispered, his hips bucking upwards chasing his release as it grew in his abdomen. His strokes became slower and sloppy, feeling the pressure in his balls. “Go ahead pup, cum for me like the good boy you are” he imagined you’d say to him.
And he did. Hard. He groaned as his release spilled over his knuckles, down the shaft of his cock. His breathing was labored, beads of sweat collecting at his temples.
He cleaned himself off, put on a new pair of boxers and laid in his bed shirtless, drawing small circles over the freckled skin of his chest as his mind began to wander.
He needed your touch, your soft skin (so how he imagined it) and pretty voice coaxing him while he touched himself. He would get on all fours for you, lick the bottom of your shiny black boot just to get off. He’d let you do anything and everything to him if it meant that he’d feel wanted. Was he sick and twisted? Maybe perverted even? Most definitely. But he needed this like the air in his lungs.
He turned to his side and closed his eyes, falling into a deep sleep, the image of you still lingering in his mind. He would find a way to meet you, whatever it took. Andrew always got what he wanted.
* Thank you for reading 𑣲. * | shoutout to @popecodism on twt for proofreading ily bae
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Warnings: NSFW explicit sexual content, workplace relationship with power imbalance (attending physician/resident), semi-public sex in a hospital hallway, rough sex including wall sex and hair pulling, possessive behavior and dirty talk, canonical age gap, unprotected grinding with condom use for penetration.
Summary: 3 AM in the ER. Empty hallway. Months of tension finally snaps when Jack Abbott pins you to the wall, hand in your hair, and tells you exactly what watching you work has done to him
The fluorescent lights of the Pittsburgh Trauma Center's ER hallway hummed with that particular, exhausted frequency that only came after hour ten of a twenty-four hour shift. You could feel it in your teeth, in the space behind your eyes, in the way your scrubs had long since stopped feeling like fabric and started feeling like a second skin that you desperately wanted to shed.
But you were still standing. Still moving. Still checking charts, still catching details that others missed in the chaos of the Pit.
That was probably your mistake. Being competent. Being good.
Because he noticed.
Jack Abbott had been watching you for months. Not the way a superior observes a subordinate—though God knows he'd done plenty of that too, correcting your suture technique with those impossibly steady hands, grilling you on pharmacology until your tongue felt thick with Latin roots. No, this was different. This was the kind of watching that you felt like heat on the back of your neck when you bent over a patient's chart. The kind that made you hyperaware of your own breathing, your own pulse, the way your body moved under your scrubs when you crossed from bay three to the supply closet.
You told yourself you were imagining it. He was Jack Abbott, for Christ's sake. Fifteen years in the Pit, survived administrative changes and budget cuts and the particular hell of Pittsburgh winters. He was legend. He was untouchable. He was your attending.
And tonight, he was also apparently your shadow.
"Labs on bed four?" His voice came from directly behind you, close enough that you could smell the coffee on his breath, the faint trace of surgical soap that never quite washed off his skin.
You didn't jump, you'd learned not to jump around Jack Abbott but your hand tightened on the clipboard until your knuckles went white. "CBC's back. White count's elevated, but cultures won't be ready until morning."
"Mm." The sound vibrated in his chest, and you felt it more than heard it. He was close. Closer than necessary. Close enough that when you turned, your shoulder brushed his chest, and you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
They were different tonight. That careful, clinical distance he maintained with everyone, the armor that made him such a good teacher and such a frustrating mystery was cracked. You could see something dark moving behind the pale blue, something that made your stomach flip and your mouth go dry.
"Dr. Abbott—"
"Jack." The correction was soft, but it landed like a weight. "When we're alone like this. Jack."
Your throat clicked when you swallowed. "Jack. You should— I should get these orders in before—"
"Before what?" He took a step forward, and you took a step back, and your spine hit the wall beside the supply closet with a soft thud that you felt in your ribs. "Before you keep saving my patients? Before you keep making decisions that I should have caught? Before you keep being so fucking competent that I can't think about anything else?"
The hallway was empty. It was 3 AM, the dead hour, when even the most desperate cases had been stabilized or transferred or— you didn't want to think about the alternative. The nursing station was twenty feet away, but it might as well have been miles. The curtain was drawn on bay two. You were alone with him in the humming, sterile quiet of a hospital that had seen every kind of human desperation but had never seen this: Jack Abbott losing his careful, careful control.
"I don't—" Your voice came out rough, scraped raw by twelve hours of shouting over trauma alarms. "I don't understand."
"Yes, you do." He lifted his hand, and you watched it rise like you were hypnotized, watched his fingers, long, precise, capable of closing chest cavities and threading catheters and bringing people back from the edge of death hover beside your cheek. He didn't touch you. Not yet. "You've understood for months. I've seen it in your face when you think I'm not looking. When you bite your lip during rounds. When you push your hair back and your hand shakes."
"Jack—"
"Don't." The word was sharp, a command, and your teeth clicked together as your jaw snapped shut. His eyes dropped to your mouth, tracking the movement, and when he looked back up, the darkness had swallowed the blue entirely. "Don't pretend you haven't felt it. This—" He finally touched you, just his thumb brushing the corner of your jaw, and you felt the contact like a current, like defibrillator paddles to your sternum. "—has been building since your first day. Since you walked into my Pit with your perfect scores and your steady hands and your eyes—"
He broke off, jaw tightening, a muscle jumping in his temple. You could see him fighting it, could see the war being waged in the set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip he had on his own restraint. And you realized, with a sudden, dizzying clarity, that you didn't want him to win
You reached up. Wrapped your fingers around his wrist, feeling his pulse hammering against your palm, feeling the fine tremor in his forearm that he couldn't hide. "Jack."
His name was permission. It was surrender. It was throwing gasoline on a fire that had been smoldering for months.
He moved.
His body pressed against yours, pinning you to the wall with a weight that drove the air from your lungs in a gasp that sounded embarrassingly close to a moan. His thigh slid between yours, denim rough against the thin cotton of your scrubs, and you felt the hard line of him against your hip and realized that he'd been walking around the ER like this, hard and aching and thinking about you, for God knows how long.
"Do you have any idea," he breathed against your ear, his voice dropped to a register that scraped your nerves raw, "what it does to me? Watching you work? Watching you take charge in a trauma, your voice going all calm and sure, your hands—" He caught your wrist, the one that still held the clipboard, and pinned it above your head against the wall. The other hand, his free hand finally, finally buried itself in your hair, fingers threading through the strands that had escaped your ponytail, tightening just enough to make your scalp sing with sensation. "Your hands doing things I've dreamed about. Things I shouldn't be thinking. Things I sure as hell shouldn't be feeling for a resident half my age who looks at me like—"
He pulled, and your head tilted back, exposed your throat to the fluorescent lights and his burning gaze. You felt like prey. You felt like the only thing in the world he could see.
"Like what?" You managed, the words barely audible, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, your wrists, the pulse point between your legs that was now pressed hard against his thigh.
His mouth hovered over yours, close enough that you could taste the coffee on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Like you want me to ruin you."
Then he kissed you, and it wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was months of late nights and stolen glances and the particular torture of watching someone be brilliant and beautiful and completely untouchable, all unleashed in the collision of teeth and tongue and desperate, ragged breath. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, like he'd been starving and you'd finally offered yourself as a meal.
You moaned into his mouth, arching against him and the sound seemed to break something in him, the last tether of his restraint snapping with an almost audible crack.
"Fuck," he growled against your lips, his hand tightening in your hair, pulling your head back further until you were looking up at him with blown pupils and kiss-bitten lips. "You have no idea what watching you do your job does to me."
The words hit you like a physical blow, heat flooding between your legs, your body responding to the raw confession with a rush of wetness that you could feel even through your scrubs. You tried to roll your hips against his thigh, seeking friction, seeking something to ease the ache he'd built with nothing but his voice and his eyes and his impossible, maddening proximity.
He felt it. Of course he did. He was Jack Abbot, he missed nothing.
"Greedy," he murmured, and there was dark approval in his tone, something that made you shiver. "You've been walking around my ER thinking no one notices how wet you get when you nail a difficult intubation? When you stand up to me in front of the team, all that fire in your eyes?" He shifted his thigh, pressing up, and you gasped at the pressure against your clit, the friction exactly right and somehow not nearly enough. "I notice. I've been noticing. And I've been thinking about all the ways I could make you scream without making a sound that would carry past this hallway."
"Jack, please—"
"Please what?" He released your wrist only to grip your jaw, his thumb pressing against your lower lip, tugging it down until your mouth opened on a whimper. "Please what, sweetheart? Please stop? Please keep going? Please fuck you against this wall where anyone could walk by and see Dr. Abbott finally losing his goddamn mind over his resident?"
"Please—" You were babbling, you knew you were babbling, but his thigh was rocking against you in a slow, maddening rhythm and his hand was still fisted in your hair and you could feel the hard length of him grinding against your hip and you were going to combust, you were going to die, you were going to come apart in the middle of the Pit wearing scrubs that had someone else's blood on them from a trauma three hours ago. "Please touch me. Please… I need—"
"What do you need?" His voice had gone soft, dangerous, the tone he used when he was about to deliver terrible news to a family, when he was about to make a call that would save or end a life. "Tell me. Use your words. You're so good with words, aren't you? All those presentations, all that research. Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you. I'll give you everything."
"Your fingers," you gasped, arching into his touch, your hands finding his shoulders, gripping the hard muscle through his scrub top. "Please, Jack, I need your fingers inside me. I need— I've thought about it, I've thought about your hands—"
"Where?" The question was sharp, demanding, his eyes burning into yours with an intensity that made you feel stripped bare, examined under the harshest light. "Where have you thought about them? Here?" He dragged his thumb down your throat, over your collarbone, dipping beneath the neckline of your scrubs to brush the upper swell of your breast. "Or here?" His hand slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you harder against his thigh. "Or—"
His hand dropped between your bodies, palming you through your scrubs, and your knees buckled, would have sent you sliding down the wall if he hadn't been holding you up with the weight of his body and the grip in your hair.
"Here?" he whispered, his fingers pressing against the soaked fabric between your legs, finding your clit through the layers and rubbing in a slow, devastating circle. "Is this where you've thought about them? My fingers, opening you up, making you wet, making you beg?"
"Yes…fuck, yes—"
"Good." The word was a purr, a predator's satisfaction. "Because I've thought about it too. I've thought about it every time you bent over a chart. Every time you reached for something on a high shelf and your scrub top rode up. Every time you looked at me with those eyes and I had to turn away before I did something that would cost us both our careers."
He released your hair, and you whimpered at the loss, but then his hand was at your waist, yanking at the drawstring of your scrub pants, and you forgot how to breathe.
"Hold onto me," he commanded, and you did, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he shoved your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, the cool hospital air hitting your overheated skin like a shock. "Step out. Now."
You obeyed, kicking the fabric aside, and then you were bare from the waist down in the middle of the ER hallway, your back against the wall, your attending physician on his knees in front of you.
"Jack—" Your voice was high, panicked, aroused beyond rational thought. "Someone could—"
"Let them." He didn't look up, his attention entirely focused on the sight of you, spread and exposed and dripping for him. "Let them see what you do to me. Let them see that you're mine." Then he leaned in, and his tongue dragged through your folds in one long, devastating stroke, and your head fell back against the wall with a thud that you barely felt over the explosion of pleasure.
He ate you like he was starving, like he'd been denied sustenance for months and you'd finally offered yourself as a feast. His tongue found your clit, circling it with devastating precision, the same focus he brought to a difficult surgery, the same single-minded intensity that made him the best attending in the Pit. He didn't tease. He didn't build slowly. He attacked, his mouth working you with ruthless efficiency, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open, to keep you still, to prevent you from squirming away from the overwhelming sensation.
"Jack— Jack, I'm going to—"
"Not yet." He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and wild. "You don't come until I'm inside you. You don't come until you feel exactly what you do to me. Understood?"
You nodded frantically, your fingers finding his hair, gripping the strands as he dove back in, his tongue plunging inside you, fucking you with shallow, desperate strokes that had you sobbing his name into the empty hallway. You were so close, hovering on the edge, your body trembling with the effort of holding back the orgasm that was building like a tsunami in your core.
He felt it. He always felt everything.
He pulled back with a snarl, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes burning up at you with something like reverence and something like madness. "Turn around."
Your legs shook as you obeyed, turning to face the wall, your palms flattening against the cool tile, your forehead dropping to rest against your forearms. You heard the rasp of a zipper, the crinkle of a condom wrapper— thank God, some part of your brain that was still capable of rational thought whispered— and then he was there, the heat of him pressed against your back, his hand sliding down your spine to grip your hip.
"Look at me." The command was soft, but it brooked no argument.
You turned your head, your cheek pressed against the wall, and met his eyes over your shoulder. He was flushed, his hair mussed from your fingers, his scrub top still on but his pants shoved down enough that you could see the thick, hard length of him in his fist, sheathed and straining and fuck, he was big, he was going to split you open, you were going to feel this for days—
"I want to see your face," he said, his voice rough with restraint, with the effort of going slow. "I want to watch you when I push inside. I want to see the moment you realize you're finally, finally mine."
"Jack—"
He thrust into you in one long, hard stroke, and your vision whited out.
You were full. You were so full you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the stretch and burn of him buried to the hilt inside you, the way he filled every empty space, the way your body clamped down around him like it recognized him, like it had been waiting for this, for him, for *months*.
"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his hand still gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. "Fuck, you're tight. You're perfect. Don't move— don't— I need a second—"
You couldn't have moved if you'd wanted to. You were pinned, impaled, held in place by the weight of him and the wall and the sheer overwhelming reality of Jack Abbott inside you, his pulse hammering against your back, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
"Jack," you whispered, and your voice was wrecked, ruined, nothing like the professional tone you used in rounds. "Jack, please…move. Please. I need you to move."
He lifted his head, and his eyes, when they met yours— were blown wide, the pupil swallowing the iris, his control hanging by the thinnest of threads. "Say it again."
"Please."
"Not that." He pulled back, just an inch, and slammed back in, and you cried out, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. "My name. Say it like you mean it. Like I'm the only thing in the world."
"Jack." You gasped it, sobbed it, as he began to move in earnest, long, hard strokes that drove you up onto your toes, that made your fingers scrabble against the tile for purchase. "Jack, Jack, Jack—"
"Good girl." The praise fell from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, and he picked up his pace, his hips snapping against yours with a force that would bruise, that you would feel every time you moved tomorrow, every time you sat down, every time you thought about this moment and the way he'd looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. "That's it. Take it. Take all of it. You've been teasing me for months, walking around in these fucking scrubs, bending over, looking at me with those eyes, now you take what you did to me. You take it and you scream my name so the whole hospital knows who you belong to."
His hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles that had you seeing stars, had you pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts with your own, the sound of skin on skin and ragged breathing filling the hallway like music.
"Jack I'm— I can't—"
"Now." The command was a snarl, a demand, his fingers pressing hard against your clit as he thrust deep, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your vision spark with white light. "Come for me now. Let me feel you. Let me…fuck—"
You came with a scream that you buried in your own shoulder, your body clamping down around him in waves that seemed to go on forever, your legs giving out entirely, held up only by his arm banded around your waist and the wall at your front. He kept fucking you through it, his pace erratic now, losing his rhythm as he chased his own release, his breath coming in harsh grunts against your neck, his fingers bruising on your hip.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice ragged. "Look at me when I— I want to see your eyes—"
You turned your head, your vision blurred with tears you hadn't realized you were shedding, and met his gaze. And that was what undid him, the eye contact, the connection, the raw vulnerability of looking at each other while he fell apart inside you.
He came with a groan that sounded like your name, his hips stuttering, his arm tightening around you until you could barely breathe, his face buried in the curve of your neck as he spilled into the condom, as he marked you from the inside in the only way he could in this place, at this time.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fluorescent lights hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped. The world continued to turn, indifferent to the fact that everything had just changed.
Jack was the first to speak, his voice rough, stripped of all its usual armor. "I— fuck. I didn't— we shouldn't have—"
"Don't." You found his hand where it still rested on your hip, lacing your fingers through his, squeezing. "Don't do that. Don't take it back."
He was silent for a moment, his breath still coming hard against your skin. Then: "I couldn't take it back if I wanted to. And I don't want to." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, soft, almost reverent after the violence of what they'd just done. "I've wanted you since you walked in here. I've wanted you every day since. I just… I didn't think I could have you. I didn't think I deserved to."
You turned in his arms, your scrubs still bunched around your ankles, your body still trembling with aftershocks, and cupped his face in your hands. He looked younger like this, stripped of his authority, his hair mussed, his eyes still blown wide with pleasure and something that looked terrifyingly like tenderness.
"You can have me," you whispered. "But you have to be sure. Because I'm not— I can't be a secret, Jack. I can't be something you regret."
He caught your wrists, turned his head to press a kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're not a secret. You're not a regret." He rested his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a vow. "You're the reason I keep coming back to this place. You're the reason I haven't burned out. And I know— I know the risks. I know what we could lose. But I can't look at you for one more day and pretend I don't feel this. I don't have that kind of strength."
You kissed him then, soft and slow, tasting yourself on his lips, feeling the tremor in his hands where they rested on your waist. "Then don't pretend," you murmured against his mouth. "Be with me. Here. Now. However we can."
He smiled, and it was the first time you'd ever seen it reach his eyes— a real smile, unguarded and bright and yours. "I can do that," he said. "I can do that, starting now."
And as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway, he helped you pull up your scrubs with steady hands, smoothed your hair with gentle fingers, and pressed one last, lingering kiss to your lip, a promise, a beginning, a secret shared in the fluorescent hum of the place where you'd both learned to save lives, and had finally learned to let yourselves live.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, smut, supply closet sex, rough sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, praise kink, power dynamics (attending/resident), canon character/reader insert, established tension/UST, post-shift exhaustion sex, marking/hickies, dom/sub undertones
Summary: Sixteen hours into a brutal mass casualty shift at Pittsburgh Trauma, you're running on fumes and adrenaline. When Dr. Jack Abbott corners you in a supply closet and pins your wrist above your head against the wall, all that professional tension finally snaps. He whispers praise against your neck—and then he shows you exactly how he rewards competence.
_________________________________________________
The fluorescent lights of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center's ER had never felt so harsh. Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours of screaming patients, arterial spray on your scrubs, and the kind of decisions that would haunt you in your sleep. The mass casualty incident had stretched the department to its breaking point, and you were running on fumes, adrenaline, and the dregs of cold coffee from six hours ago.
You'd lost track of how many lives you'd touched tonight—stitched, stabilized, or said goodbye to. Your hands were still shaking slightly as you peeled off your bloodied gloves in the empty supply closet, trying to find a moment of quiet in the chaos.
That's when you felt him behind you.
You didn't hear footsteps. You never did with Jack Abbott. The man moved like a shadow when he wanted to, all coiled intensity and controlled silence. But you felt the shift in the air, the way the temperature seemed to spike, the prickling awareness that danced across your skin.
"Don't turn around," his voice rumbled, low and rough from hours of shouting orders over the din of trauma bays.
Your breath caught. You'd been working under Dr. Abbott for eight months now, enduring his exacting standards, his brutal teaching methods, the way he demanded perfection and settled for nothing less. He was relentless, uncompromising, and—God help you—absolutely magnetic in his intensity.
"Jack—" you started, but his hand was already moving, lightning fast, closing around your wrist.
"Up," he commanded, and you felt yourself lifted, your arm raised above your head as he spun you, pressing your back against the cold metal shelving. His body crowded against yours, all hard planes and coiled strength, the dark scrubs beneath, still damp with sweat from the marathon shift.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as he pinned your wrist against the shelf above you, his other hand coming to brace beside your head, caging you in completely. The supply closet suddenly felt impossibly small, filled with the scent of him—antiseptic, sweat, and something darker, masculine and intoxicating.
"You were incredible today," he murmured, his mouth hovering inches from your ear. His breath was hot against your neck, sending shivers racing down your spine. "I watched you. That chest tube in Bay Three. The kid in respiratory distress. You didn't flinch. You didn't break."
Your throat went dry. "Jack, we can't—"
"Can't?" His laugh was dark, almost dangerous. "I've watched you for months. Watching you bend over stretchers, your ass in those scrubs. Watching your hands work, steady and sure. Do you know what that does to me? To watch competence made flesh? To want someone who knows exactly what they're doing with their hands?"
He pressed closer, and you felt it then—the hard, thick outline of his arousal grinding against your hip. A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
"Now let me reward you," he whispered, and then his mouth was on your neck, hot and demanding.
His teeth grazed your pulse point, sucking hard enough to bruise, to mark, and your knees went weak. You'd imagined this—God, you'd imagined this—during late-night shifts when he stood too close, when his hand brushed yours passing instruments, when those storm-gray eyes pinned you with a look that felt like it stripped you bare.
But imagination was nothing compared to reality.
Jack Abbott kissed like he practiced medicine—with absolute confidence, devastating precision, and no mercy. His tongue traced the column of your throat, licking and tasting, while his free hand slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
"You have no idea," he growled against your skin, "how hard it was to watch you save that kid tonight and not drag you into the nearest empty room. Do you know what competence does to me? To watch someone be good at something that matters?"
His hand slid lower, palming your ass and squeezing, grinding you against the hard ridge of his cock. You gasped, your free hand flying to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath your palm.
"Jack—"
"Tell me to stop," he challenged, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His gaze was wild, blown wide with desire, the controlled attending completely shattered. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll walk away. We'll pretend this never happened."
You looked at him—really looked at him. The lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw, the way his hair was mussed from running his hands through it during the crisis. He was beautiful in his intensity, in his hunger, in the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth having.
"Don't stop," you breathed.
A predatory smile curved his lips. "Good girl."
His mouth crashed against yours, and the kiss was devastating—deep and filthy, his tongue sweeping inside to claim you, to taste you, to take. You moaned into it, arching against him, feeling the hard planes of his body pressed flush against yours.
His hand left your hip to grip your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist, opening you to him. The new position had him grinding against your core, and even through layers of scrubs, the friction made you see stars.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking the kiss to pant against your lips. "You feel that? That's what you do to me. That's how hard I am for you. Sixteen hours of watching you be brilliant, and I've been hard since hour three."
His hand slid between your bodies, finding the waistband of your scrubs and pushing inside. You gasped as his fingers brushed over your stomach, dipping lower, lower, until they found the damp heat of your underwear.
"Already wet," he observed with dark satisfaction. "Were you thinking about me while you were suturing? While you were saving lives?"
"Yes," you admitted, the word torn from you as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding your clit with unerring accuracy.
He circled the sensitive bundle of nerves with devastating precision, his medical knowledge of anatomy apparently extending to exactly how to make you fall apart. You cried out, your head falling back against the shelf, and he took advantage, mouthing at your exposed throat.
"Keep quiet," he commanded, even as he increased the pressure, rubbing tight, perfect circles that had your hips bucking. "Unless you want half the ER to hear what I'm doing to you."
You bit your lip, stifling another moan as he slid lower, two fingers pressing against your entrance before pushing inside. The stretch was exquisite, his fingers thick and skilled, curling to find that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
"Jack—oh God—"
"That's it," he encouraged, pumping his fingers in a steady rhythm, his thumb continuing to work your clit. "Let me feel you. Let me feel how tight you are, how much you want this. Want me."
You were spiraling, the dual sensation of his fingers inside you and his mouth on your neck overwhelming. The supply closet, the hospital, the brutal shift—all of it faded away until there was only Jack, his hands, his voice, the way he owned your pleasure with the same intensity he brought to everything else.
"Please," you whimpered, feeling the coil tightening in your belly. "Please, Jack, I need—"
"What do you need?" he demanded, his voice rough. "Tell me. Say it."
"I need you inside me," you gasped, the words spilling out, filthy and desperate. "I need your cock. Please, Jack, fuck me—"
The groan that tore from him was animal, primal. He withdrew his fingers, making you cry out at the loss, but then he was fumbling with his scrub pants, shoving them down just enough to free himself.
You looked down and your mouth went dry. He was thick and heavy in his hand, the tip already slick with precome, veins running along the length of him. He was beautiful, terrifyingly so, and the thought of him filling you, stretching you, made your inner muscles clench with need.
"Condom," you managed, even as you ached for him.
Jack paused, his jaw tight with restraint, and reached into his white coat pocket—of course he had one, the prepared bastard. He tore the packet open with his teeth, rolling it down his length with efficient, practiced movements that had you squirming.
Then he was lifting you, his hands gripping your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your back pressed against the cool metal of the shelving as he positioned himself, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained. "Look at me while I take you."
You met his eyes—dark, stormy, absolutely wrecked—and then he was pushing inside.
The stretch was exquisite, burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by inch, until he was seated to the hilt. You both groaned, the sound mingling in the small space, and for a moment he just held still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.
"Fuck," he gritted out. "Fuck, you're tight. You're perfect. You feel like—like—"
"Move," you begged, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, Jack, move—"
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pulled back and thrust deep, setting a punishing rhythm that had the shelves rattling. Each stroke hit that perfect spot inside you, the friction delicious, the angle devastating. You were reduced to whimpers and gasps, clinging to him as he fucked you against the wall with the same relentless intensity he brought to everything.
"So good," he growled, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking fresh bruises into your skin. "So fucking good. You take me so well. Look at you, taking my cock like you were made for it."
His words were filthy, degrading in the best way, reducing you to nothing but sensation, to the place where he ended and you began. You could feel your orgasm building, tightening, coiling like a spring ready to snap.
"Jack," you gasped, "I'm close—I'm so close—"
"Not yet," he commanded, slowing his thrusts, making you whine in frustration. "Not yet. I'm not done with you."
He withdrew completely, ignoring your cry of protest, and spun you around before you could process the movement. Your chest hit the shelving, your cheek pressed against cool metal, your hands gripping the edge of a shelf for purchase. He kicked your feet apart, spreading you wide, and then his hands were on your hips, tilting you to the perfect angle.
"Look at this," he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. "Look at you. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
He thrust back inside in one smooth motion, the new angle even deeper, hitting places inside you that made your vision blur at the edges. You cried out, unable to stop yourself, and his hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound.
"Quiet," he reminded you, his lips at your ear even as he began to move again—slow, deliberate thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve ending. "Can you be quiet for me? Can you take what I'm giving you without screaming?"
You nodded frantically, your teeth sinking into his palm as he picked up the pace. His free hand slid around your hip, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight, desperate circles that had you seeing stars.
"Good girl," he praised, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. "Such a good girl. Taking my cock so well. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? Imagined bending you over, spreading you open, fucking you until you can't remember your own name?"
His words were filthy, each one driving you higher, closer to the edge. You were babbling now, incoherent pleas and gasps, your body trembling with the effort of staying quiet as he pounded into you.
"Jack—please—I can't—"
"You can," he insisted, his fingers working your clit faster, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. "You can. You're going to come for me again. And then again. I'm not stopping until I've had my fill of you."
His other hand moved from your mouth to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, arching your spine. The slight sting of pain mixed with the overwhelming pleasure, creating a cocktail of sensation that had you teetering on the edge.
"Please," you begged, your voice breaking. "Please, Jack, I need to—"
"Come," he commanded, his voice like a whip. "Come now."
The orgasm crashed over you with devastating force, your body convulsing around him, your cry muffled by your own shoulder as you bit down to keep from screaming. He didn't stop, didn't slow, fucking you through the waves of pleasure, prolonging them, drawing them out until you were sobbing, tears pricking at your eyes from the intensity of it.
"That's one," he said, his voice dark with satisfaction. He withdrew slowly, making you whimper at the loss, and turned you back to face him. Your legs were jelly, barely holding you up, but he caught you, lifting you again, wrapping your legs around his waist.
"Jack, I can't—" you started, but he cut you off with a kiss—deep and claiming, his tongue sweeping inside to taste you.
"You can," he murmured against your lips. "And you will. I told you I was going to reward you. We're just getting started."
He lowered you onto a stack of folded linens on a lower shelf—the rough fabric scratchy against your back, but you barely noticed. He loomed over you, his eyes dark and hungry, his cock still hard and straining, glistening with your arousal.
He grabbed your knees, pushing them up and out, spreading you completely open for him. The vulnerability of the position made you flush, but his gaze was worshipful, reverent, drinking in the sight of you laid bare before him.
"Beautiful," he breathed, running his hands down your inner thighs, making you shiver. "Absolutely beautiful."
He positioned himself at your entrance again, teasing, rubbing the thick head of his cock through your folds, gathering your wetness, making you squirm and beg.
"Jack, please—"
"Please what?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm, though you could see the strain in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me," you gasped, the words spilling out, filthy and desperate. "I want you inside me. Please, Jack, stop teasing—"
He thrust deep in one hard movement, filling you completely, and you arched off the linens with a cry that he swallowed with another kiss. He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving you into the rough fabric, his pelvis grinding against your sensitive clit with every stroke.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice strained. "I want to watch you touch yourself while I fuck you."
Your hand moved without conscious thought, sliding between your bodies to find your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you. The dual sensation was overwhelming—his cock filling you, stretching you, your own fingers working your most sensitive spot.
" Fuck," he groaned, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, where your hand worked yourself. "That's it. That's so fucking hot. Look at you. Look at how much you want this."
You were climbing again, impossibly, your body still sensitive from your last orgasm. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through your veins, every grind of his hips driving you higher.
"Jack—I'm going to—"
"Come with me," he gritted out, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. "Come with me. Now—"
He buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing inside you, his body shuddering against yours. The feeling of him coming, the way he lost control, the raw, primal sound of his release—it pushed you over the edge. You came with him, your body convulsing, your vision whiting out, your cry lost in the space between you.
For long moments, they held you there, pinned against the linens, both of you breathing hard, trembling, coming down from the high. He collapsed slightly, his weight pressing you into the rough fabric, but you didn't mind. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, feeling his heart thunder against your chest.
"Fuck," he breathed, his face buried in your neck. "Fuck, that was—"
"Yeah," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper. "Yeah."
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. The wild intensity had faded, replaced by something softer, something almost vulnerable. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, tender.
"Hi," he said, his voice rough.
A laugh bubbled up in your chest, unexpected and giddy. "Hi."
He smiled then—a real smile, not the tight, controlled expression he wore in the ER, but something genuine and warm. "I've wanted to do that for months."
"Months?" you echoed, surprised.
"Since your first day," he admitted, slowly withdrawing and lowering you back to your feet, steadying you when your knees threatened to buckle. "You walked in, looked me in the eye, and didn't flinch when I asked you a question. Everyone flinches. You didn't."
You stared at him, processing this. "So you've been... what? Torturing me for eight months because you liked me?"
"Professional torture," he corrected, though his eyes were dancing. "I had to maintain standards. But yes. I've been wanting to drag you into a supply closet since approximately day three."
You shook your head, incredulous, but you were smiling. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip, "here we are."
He kissed you then—softly, gently, a complete contrast to the desperate, filthy encounter that had just transpired. It felt like a promise, like a beginning, and you leaned into it, into him, into whatever this was.
"We should probably get back," you murmured against his lips, though you made no move to pull away.
"In a minute," Jack agreed, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close. "Let me just... hold you. For a minute."
You melted into him, your head resting on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—sweat and antiseptic and sex. The ER would still be chaos outside this door, the shift would still be brutal, the world would still be waiting.
But for this moment, in this supply closet, with Jack Abbott's arms around you, you let yourself have this.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, his hand stroking down your back, "dinner. My place. I'll cook."
You lifted your head to look at him, surprised. "Jack Abbott cooks?"
"Jack Abbott does a lot of things," he said, that predatory smile returning. "You've only seen a small sample of my... skills."
Heat flooded your cheeks, and he laughed—a warm, rich sound that you realized you'd never heard before. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to hear it every day.
"Okay," you agreed. "Dinner. Your place."
"And after dinner," he continued, his hand sliding down to grip your ass again, "I'm going to take my time with you. No supply closet rush. No fear of interruption. Just you, me, and a bed. And I'm going to find out exactly what makes you scream."
Your breath hitched, fresh arousal pooling in your belly despite the fact that you'd just come harder than you ever had in your life.
"That sounds—" you started, but the sound of voices in the hallway made you both freeze.
Jack stepped back quickly, adjusting his scrubs with efficient movements, while you scrambled to straighten your own clothes, your fingers trembling slightly. You caught sight of yourself in the reflection of a metal cabinet—flushed, disheveled, your neck sporting visible bruises that would be impossible to explain.
Jack followed your gaze and smiled, reaching out to adjust your collar with surprising tenderness. "Wear a turtleneck tomorrow," he advised, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "Or don't. Let them wonder."
The voices passed, fading down the hall, and you both exhaled.
"I should go first," Jack said, though he didn't move. "Give it a few minutes, then follow."
"Jack," you said, catching his hand before he could leave. "This... what is this?"
He turned back, his expression serious, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "This is me finally doing what I've wanted to do for months. This is me telling you that you're brilliant, and I'm in awe of you, and I want to see where this goes. If you want that too."
Your heart swelled, a warm, tender feeling mixing with the lingering arousal in your veins. "I want that."
"Good," he said, leaning in to press a quick, hard kiss to your lips. "Now get some rest. Tomorrow, you're mine."
He slipped out of the supply closet, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the scent of him on your skin.
You leaned back against the shelves, your legs still shaky, your body still humming with aftershocks. The shift from hell had just become the shift that changed everything.
And tomorrow, you thought with a smile, Dr. Jack Abbott had promised to take his time.
Hiii so this is my first time writing a request, so im not sure how this goes exactly. But i have read every Jack Abbott related Post of yours, and your way of writing is truly insane and beautiful. I was wondering if maybe you could write a story where Reader is pregnant and she and Jack go House Hunting. They discuss cute baby stuff while looking at houses and talking about the future, yk which room can be the nursery (best scenario connected to their bedroom) how they will decorate it, maybe in the Garden a Playhouse and Stuff like that. And Readers Dream Kitchen, and in general all that cutsy fluff. Maybe also a tiny moment where Jack is just admiring Readers Fascination and Excitement over the house. Hope this doesnt sound weird 🧘🏻♀️🕴🏻
hi there ! so sorry it took me a while to write this. setting up scenes and descriptive writing are always beating my ass 😮💨
this was such a sweet concept, tysm for the req AND ALSO your first time writing for a req ?! i'm truly honoured, i hope you like this one ! (nervous) 🩷
𓊆 cw: FLUFF, first-time dad jack 🥹, insecurities regarding age, implied age gap 𓊇 ‧₊˚ ┊ 1.5k words
♫ can't believe my life right now, i feel on top of the world
should've seen my face when they told me it's a baby girl ♫
the video captured you and jack opening your eyes at the same moment the cake split open, revealing the pink cream underneath. it took a second for your brain to process, your eyes widened in surprise and squealed as soon as it registered to you that you’re having a girl. you threw your arms around your husband, careful not to drop the wine glass still in your hand.
tears tracked down your cheeks as you laughed, you hadn’t felt joy like this since jack proposed.
there were tears forming in his eyes too. he set his glass down somewhere before pulling you back into his embrace, holding you so close you could feel his happiness radiating and the low rumble of his chuckle against your chest.
you wanted this to be an intimate moment between you two, instead of an extravagant party. but you would like to share the exciting news with those who were closest to your hearts.
comments flooded the post of your big reveal on instagram.
frank: i had a hunch you guys were having a girl but mel said it’d be a boy so we settled the argument with twins @.mel i told ya
samira: my guess was right!!!! 🩷
parker: 🩷🩷🩷🩷
john: your wallet better be ready, abbot 🤣 congratulations brother!!!
mel: congratulations!!! ❤️ @.frank i stand corrected
victoria: hi baby girl this is your auntie vic! can’t wait to meet you 🥹💕
donnie: let’s goooo! play dates soon!!!!
you were smiling from ear to ear, it was still surreal to you that you were going to be a mother.
you and jack decided it was time to move into a bigger place, since your duo would soon be turning into a trio. sure, jack’s penthouse was more than nice, but what you wanted wasn’t luxury — it’s a place you could call home.
a home where your little one could grow up happy, safe, and very loved.
“you choose, darling.” jack responded when you showed him a listing for a house that was for sale and asked him what he thought about it.
“what?” you looked up from your laptop, turning your attention to him.
“you choose – for us. i trust your judgment.” his eyes crinkled with genuine adoration, not a hint of teasing. he really meant it. “besides, you’re the expert in interior design.”
you would marry him again.
you’d spent hours sitting on the bed browsing on your laptop — eagerly searching for the ‘one’, heaps of them were nice but none of them felt right in your heart.
you were ready to call it a day and had already reached for the power button when a tuscany cottage-style home appeared on your screen. your middle finger hovered over the trackpad, unmoving — you were completely in awe.
it was as if it was love at first sight, and something about it felt nostalgic to you. and something else you couldn’t place.
you really had no idea what kind of place you were aiming for, you were just going with the flow. anything that caught your eye, you’d book a viewing then go from there and decide if it was going to be your forever home.
you glanced to the side of the screen and winced when you saw how much it was being sold for. then you remembered jack’s words —
‘don’t worry about the price. don’t even look at it.’ he’d said in a way that screams ‘don’t argue’. ‘i got it.’
you bit your tongue from blurting out that you’d get on one knee and propose again.
you were almost vibrating with excitement from the passenger seat as you saw your potentially-soon-to-be-home come to view.
your breath caught in your throat, you were rendered speechless after all that excited rambling to your husband.
the pictures on the website hadn’t done it any justice — it was nothing compared to seeing it with your own eyes. it was like a painting had stepped out of its canvas and came to life.
the house was built with warm stone walls coloured in golds and soft browns. vines curled across the front exterior, reaching around the windows. the roof was topped with terracotta tiles, adorned with shades of burnt orange and clay red. the sun hit the pigments of the structure just right, making it glow as if it had been doused with honey.
a gravel path welcomed its guests to a solid, arched wooden door. above it, was a small trellis brimmed with climbing roses — their delicate, pink petals and soft fragrance drifted in the air toward you.
you stepped out of the vehicle with jack, and suddenly you could see it — your daughter running across the courtyard and jack laughing as he chased her. you could see birthdays, first bike rides, scraped knees, and holiday dinners — you could see treasured memories.
jack held your hand and gently pulled you inside, your feet dragged as you were still taking in the view. the walls were textured, although imperfect, it made everything feel cozy and lived-in. wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, dark and sturdy. it gave a sort of rustic charm.
jack hadn’t said a single word yet, because he didn’t want to break the spell you were under. what he was witnessing was a very special moment. he just simply watched you, transfixed, as if your quiet amazement was one of the most beautiful ways he’d ever seen you.
you moved into the kitchen next — the one you’d been looking forward to the most. once you stepped into the entrance, you decided that it was your favourite room, when you hadn’t even checked the whole place yet.
it was everything you didn’t know you wanted. terracotta tiles, cabinets with brass handles, a farmhouse sink under a window where you could appreciate the vast garden outside. there was a kitchen island that stood in the middle, you could picture a chandelier of pots and pans above it.
you walked over to the oven, pulling the handle open and pretended to take out a tray of cookies you baked for your daughter. then you wandered to where the stove was, imagining yourself flipping some pancakes. you turned around to look at jack with a wide grin on your face, and he was already watching you — his smile mirrored yours, his eyes shining with tears.
“i can see you here.” his voice was low but warm. “cooking with her, dancing with her. . . teaching her everything.”
your throat tightened.
you reached for his hand and gave it a soft squeeze. he quickly wiped his eyes with his free hand. seriously, he could be such a softie.
you continued your tour to the bedrooms. the first was spacious, perfect for you and jack. the second one had a window seat, you could picture your daughter there, curled up with a book with her legs swinging. the third and final room was smaller but charming, and the window framed the distant silhouette of the city. maybe her play room — a messy one. . . littered with toys, artworks, and glitter.
jack came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso, resting his chin on top of your head. “this is home, isn’t it?”
you could hear him sniffling behind you, the soft sound had your brows furrowed in instant concern. you eased away from him, and turned your body to face him.
you felt your heart break at the sight — his face was flushed, tears were streaming down his cheeks. he couldn’t look at you, because if he did it would make all that emotion burst out completely.
“jack? oh honey, why are you crying?” you cupped his face, swiping the tears away with your thumbs.
“sorry i just – i’m just so happy.” he took a hold of your waist, he rubbed you there in soothing circles. “i’m happy.” he huffed a laugh with a wet garble.
then he continued, “i’m also worried.” you nodded, encouraging him to keep talking.
he swallowed hard, voice trembling. “i’m worried that i’m getting too old. worried that i won’t be strong enough to take our daughter out on adventures.” he exhaled shakily. “worried that i won’t see the day when–”
you shushed him. “jack.” you leaned your body closer to his, looping your arms around his neck, grounding him.
“you are strong.” in more ways than one. it wasn’t just about his physique, it was also the strength in his heart — in the way he loved, in the way he looked out for you, his friends, and even his patients.
“i know this is your first time being a parent, it’s mine too. and it’s scary. . . and overwhelming. but you’re not alone in this. don’t be so hard on yourself, ‘kay?”
“okay, sweetheart.”
you made him believe he was enough, when he thought he would never find love again. and now, with you beside him and a baby on the way, you’d given him another reason to keep going, to protect, to cherish. with that new found purpose, he felt like he could live a hundred years more. ♡
"Abbot is very much into eye contact; he loves it, he can't get enough of it."
there are a few instances where jack makes sure his eyes always lock onto yours and they always happen in two places: the pitt and in bed.
in the er, its meeting his approval shining through those rings of hazel after catching a tricky diagnosis, his lips forming that cocky little smirk he does, like he's saying yes, this is my resident who's doing such a good job under my tutelage and care. it never fails to bring the slightest heat to your cheeks before you can tear your eyes away from his. he lets you be the one to break eye contact every time, knowing that once he gets you home, he'll make sure that you do exactly what he wants.
in bed, though, he's different, he expects different. if your eyes even threaten to shift away as he pounds his cock deep into your pussy, the lewd wet sounds squelching and tangling with your high-pitched moans when his ruddy tips kisses your cervix, his large hand engulfs your jaw to shift your face while the other continues its circular ministrations around your puffy, throbbing clit.
that's when it becomes impossible to look away from his sweat-sheened freckled face that pinches in dedication not to cum when your walls clench around him, their want to suck him deeper than biologically possible. his glossed over hazels, swimming with a pleasure only you can bring them, stay trained on your eyes.
"eyes—on—me," he grunts, hips pistoning into yours with emphasis. "you know better than that, sweetheart. you look away one more time, i stop, and you won't cum until morning. be a good girl for me like I know you can."
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summary : when jack comes home and finds you trying to relieve yourself with a toy and you admit you have no idea how to do it without it, he teaches you how.
Every creak of the building, every distant siren, just emphasizes the empty space beside you on the bed. You glance at the clock: 2:17 AM. Jack won't be home for hours. The Pittsburgh night shift is a killer, and while you're proud of the work he does at the hospital, the loneliness is a physical ache, a hollowness in your chest that mirrors the one between your legs.
Your fingers, almost of their own volition, find your phone on the nightstand. You open your messages, scrolling back to the ones he sent earlier.
A grainy selfie in the break room, his hair slightly messy from a long shift, the stubble on his jaw more pronounced than usual. He looks exhausted, but he's smiling, that tired, lopsided smile that makes your stomach clench.
Below it, a picture of his hand wrapped around a styrofoam coffee cup. You know those hands so well—the way they feel on your skin, the way they can be gentle or firm, the way they know exactly how to touch you.
Another photo. This one from the locker room before his shift started. He's still in his street clothes, a worn-out t-shirt clinging to his chest, the muscles of his arms defined even in the dim lighting. You stare at the image, tracing the lines of his body on the cool screen of your phone.
The ache inside you sharpens, intensifies. It isn't just loneliness anymore; it's a deep, pulsing need. You toss your phone onto the pillow and roll over, burying your face in the side of the bed he usually occupies. His scent is fading, but it's still there—a faint trace of his soap and the unique, warm smell of his skin. You breathe it in, a desperate attempt to feel closer to him.
It isn't enough.
It will never be enough.
Your hand slides down your stomach, under the waistband of your sleep shorts. You're already wet, your body reacting to the memories, to the pictures, to the thought of him. You tease yourself for a moment, your fingers circling your clit, but it's a frustrating, half-hearted attempt. You need more.
Sighing, you reach into the drawer of your nightstand. Your fingers brush against the smooth, silicone shape of your vibrator. You hesitate for a second, a flicker of guilt or maybe just shame, but the need is stronger.
These long shifts are hell, and you miss you boyfriend.
You turn it on, the low hum filling the silence of the room. You close your eyes, leaning back against the pillows. You try to focus on the pictures, on the memory of his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body on yours. You press the vibrator against your clit, a jolt of pleasure shooting through you. It's good, but it isn't him. It's mechanical, a poor substitute for the real thing. You move it in slow circles, trying to build the sensation, trying to lose yourself in the fantasy.
You're getting close, your breath hitching, your hips arching off the bed, but you can't quite get there. You're stuck on the edge, frustrated and more alone than ever.
The low hum of the vibrator is a constant, desperate sound in the quiet room. You press it harder, trying to push yourself over that final edge, your mind a frantic slideshow of Jack's hands, his smile, the feel of him against you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your body taut with a pleasure that's just out of reach. So close. You're so close.
Then, through the fog of your own arousal, a sound cuts through. Not the creak of the building or a distant siren.
"Baby ?"
The front door clicks shut.
"Sweetheart, are you here ?" Your blood runs cold. The voice, deep and familiar and here, cuts through the haze of pleasure like a shard of ice. Jack. Your eyes fly open, the fantasy shattering around you. Panic, sharp and suffocating, claws at your throat.
"Shit, shit, shit," you gasp, fumbling with the vibrator. Your shaking fingers can't find the off switch. The buzzing continues, a damning soundtrack to your humiliation. You finally manage to wrench it from your body and toss it into the nightstand drawer, slamming it shut just as his footsteps echo in the living room. You scramble to sit up, yanking the hem of your t-shirt down over your thighs, smoothing your tangled hair. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs, your skin flushed and hot. You try to wipe the dazed, desperate look from your face, to replace it with something resembling normalcy, but it's useless. You feel caught, exposed. You fly up to your feet and tear the bedroom door open, rushing down the hallway as you try to school your breathing.
"Jack !" You say, chest heaving, smiling at him. Jack spins around, catching your eye, and a tired smile immediately spreads on his face when he sees you.
"Hi, sweet girl." He hums, walking over to you and kissing your temple. "I'm sorry, honey. Did I wake you ?"
"No." Your answer comes much too quickly.
His eyebrows lift.
"You sure?"
"Absolutely."
He studies you for a second.
You can practically see the doctor in him waking back up despite the fact that he's been working for twelve hours straight.
"You're flushed."
"It's warm."
"It's seventy degrees." You tuck your hair behind your ears.
"Yeah, I- uh - turned the heater up too high." You say, gulping down the dryness in your throat. You say it with a confidence that would be impressive if the heater weren't currently switched off.
Jack glances toward the thermostat. Then back at you. Then toward the thermostat again.
"Sweetheart."
"What?"
"The heater isn't on." Your stomach drops.
"Oh." He doesn't laugh. He doesn't tease you. Instead, his expression softens.
"What's wrong?"
"N-Nothing." You say, smiling up at him. "Why don't you go hop in the shower and i'll get you some food before you head to bed-" You try to talk away from him, but his hand darts out to grab you.
"Woah, slow down there, baby." He huffs, shaking his head. His black shirt is tight against his chest, his army camo pants snug on his hips. He shakes his head, studying you. "You've got about twelve miles an hour worth of nervous energy happening right now."
"I'm just tired."
"You're the one who's tired?"
"Yes."
"Interesting." He steps closer. You immediately become very aware of how close he is. The exhaustion is still written all over his face—messy hair, dark circles beneath his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders—but there's something warm in his expression now. Something that makes your stomach flip.
"You sure you're okay?"
"Of course."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I am." He watches you for another second. Then his thumb brushes gently over the inside of your wrist.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I just wasn't expecting you home."
"Neither was I." That gets a tiny laugh out of you.
"I thought you had hours left."
"One of the residents swapped with me."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"You succeeded." He smiles.
"Good." You try to pull away again.
"Food."
"Later."
"Jack."
"Baby."
"I was going to make you something."
"You can."
"Then go shower."
"You really want me out of this room." Your eyes widen.
"No." The answer comes far too quickly. His eyebrows lift.
"…No?" You swallow.
"I mean—no. I just thought you were tired."
"I am." He steps closer. "But I missed you." Your face softens.
"I missed you too."
"I know." He studies you again. This time, his teasing disappears. "Did something happen while I was gone?" Your throat tightens.
"No."
"Are you sure?" You nod. He doesn't look convinced. His gaze is too gentle, too perceptive. It sees through your flimsy defenses, and you feel the last of your composure start to crumble. You can't hold his intense, concerned stare anymore. Your eyes drop to the floor, focusing on a loose thread in the hallway rug.
"Hey," he says, his voice softening even more. He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face back up to meet his. "Talk to me. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" The kindness in his eyes is your undoing. A wave of heat washes over your face, a mixture of shame and embarrassment so potent it makes your eyes burn. You take a shaky breath, the words catching in your throat.
"I was just…" you start, then have to stop and swallow past the lump forming there. "I was lonely, Jack." His expression doesn't change, but you feel his thumb stroke reassuringly over your skin.
"These long shifts are hell," you continue, the words rushing out now. "The apartment is so quiet, and I… I was looking at the pictures you sent, and I just… I missed you. A lot. So I tried to… take care of it myself." You brace yourself for a smirk, a teasing comment, anything. But it doesn't come. Instead, a look of pure, unadulterated understanding dawns on his face, followed by a flicker of something else—amusement, maybe, but it's soft, not mocking. A slow, tired smile touches his lips.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, pulling you into a proper hug. He wraps his arms around you, and you bury your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him mixed with the sterile smell of the hospital. "I'm sorry I interrupted. I really did want to surprise you."
"You did," you mumble into his shirt. "It was a surprise." He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound you feel in his chest.
"I can see that." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to cup your face.
“You could've called me.”
“I know.”
“I would've answered.”
“You were working.”
“I would've answered,” he repeats, softer this time. Your eyes sting.
“I didn't want to bother you.”
“Baby.” His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “You are never a bother.” That does it. Your face crumples, and you bury it against his chest again. Jack immediately wraps you up tighter.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
“I missed you too.”
“I know it's stupid.”
“It isn't.”
“It feels stupid.”
“It doesn't.” You sniffle.
“I got so lonely.”
“Baby.”
“And then you came home early.”
“I have impeccable timing.” You laugh weakly against his shirt.
“Terrible timing.”
“Fair.” He kisses the top of your head and holds you there for a moment, just breathing with you. Then, because he's Jack, the doctor in him resurfaces. “Also, for the record, you're flushed, you're breathing a little fast, and you're clearly embarrassed.” You groan.
“Please don't medically examine my humiliation.”
“I can't help it.”
“You absolutely can.”
“Nope. Twelve-hour shift. Doctor brain is stuck on.”
“You're impossible.”
“And you're adorable.” You peek up at him.
“You're not… weirded out?” His expression immediately softens.
“About you missing me?”
“About what I was doing.” Jack gives you the gentlest smile.
“Sweetheart, you're my girlfriend. You're allowed to miss me.” Your cheeks heat again.
“And,” he adds, fighting a smile, “I suppose I should apologize for barging in at the worst possible moment.”
“You really should.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Although…” You narrow your eyes.
“Although what?”
“That explains why you looked like you'd just run a marathon when I walked in.” You smack his chest.
“Jack!” He laughs, catching your hand before you can do it again.
“Okay, okay. I'm done.”
“You'd better be.”
“I am.” A beat. “Mostly.”
“Jack.”
“Done.” You shake your head, but you're smiling now. He leans down and kisses your forehead. "Come on. Let's go to bed. I'm exhausted, and you look like you could use some sleep too." He takes your hand, his warm, calloused fingers lacing with yours, and leads you back toward the bedroom. The walk of shame is short, but it feels like a mile. You're hyper-aware of the nightstand, of the drawer hiding your secret. Jack lets go of your hand to pull back the duvet, but as he does, his elbow bumps the nightstand drawer. It wasn't latched properly in your panic, and it slides open with a soft, damning shhhk.
Both of you freeze. Your eyes dart to the drawer, and there it is, lying right on top of a stack of old magazines—the sleek, silicone vibrator, gleaming faintly in the dim light from the window.
The silence in the room is suddenly deafening. Jack stares at it for a long moment, then slowly turns his head to look at you. His expression is unreadable, a careful blank.
"Is that what you were using?" he asks. Your entire face goes hot. You stare at the drawer. Then at him. Then back at the drawer.
“…Maybe.” Jack's mouth twitches.
“Maybe?”
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You're about to.”
“I was just asking.”
“You have a very specific face when you're about to tease me.” His eyebrows lift.
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“What face?”
“That one.” He smiles.
“Interesting.”
“Jack.”
“Okay.” He holds up both hands. “I'm behaving.” You glare at him.
“You're smiling.”
“I can't help that.” You fold your arms.
"Besides, i didn't even finish." You huff, rolling your eyes. Jack grits his teeth.
"Yeah, that's my bad." he huffs, throwing the silicone toy back into the drawer and closing it. He grins up at you. "I still think you shoulda called me, baby. I could've talked you through it." He says, wiggling his eyebrows. You laugh.
"I think it would've been hard to hear you over the vibrator, Jackie." You say. Jack frowns.
"That's not what I-" He freezes and turns to face you. "Baby, I need to ask you something." The shift in his tone is immediate. The playful teasing vanishes, replaced by that focused, serious-doctor look that always makes your stomach clench. He turns his body fully toward you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
"What?" you ask, suddenly feeling nervous again. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing circles over your palm.
"Have you ever.. touched yourself ?" He asks. You choke on a giggle.
"Jack. Of course I have. What do you think I was doing when you came home ?" He shakes his head.
"No- No, sweetheart." He says. "No, I mean… have you ever finished without the toy?" he clarifies, his voice gentle but unwavering. "Just with your own hand." The question hangs in the air, stripping away all the playful banter and leaving you raw and exposed. The blush that had been fading from your cheeks returns with a vengeance. You look down at your hand, still held in his, suddenly feeling clumsy and inadequate.
"Oh," you whisper. You shake your head, unable to meet his gaze. "No. Not really." He's quiet, and you brace yourself for his reaction. But there's no teasing, no mockery. When he speaks, his voice is soft, laced with a confusion that's somehow worse than a joke.
"What do you mean, not really?" he asks. "You've never…?" You take a shaky breath, deciding to just rip the bandage off.
"I mean, it never really worked for me, Jack. With my fingers, I mean." You risk a look at his face. His eyebrows are drawn together in concentration, the doctor in him trying to piece together the data. "It always just felt… awkward," you continue, the words rushing out now. "And frustrating. I could never get the right angle or the right pressure, and it would just end up feeling like a chore. So I've been using a vibrator since… well, forever. It just seemed easier." You shrug, trying to act nonchalant, but your voice is small. "But even then, I'm not very good at it. It's not like when you… you know." You trail off, too embarrassed to finish the sentence. Jack is quiet for a long moment, just processing your confession. He looks from your face to the closed drawer and back again, a slow dawning of understanding on his face.
"Wait a second," he says slowly, his voice dropping lower. He shifts on the bed, turning to face you fully, his exhaustion forgotten. "Are you telling me that you can… you know… finish with that thing," he gestures vaguely toward the drawer, "and with me… but not with your own hand?" Your face is so hot you're surprised the pillow isn't smoking. You give another miserable nod.
"Wow," he says, letting out a breath. "Okay. I… I had no idea." He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, and looks at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter. "So all this time, when you've been on your own…" You nod miserably.
"Pretty much." He lets out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his messy hair.
"Well, that just won't do," he says, his voice firm but gentle. He looks at you, a new determination in his eyes. "We're going to have to fix that." Your eyes widen in alarm.
"Fix-? Jack, —"
"Baby," he interrupts, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. It's the look he gets when he's about to do something that will completely unravel you, and it sends a jolt straight through your body. "I'm serious," he says, his smile softening but the determination remaining in his eyes. He reaches out and takes your hand, bringing it to his lips. "I'm going to teach you."
For a moment you can only stare at him, not quite believing what you just heard. The way he says it—serious, but with that devilish twinkle in his eye—makes you shiver. You try to laugh it off, but your voice is nothing but a nervous squeak.
“Right now?” Jack grins, and there’s nothing tired about him anymore.
“Why not?” He tugs you gently down to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. His hands are warm and dry, sure and steady, the way they always are when he’s prepping for something. You know these hands: the way they cradle your face, the way they pin your wrists, the way they can coax pleasure from you in ways you didn’t think were possible. But this is different. He’s looking at you with a kind of reverence, like you’re a puzzle he wants to solve with infinite patience. He slowly pushes you down onto the bed, kissing your knee, as he kneels before your spread legs as he peels your shorts and panties off. Jack’s breath is warm on your inner thigh. It’s barely there, a pressureless brush of lips, but it’s enough to make your pulse thud in your neck. He doesn’t touch you, not really—his hands are braced on either side of your hips, knuckles barely grazing the worn sheets, and you’re left open, exposed, every cell in your body attuned to the space he leaves between his mouth and your skin.
“Let me see what you think you should do,” he says. The thrum in his voice travels up your leg, finds the hollow beneath your ribs. There’s a pause, a silence so weighted it almost hums. Your hand hovers, then, feeling like it belongs to someone else, you slip it between your legs. You’re achingly aware of how you must look to him: your knees drawn up, the cotton twisted at your hips, your own knuckles white with effort. He watches your face, not your hand, and for a wild second you want to close your eyes, to disappear, but you don’t. You can’t.
Your fingertips find the wet, slippery ache that’s been building all night, and you circle, exactly how you always do, hoping it will be enough. It’s not. The friction is faint, the movement awkward, self-conscious. Jack’s gaze never wavers. You think you can see pride in the angle of his jaw, or maybe it’s just the heat under your skin making everything feel sharper, brighter, more dangerous.
“Slower,” he murmurs. You bite the inside of your cheek and slow your hand, but the pressure isn’t right, and you want to give up. The frustration rises, thick and bitter. Jack must sense it, because he lets out a careful breath, then shifts closer, his knee pressing to the mattress. “Show me how hard you think you should press.” The question is clinical, but his eyes are anything but. You flatten your fingers, press down as if you could force pleasure out of flesh by brute force alone.
“Okay,” he says. “Try this.” He wraps his hand over yours, guiding your motion. His skin is cool and dry where your fingers are fevered. He applies just enough pressure to make you gasp. “Y'a Like that?” he asks, and you want to die, but you nod, and when you look down, you see his other hand cupping himself through his pants. He’s hard. The sight sends a bright flare of want up your spine.
“Good girl,” Jack says, and the words nearly undo you. Your hand is guided, steady, and you realize you’ve been panting. You let your head fall back against the pillow as the shame is replaced by something sharper, sweeter, edged with power. He wants this, you realize. He wants you like this. He keeps his hand over yours, setting the rhythm.
“You feel how wet you are?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s barely holding himself together. You’re dizzy with it. “That’s from thinking about me?” You choke on a laugh, the tension in your belly coiling hotter.
“Yeah,” you manage. He leans closer, nuzzles against your inner thigh until you can feel his breath. The heat from Jack’s breath is a line of fire between your knee and the crotch of your shorts. Your hand, wrapped up in his, moves against your clit in slow, deliberate circles. You follow his rhythm, the pressure—just right, finally, finally—sparking pleasure through you in even, measured pulses. The shame is gone, replaced by something raw, a kind of pride in making him watch as you tremble and whimper for him. Jack’s own hand is at his fly now, palming himself through the camo. He’s not showing off, not putting on a show for your benefit—he’s desperate, so hard it almost hurts to watch. The muscle in his jaw flexes as he sets the pace for you, matching the slow drag of your fingers with the insistent squeeze of his hand.
“That’s perfect,” he says, voice barely more than a groan. “Just like that, baby. You feel how easy it is, when you do it like this?” You nod, biting down on a moan. It’s building, a hot ache deep in your belly, and you let your knees fall wider, shorts peeling at your ankles as you rock your hips against your hand.His teeth scrape gently over your skin, and you have to bite your knuckles to keep from making too much noise. He watches the way your abdomen jumps, the way your hips twitch under his grip, and his voice comes out quieter now, lower, almost reverent.
“Can you keep it right there for me?” His own need is obvious: the bulge in his fatigues strains at the zipper, and when your eyes flick down, he doesn’t even bother hiding that he’s palming himself through the fabric, slow and deliberate, matching your pace. You’d be embarrassed, but the heat and the praise and the way he keeps murmuring “good girl” into your thigh make it impossible to focus on anything but the way your body is starting to unravel. The friction is so much better, so much more, with his hand crushing yours in just the right spot, and when he lets go—just for a second—your wrist aches with the force of your own pressure.
He wants to see you do it. You realize this with a sharp, electric jolt. He wants you to know what it’s like to get yourself off, to do it while he’s watching, his face just inches from where your fingers are working. The idea is so impossibly hot you almost lose your balance and have to steady yourself with your free hand on the headboard.
Jack notices. He always notices.
“I love watching you,” he whispers, and then leans in until his breath is a wet, open-mouthed heat against your fingers. He doesn’t touch, but he doesn’t have to; you can feel his presence everywhere, the way your body hones in on the press of his gaze, the anticipation that maybe he’ll get greedy and taste you before you finish. But he doesn’t. He just keeps talking, voice a low, hoarse vibration that seems to settle somewhere deep inside you.
“Does it feel good?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.
“Yeah,” you manage, barely, because your chest is tight and your thighs are starting to shake. The room feels too bright, your body too sensitive, every nerve ending tuned to the friction of skin and the promise of his mouth.
“You’re so hot like this,” he says. “I could watch you all night.” His words make you groan, and when your hips buck up, he finally brings his lips to your thigh, sucking a mark into your skin that makes you shudder. You feel the edge, so close it’s almost painful, and you can’t help it—you start rubbing faster, desperate, your own breath loud in your ears. Jack looks up at you from between your legs, eyes dark, jaw set like he’s memorizing every second, and his hand moves back to yours, grounding you, guiding you, making sure you don’t let up until it’s over.
He’s mouthing at your thigh, mumbling “good, good, good,” and you recognize the cadence of it, the way he talks to patients in pain, except this isnt the same. Jack’s eyes are locked on your face.
“You look so fucking pretty right now. You know that?” There’s a growl in it, a little unhinged. He’s losing the self-restraint, and the thought of him falling apart watching you is almost enough to push you over the edge. His hands reach for his fly, pulling his cock out. Jack’s cock is thick and flushed, arching up from the fly of his camo pants. He wraps his fist around the base, squeezes. There’s a bead of precome, glistening at the tip, and the sight of it is a punch straight to your gut. You almost lose your rhythm, but Jack’s hand is steady on your wrist, guiding your pace, his own movements matching yours with a desperate, hypnotic precision.
“Don’t stop,” he growls, the words almost a snarl. There’s a flicker of something frantic in his gaze, a hunger so sharp it borders on pain. His breath comes hard, and you wonder if he’s going to come from watching you alone. The thought makes you whimper. You’re so close now the entire world has funneled down to this single point of friction, this relentless grind of slick fingers and Jack’s voice in your ear, muttered praise and filthy encouragement.
“That’s it. Just like that, baby. You gonna come for me?” He’s stroking himself faster now, his knuckles going pale, the muscles in his arm tight as cable. You nod, frantic, your entire body straining toward the edge. You want to say something, but all that comes out is a broken, inarticulate moan. Your head tips back, vision going blurry around the edges. Jack’s hand is on his cock, the head glossy with precome, his knuckles going white around the shaft. He watches you the way he watches a trauma case, laser-focused, not missing a tremor or gasp. His other hand stays over yours, forcing you to keep the pace even when you want to speed up and claw your way to release. He knows what you want; he always knows, and that makes it worse, the way he holds you in place just below the edge.
“Jack,” you gasp, but the word barely makes it out. Your breath is all shudders and heat. He strokes himself, slow, matching your rhythm, the tip going dark and slick as he squeezes.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says, and you feel the words on your skin. You try to flex your hand, to grind harder, but Jack’s hand is a vise, holding you against yourself, making you ride the friction out slow and steady. His breathing is ragged.
“Don’t stop. Let yourself have it, baby. Show me.” You almost cry, the pressure so sharp you can’t see, and then it happens: the release is a white-hot burst that makes your hips buck clear off the bed, your hand flying up to your mouth to catch the sob, but Jack doesn’t let you off. He keeps your fingers moving, gentler now, coaxing every last aftershock out of you. Your hips shudder and your entire body goes slack, every muscle flaring with aftershocks. You feel wrung out, trembling all over, but Jack’s hand doesn’t leave yours. He slows you down, draws the sensation out until it becomes a kind of sweet, unbearable ache. Your chest heaves; you can't catch your breath, and for a moment the only sound is the wet, obscene slap of your own fingers under his, and the ragged exhale he lets out as he watches you go under. Jack’s cock, flushed and thick, is in his hand. He’s squeezing at the base, barely moving, as if he’s holding himself back with the barest edge of control. He doesn’t let go of your wrist, doesn’t let you pull away. Instead he leans forward, nuzzling his cheek against your thigh, inhaling the sweat and salt and musk of you. When he finally lets your hand fall away, you feel the loss in your bones. You can't help but laugh, a broken, half-hysterical sound. Jack grins back at you, chest heaving. "Easy, tiger," he murmurs, palming himself slow and rough, thumb brushing over the head, smearing the clear drop that wells up.
"You didn't—" you start, but he cuts you off by crawling up over you, making the bedsprings creak. He kisses you, slow and open-mouthed, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. There's a taste on his tongue: coppery, familiar, the ghost of your own pulse. You whimper, high and weak. He pulls back and looks at you, really looks at you, eyes gone dark and soft at the edges.
"You did so good," he says, voice cracked and ruined. "I've never seen you like that before." You blink up at him, eyelids heavy, fingers curled in the sheets.
"I can't feel my legs," you whisper, and it's almost funny, but not really. Jack presses a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, the hollow under your ear.
"Just means I did good," he whispers, and then he moves down, down, mouth trailing over your collarbone, tongue lapping at the sweat in the hollow of your throat. He kisses just above your knee, then trails his mouth up slowly, reverently, until his lips press a soft, open-mouthed kiss right at the crease of your thigh. Your skin is still twitching from the orgasm, every nerve ending raw and hypersensitive. You want to say something, anything, but your tongue feels stuck, your voice wrecked.
Jack shifts his weight so he’s kneeling between your spread legs. His hands—one still damp from covering yours, the other sticky with his own slick—move to the waistband of your shirt, pushing it up your stomach, bunching it beneath your ribs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark and blown so wide the color is just a ring around the pupil. He thumbs the skin of your hip, then dips his head and licks a slow, lazy stripe along your inner thigh. You bite down on a whimper. The sensation, even through the bruised haze of overstimulation, is electric.
“Still with me?” he murmurs, his voice gone hoarse and wrecked. He presses his mouth to your clit, just the barest touch, a question.
"Jack—" you gasp, but he just hums, hands bracing your hips tight to the bed. His tongue circles the oversensitive, raw spot between your legs, and it's almost too much. "Wait, wait—" He ignores you, licking slow, deliberate, as if he has all the patience in the world. The sensation is electric, a nerve ending re-igniting, and you feel yourself involuntarily buck up, seeking friction. He pins you there, forcing you to take it, slow and soft, lapping languidly at the mess you made. He grins against your skin and begins to eat you out in slow, deliberate passes, never moving faster than your trembling body can handle. Every lap of his tongue is patient, almost methodical—like he’s studying you. Like he has all night. You can't make yourself look at him at first, but then you do, and it’s a punch to the gut: Jack, on his knees, mouth glossy with you, eyes locked on your face. He licks you in slow circles, then sucks your clit between his lips, humming at the taste, as though nothing in the world could make him stop.
He ignores you, licking slow, deliberate, as if he has all the patience in the world. The sensation is electric, a nerve ending re-igniting, and you feel yourself involuntarily buck up, seeking friction. He pins you there, forcing you to take it, slow and soft, lapping languidly at the mess you made.
"Fuck, you taste so good," Jack groans, burying his face deeper, the tip of his nose bumping your clit. The aftershocks are so sharp they almost hurt, but he doesn't let up, just keeps going with the insistent, greedy rhythm of a man who's waited hours for this. He eats you out like he's starving, like his whole night has been spent imagining this exact moment.
Jack noses into you like he’s trying to memorize the taste, tongue lapping you up with a dogged, almost scientific obsession. It’s too much; you can’t possibly come again, but he seems determined to wring you out until your bones melt. Your hands scrabble at the sheets, your thighs shaking, and when he flattens his tongue and drags it just right, you’re gone. The world goes white; you convulse around a sob, your vision full of static.
“Jack, Jack, oh god—” You whine, high and needy, fingers threading into his curly salt and pepper hair. Jack’s hair is coarse between your fingers, and the back of his neck is slick with sweat. You hold on, not because you want to anchor yourself, but because you want to keep him right there, greedy. He’s making these desperate, guttural noises, like he can’t get enough of you, and it’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever heard. When he pushes his tongue inside, you clamp your thighs around his head so hard your knees tremble. He doesn’t fight it. He just groans louder, grinding his face deeper against you, digging his fingers into your hips to keep you from wriggling away when the pleasure spikes too high.
It’s overwhelming, all of it—the pressure, the obscene wet sounds, the aftershocks never quite dying down before another one crests. You’re wrecked, legs shaking, the only thing tethering you to earth is the rough drag of his stubble and the heat of his mouth. At some point you stop trying to make words and just keen, fists blindly clutching at the pillow behind your head.
Jack doesn’t let up. When you try to push him away, he only growls, a vibration that ricochets inside you. He wants this—wants you, all of you, every ragged edge and ruined gasp. Jack’s tongue laves every trembling inch, not sloppy or showy but with an addictive steadiness, like the most disciplined part of him has been throttled loose, and all that’s left is want. At some point the humiliation becomes its own heat—a shame-feedback loop, devastating and intoxicating. The tension in your legs dissolves into open, boneless splay. He groans into you, a short, muffled sound, and you realize his hand’s nowhere near your wrist now. It’s back on himself, the rough slide of knuckle and tendon barely visible between your knees.
You try to tell him to stop, that it’s too much, that you’re going to—except there’s no room in your brain for words. He flattens his tongue and drags it up and over again, a slow, relentless pressure that lands right at your oversensitive clit.
He’s relentless, and when you think you’re beyond recovery, your body gives up another shuddering, involuntary climax. The world splinters. You clamp down on his head, vision gone completely white, and you might actually scream a little.Every muscle in your stomach contracts, and the next orgasm cracks through you like shrapnel. You sob, startled at the animal sound it makes, and Jack only grins against your skin, holds your shaking thighs open with surgeon’s precision, and licks until you go limp and boneless above him.
He comes up for air, face shining with sweat and the shine of you, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling like he just aced a final exam. There’s a wildness in the whites of his eyes, a glassy shine, but he doesn’t look away. He looks at you, only at you, like he can’t get enough.
You collapse back, limp and boneless. Jack leans up, mouth and chin slick with you, panting like he just ran a sprint. You see the mess you’ve made of his hair, sticking up at odd angles, a silver curl plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looks so pleased with himself, so unbearably smug, that you almost want to slap him, but your arms won’t work yet.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, voice gone raspy. Jack sits back on his haunches, fingers still digging into the tops of your thighs. The camo pants are folded open, his cock hard and still leaking. He grins at you.
“You always make the best faces.”
You try to glare, but your face is too slack to do anything but smile back. He huffs out a laugh, then wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “You okay?” He says it gently, like he’s worried you might actually shatter.
You nod, trying to slow your breathing. “I think i had a heart attack.”
“That’s fair.” He pulls you up, cradling your head against his chest. You can feel the thud of his heart, hammering away. It’s weird and soft, this tenderness—his thumb tracing little circles on the back of your neck, almost chaste, except for the way his cock is pressing against your hip, hard as a fist.
“Jack-”
“I’m fine, baby.” he hushes. He shifts, reaches down to adjust himself, and you almost sob when you feel the tip of his cock slide against your inner thigh—the angle is wrong, not lined up, and you realize, with a start, that he’s not going to fuck you. Not yet. You arch into him, wrapping your legs around his hips, but Jack just grins, nips your collarbone.
“I’m not gonna fuck you right now,” he says, voice so serious and gentle it almost doesn’t register. “Not when you’re this out of it. You need to come down first, sweetheart.” Your head still buzzes with aftershocks, vision flickering at the edges as Jack hovers above you, holding you oddly gentle, like you’re a hummingbird with a busted wing. The sheets are a mess of sweat and spit and wet, the air still thick with your own heat. You want him. You want him so bad it’s a second hunger, raw and not even a little bit rational. But Jack—Jack with his goddamn self-control—just tucks you in against his chest and kisses your temple, his cock iron-hard against your hip, and you realize he means it. He’s not going to put it in you. You squirm, half in protest, half desperate, a helpless friction against his thigh, but he just laughs—ragged, indulgent, almost fond.
“You’re insatiable,” he mutters, tucking your hair behind your ear, and you want to argue, but all that comes out is a fractured, hungry whine. He grinds against your thigh, just a little, like he can’t help himself, and you reach for him, desperate to take him in your fist, to prove you aren’t just some wrung-out thing. You try to wrestle a measure of control back, but he catches your wrist, pins it above your head.
“Easy,” he says, and the sound is pure grit, nothing left of the doctor or the boyfriend—just want, stripped and feral. “Let me look at you.” You hold his stare. It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. The air between you is short-circuiting, every nerve ending still thrumming, your own insides turned out and flayed. He dips his head and kisses you, all tongue and teeth, his taste still heavy with the salt of your own body. He moans into your mouth, like this alone is enough to break him. When he finally lets go of your wrist, both of you freeze for a heartbeat, measuring the new gravity in the room. You push at his shoulder, roll him onto his back, and straddle him in one shaking, determined motion. You’re still shuddering, still riding out the aftershocks, but there’s no break in the need. You grind on him, heat slick on top of his bare cock, pressing your whole weight down until you feel the length of him pressing up, slick and hard against you. He holds your hips, steady but loose, like he knows you can’ Your knees dig into the mattress, either side of his hips. You rake your hands up his shirt, pulling it off him in clumsy fits and starts, exposing the ridged muscle, the soft mat of hair, the little line of freckles over his right pectoral. You rock your hips forward, grinding your slick folds against the length of his cock, not lining him up, just sliding up and down, using him for friction, for heat, for pressure. His head tips back, a low, strangled sound leaving his throat.
You use him like your favorite toy, rutting shamelessly, your clit catching on the soft skin at the head of his cock, the ridges of his crown dragging across your swollen flesh. The friction is wet, obscene, and the only thing keeping you from losing it altogether is the look on Jack’s face: the glassy eyes, the mouth open, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts.
“Fuck, baby, what are you—” he tries, but you shut him up by grinding down even harder. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, not going in, just pressing, and every slide makes your body seize up, oversensitive and desperate.
The pressure is perfect, a furious, almost cruel rhythm, and every time you rut forward, his cock slips just a millimeter higher, not inside, but so close you feel the hollow ache of it, the way your body tries to drag him in. Jack’s hands flex on your waist, like he can’t decide whether to hold you down or shove you off. His face is flushed—deep, splotchy red at his cheeks, sweat slick at his hairline, and the muscle in his jaw jumped every time your hips rocked forward. He’s cursing now, broken syllables, the loose ends of language. You can’t tell if he’s trying to warn you off or egg you on, but either way, you’re not stopping. Every drag of him against you sends a short electric spike up your spine.
“Fuck—Jesus—” Jack’s voice, gone raw. You lean forward, one arm braced beside his head, grinding your clit on the thick, wet crown of his cock, chasing a second high with the blind, greedy urge of someone who’s just remembered how much they want to live. He looks dazed, shattered, like his brain’s just stopped cold at the scene of the accident.
“You—fuck, slow down—” He scrabbles at your hips, fingers digging hard, trying to hold you in place, but then he gives up, lets the force of your rhythm move him. You rock forward, hard, until he’s pressed flat beneath you, your hands bracing on either side of his shoulders, and you grind over him, every nerve in your body on fire. You can feel the pulse of his cock under you, hot and stiff, so alive it almost hurts. He shouts out, fists gripping your waist.
“Jesus Christ, you’re—fuck, you’re killing me—” but his hips buck up, and he’s meeting every drive of yours with his own, matching you beat for brutal beat. “That’s it, baby, fuck, that’s it—” Jack’s voice is a thrum in your ear, praise and plea and holy-shit awe, and you want to think you’re immune to that kind of worship, but your body says otherwise. The tension draws tight in you, a high wire, and you ride it, not letting up, not even as you splinter into a second, shattering orgasm. The world tunnels for a second—all you know is the heat of his cock and the sharp, bright fire rolling through you. You spasm, hips bucking, and almost lose your perch, but Jack is there, strong hands cradling your ass, holding you steady so you can grind every ounce of feeling out of it.
“Good girl, fuck, you’re perfect—” Jack’s words are a lifeline, half-conscious, and you clutch at his arms, dragging him closer, trying to fuse yourself to him. You want him desperate, undone. You want to drag him under with you. Jack’s still hard, cock slicked to a violent shine, and you reach between your bodies, guiding him not inside, but back to where you want him—pressed tight against your clit, riding the edge. You grind on him, every wet drag of his cockhead hammering sparks up your nerves, slick as oil paint and twice as messy. You can feel the twitch of him, the barely-there pulse when your bodies slip just so. He’s close. You can smell it on him, the iron heat of his sweat, the raw chemical need. His voice is gone, so he talks with gasps, with hands—gripping your hips, your waist, your ass. Everywhere.
“Jesus, fuck, you’re gonna—” He doesn’t finish, just arches up, rutting hard against you. You press down, grinding circles, and even as you collapse and spasm on him, you don’t let up. You ride his cock like you’re trying to grind yourself through it, mean and greedy and single-minded. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, jaw locked. He’s gone hyperverbal now, praise pouring out of him like overflow.
“God, fuck, you’re so perfect—can’t believe you—holy shit—fucking incredible, baby, you’re—” You grind harder, urgent, riding out the last shocks of your own pleasure but needing more, greedy for the way you can feel Jack unraveling beneath you. His knees draw up, heels digging into the mattress, and his hands clamp down on your hips, thumbs pressing deep. You know he’s trying to slow you, trying to ease you off the edge, but you won’t have it. You lean all your weight into your hips, rutting against that desperate, velvet heat, letting him feel every slick inch of want. Jack shudders. His head rolls back and he lets out a sound so raw it barely registers as human, a desperate, open-throated gasp.
“Please—fuck, like that—” He’s begging now, half-sobs punctuating every word. The tension in him is a live current; you feel it in the way he shakes, the way his cock throbs against you, way up past the limit of what he can stand. He grabs at your ass and pulls you down, almost too rough, but you love it; you want to be bruised from him, marked, utterly spent. You can taste blood in your mouth, biting your own lip so you don’t scream. The friction, the heat, the wet—every motion makes you feel like you’re being lit from inside.He’s not going to last. You know it with a weird, gleeful certainty—the way his breath saws out in helpless, crushed syllables, the way his thighs go rigid under yours. You rut down harder, mean about it now, grinding your clit across the swollen head of his cock, and he breaks. His hands clamp on your ass, bruising, and his hips punch up, desperate, the first hot smear of his orgasm slipping between your bodies, obscene and perfect.
“Fuck, baby—oh fuck—fuck—” Jack’s voice is hoarse, strangled, high with disbelief.He tries to hold back, you can tell, but you grind him down, relentless, never letting up, until his whole body bows up off the mattress and he’s coming, hard, hot spurts striping your inner thigh and the slick, writhing place where your bodies meet. He can’t stop making noise—just this low, broken string of fuck, fuck, fuck, and your name, said like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. You watch his face as you ride him through it, every muscle stretched tight, eyes screwed shut, lips drawn back in a snarl of pleasure. It doesn’t stop you, doesn’t even slow you. You grind through it, riding the pulsing length of him, every spasm drawing out another ragged, worshipful sound. He tries to catch his breath, tries to slow you, but you won’t let him. You want to feel every second, every twitch and slick shudder, and you want to know you did this to him. You lean in, bite at the tendon in his neck, and Jack keens, his whole body tensing as another pulse of cum slicks the length of his cock. You ride him like you’re milking it out of him, greedy and relentless, his praise slurring into half-sobbed nonsense as you chase your own dying edge.It’s obscene, how long you keep him there, rutting against the tender, still-jerking length of him. Jack is all open mouth and half-shut eyes, arms trembling, grip bruising. He holds on like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored, spine arched, skin luminous with sweat. For a second you wonder if you’ve broken him, if it’s too much, but then he’s pulling you down, desperate hands sliding up your back, clutching the nape of your neck, gasping your name against your collarbone. His voice is already ragged, but he can’t seem to stop talking—praise spatters out of him, rough and runny: good girl, so fucking perfect, so good, so damn perfect. You’re greedy for it, the way it rubs your ego raw, and you rock down on him even harder, clit catching at the crown of his cock, dragging every last spasm out of him. Each time your hips grind forward, you feel the tremor of another little aftershock, the helpless jump of him under you.
Jack’s face is wet, at the temples, under his nose, and his eyes glass up, unfocused, strange. He looks ruined, but in a way that’s so reverent you almost want to apologize for what you’re doing to him. Almost. Instead you keep at it, chasing the tail of your own shudder, milking every last ripple of feeling from your bodies. He won’t let you go. His arms are as strong as you’ve ever felt them, locking you against his chest, making you part of whatever cataclysm is happening inside him. His breath is loud in your ear, almost a sob, and you feel the vibration of your own name in the bones of your shoulders.
When he finally comes down, he tries to talk, but can’t. Just breathes, big and shaky. You sprawl over him, limp, soaking up the sweat and the heat and the weird, heady pride. Your thighs are sticky, and there’s a mess everywhere, but you don’t care. He hugs you so tight it almost hurts, and you press your nose to his neck, breathing in the salt and smoke of him, feeling the way your bodies fit together, locked and trembling and spent.
Jack’s lips brush your hairline, soft and shaking. He laughs, but it’s a wrecked sound, totally devoid of bravado.
“You are…” He tries again, but the words tangle up. “Fucking hell, sweetheart…”He’s still shaking. You feel it through every inch of skin pressed to him, like you’re sharing a single heartbeat. Sweat cools on your back, and you’re sticky everywhere, but you’d stay here forever if you could. He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your cheek. Reverent, almost. You laugh into his neck, the sound thin and exhausted.
“Did you mean it,” you murmur, “about making the best faces?” Jack huffs, the sound vibrating up from his chest.
“Best I’ve ever seen. Portfolio worthy.” His hands migrate up your back, fingers tracing over the ridges of your spine. “Did you mean it about almost having a heart attack?” You snort, the sound bubbling up before you can muffle it.
“Honestly thought I’d short-circuit. My legs aren’t even working yet.” He holds you there, easy, the way someone might hold a very tired but very affectionate animal. You melt, boneless, your nerves glimmering in strange, happy aftershocks. His heartbeat thuds against your ear, ratcheted down from panic to a confident, even rhythm. He strokes your scalp, gentle, more soothing than he probably means it.
“Jack?”
“Hm?” You turn your head, cheek mashed against his chest.
“Thanks for teaching me how to do that,” you mutter, a little embarrassed. “The whole, uh. Getting off on my own thing.” He pulls you tighter, if that’s even possible.
“You taught yourself,” he says, pride thick in his voice. “All I did was make the case for it.” You shake your head, hair catching on the stubble at his throat.
“I never would’ve done it without you. I genuinely thought, like, my body was just pathologically opposed to it.” Jack grins, and you can feel the movement in his chest.
“Which is so fucking weird, by the way. How does a person get to be twenty-three and not—” You smack his shoulder, but you’re smiling too.
“Shut up. Some of us had other things to worry about.” He kisses your eyebrow, gentle.
“Well, you’re a prodigy now. Seriously. That was—” He breaks off, shakes his head in mute disbelief. “You’re amazing. Like, kind of scary amazing.” You feel something warm and fizzy spark under your sternum.
“So you’re not mad I used you like a human vibrator afterwards?” He snorts, then rolls you both so you’re on your side, sandwiched between his body and the rumpled edge of the sheets.
“If you did that every day for the rest of my life, I’d die a happy man.” He tucks a knuckle under your chin, tilts your head back so you have to meet his gaze. “You’re perfect, okay?” You duck your head, embarrassed, but Jack doesn’t let you shy away. His thumb traces your jaw, slow. “You’re so fucking good at this,” he says, and his tone is suddenly dead serious. “You’re good at learning what you like. Good at bossing me around. Good at pushing me until I break.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “And you’re, like, criminally hot when you’re all gone and dumb like that.” Your face goes molten, but you can’t stop grinning.
“You too.” He laughs, voice a little ragged.
“Yeah? You like when I lose it?”
“I love it,” you say, and you mean it so much it almost hurts. He props himself up on an elbow, surveys the mess of sweat and come smeared between you.
“Jesus, we’re disgusting.” He looks actually delighted. “Stay put, baby.” He slides off the bed, finds the nearest dishtowel, and returns to wipe you down. He’s gentle with it, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he’s too rough. You try to watch him, but your eyelids keep fluttering closed.
He’s gentle as he cleans you up, his touch reverent. You’re a boneless, happy puddle on the sheets, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. He tosses the towel toward the hamper, misses, and doesn’t seem to care. He just slides back into bed, pulling the duvet over both of you, cocooning you in his warmth.
“Better?” he murmurs, his lips against your hair. You hum, contentment vibrating through your entire body.
“Mmm. Defibrillated.” He chuckles, a deep, sleepy sound.
“Good. My work here is done.” He’s quiet for a moment, just stroking your back, and you’re drifting off, halfway to dreamland, when he speaks again, his voice low and serious. It cuts through your sleepy haze. “Hey. Look at me.” You force your eyes open, tilting your head back. His face is shadowed in the dim light, but his eyes are intense, fixed on yours. “I’m serious about what I said before,” he says, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “About you calling me.”
“Jack, I was embarrassed,” you mumble. “I’m not just gonna call you at the hospital and be like, ‘Hey, can you talk me through an orgasm real quick while you’re saving lives?’”
“Why not?” he asks, and he’s not teasing. He’s genuinely asking. “Baby, there is nothing—nothing—I would rather be doing than talking to you. There are breaks. There’s downtime. You think I want to be sitting in some shitty lounge eating stale crackers when I could be listening to you fall apart for me?” He shakes his head. “No contest. So you promise me. Next time you feel that ache, you call me. I don’t care what time it is. You call.” He waits, his gaze unwavering. “Promise me.” Your heart does a little flip.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I promise.” A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “Good.” He leans down and kisses you, a soft, sealing press of his lips. When he pulls back, his expression shifts again, turning thoughtful, a little mischievous.
“And as for that…” He glances toward the nightstand, toward the closed drawer hiding the vibrator. “We’re done with that.” You blink.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t need it anymore. You proved that tonight.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, I think we both know I’m a much better teacher than a piece of silicone.” You feel a blush creep up your neck, but you’re smiling.
“You’re very smug for a guy who just got his brains fucked out.”
“Deservedly so,” he says, grinning. He kisses your nose. “So that’s another promise. No more toys. You don’t need them. You have me. And you have your own two hands, now that you know what the hell to do with them.” He looks so proud, like a parent whose kid just learned to ride a bike. It’s ridiculous and incredibly sweet. “Promise.” You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re bossy.”
“I’m a doctor,” he counters. “It’s in my job description. Now, promise me.” You look into his serious, loving eyes and feel the last of your resistance melt away.
“I promise,” you say, and this time, it feels easy. “No more vibrator.”
“Promise me,” he says again, softer this time, when you don't answer. You stare at him for a second.
“You're really serious about this.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” His expression changes. Because underneath all the teasing, there is something vulnerable in his eyes.
“Because I don't want you thinking there's something wrong with you.” Your smile fades.
“There isn't?”
“No.” He brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “You spent years thinking your body didn't work the way it was supposed to. Then you figured out what worked for you. That's not something to be ashamed of.” You swallow.
“I just wish I'd figured it out sooner.”
“Maybe you weren't supposed to.”
“That sounds suspiciously philosophical for three in the morning.”
“I'm a doctor. We contain multitudes.”
“You also ate crackers for dinner.”
“Stale crackers.”
“Exactly.” He smiles.
“Point is, you figured it out. And now you know.” You tuck yourself closer against him.
“I like knowing.”
“Good.”
“And I like that you helped.” His smile turns impossibly soft.
“Anytime.” You yawn.
“I'm exhausted.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“You're the one who kept me awake.” He looks offended.
“I did no such thing.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Sounds like slander.”
“You're literally a doctor.”
“Exactly. I have a reputation to protect.” You laugh quietly, and he pulls the duvet higher around your shoulders. “Sleep, sweetheart.”
“What about you?”
“I'll sleep.”
“You promise?”
“Promise.” You close your eyes. A few seconds pass.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” His hand finds yours beneath the blankets.
“Always.” Another quiet moment. Then his voice comes through the darkness. “Although I reserve the right to be extremely smug about this for at least the next decade.” You groan.
summary: jack had made it clear from the start—he was only available for casual, no strings attached stress relief. the way he acts after finding out you went on a date says something else entirely. (9.5k wc)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, porn with some plot, angst, coworkers with benefits, jealous!jack, yearning!jack, unspecified age gap, attending/resident power dynamics, jack is an ass (he gets slapped so it's chill), pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart), detailed explicit smut, mean!jack (reader likes it), dom!jack, brat/brat tamer vibes, dirty talk, dacryphilia, unprotected pnv, car sex, cowgirl, doggy, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, face sitting, chokehold, spanking (all my jack ass man believers stand up), breast & nipple play, pussy slapping, squirting, little blue pill mention, apologies & confessions, happy ending, fem!reader, reader is dana's niece, no physical description/mention of being blood related, dana haunts the narrative, no use of y/n, dual pov (i think), ending kinda rushed but fuck it we ball, briefly proofread so no doubt incorrect grammar lols
authors note: woof woof, bark bark. this is 70% filth, 20% angst, 10% fluff. i have no excuses honestly. no seriously this was only meant to be 5k. majority written at 3am in sleep deprived insanity. some of the smut warnings are just mentions, not explicit details. this is kinda toxic, if that's not your thing keep scrolling :-)
song inspo: read your mind - sabrina carpenter
masterlist
You say that you need to be alone
But night and day, want me at your beck and call
You say you know that you might be crossin' a line
Wastin' all our time
To think that we could be casual
You're not my friend and, baby, you never were
Why the fuss if you say you just wanna be mine?
6:55am
Abbot: Meet me at my truck in 15.
No hi, hello, how are you. If you were to scroll through your text thread with Dr. Jack Abbot, you would see that the faux pleasantries stopped three months ago. The two of you started sleeping together four months ago; it took four weeks for Jack to discern that he didn't need to use basic human greetings to get you in his truck, in his bed. That's not to say you were easy—god, no—it was just that you two had a mutual understanding for what this was.
Sex. That was all it was. Pure primal, fuck like you're going to die otherwise, sex.
It started after the night of the PittFest mass casualty. You had come in early along with your fellow night shifters to work through what was one of your most gruelling shifts to date. The Pitt only lost six patients, but the weight of that day was going to stay etched into your bones for the rest of your life.
Dr. Abbot came back to the ED around two am, checking in on how Shen was handling things—at least, that's what he used as a guise. The truth was that he had struggled to close his eyes once he got home, tossing and turning with the police scanner on, endless memories of dust and gunshots plaguing his mind.
He stayed until shift change, the act of caring for others quietening the buried memories that were crawling to the surface. He stayed to keep an eye on his staff—noticing how people were a little more quiet, how they were exchanging soft, hesitant smiles with one another instead of their usual jokes. At least, that's what he noticed about you.
You couldn't remember what exactly was said to transition from you two walking towards your cars to you sinking onto his cock in the backseat of his truck. In your memory overridden by lust, you could vaguely hear him saying something vulnerable; a response you weren't expecting after your exhausted tongue let slip how you were struggling with the events of the day.
Mutual words about feeling on edge, needing some kind of release, were whispered into the hazy dawn glow—the fusing saffron skies and coral clouds painting you both in a different light.
Mosaics of amber and olive flaked with gold stared up at you, catching every morsel of pleasure that scrunched your eyebrows and relaxed your mouth. Strong, sure hands moulded the flesh on your hips, keeping you completely at his mercy as he pounded up into you. One of your hands met the condensation slicked window, the wet glass providing no support as his every thrust bruised your cervix.
Your nails dug crescents into his sun-speckled canvas, a crescendo of moans and gasps drowning out the wet mess gushing from your core. Hands you admired while wrist deep in chest cavities clutched your ass, one rearing back to land harsh slaps to the heated and aching skin—setting the fire coursing through your veins ablaze.
Your head flung back with a guttural cry of his name, the warmth of his release coating your walls plunging you into a sea of ecstasy. A groan of your name pushed through the ringing in your ears, the thick chest pressed against yours rapidly rising and falling with pants.
The sex thick air in the truck turned suffocating in the tense aftermath—both your minds spiralling about how bad of a mistake this was. Jack's stomach curdled from his blatant abuse of power, your hands trembled in fear of fucking for special treatment accusations—terrified of tarnishing your reputation.
Jack was the first to break the silence. "This was a one time thing."
You nodded, avoiding his eyes as you straightened your scrub top, pulling your pants up while his seed continued to leak out of you. "Agreed."
Despite his unforgiving mind reminding him how badly he screwed up, Jack fell into a dreamless sleep—the ghosts that permanently resided in the back of his mind staying locked in their rooms, letting him rest alone for once.
He struggled to make eye contact with Dana when he arrived for his next shift—the feeling of betraying one of his dearest friends gripping his chest. The logical side of him reasoned that you weren't her daughter—you were an adult capable of making her own questionable decisions, and letting him manhandle you in the back of his truck was just one of them. Unfortunately, that logical side couldn't silence the guilt that invaded him when he saw her wrap an arm around your shoulder and kiss your temple.
However, that guilt vanished hours later—replaced with a sick sort of admiration, one wrapped in barbed wires of lust. He always knew you were competent—hell, out of all his residents, he would trust you the most with his life in your hands. He always knew you were beautiful—it was a fact he accepted with ease the second you set foot in the Pitt.
But now, he knew how your pussy felt squeezing his cock—knew how your hips moved the closer you got to your release, how you crumbled into a whimpering mess as you reached your precipice. Your competency mixed with this new knowledge created a dangerous concoction, one that infiltrated his bloodstream and made him drunk on the thought of you.
You tried to not let it affect your work—willed your nerves to steady with a scalpel in hand, trying to ignore the empty ache you felt since you left his truck. The ache you tried to soothe on your own but failed every time. Because Jack Abbot had fucked you better than all of your exes combined, and it pissed you off. You refused to be a cliché—the young resident who followed the older, handsome, charming attending around, basking in whatever affection and praise he discarded without a care.
You were better than that. Stronger. Evans women didn't risk their careers for silver foxes who hid behind wry quips and flirty smiles.
Apparently, you weren't as strong as you thought.
One week later, you found yourself back in his truck—your knees pressed into the worn carpet, drool dripping down your chin and neck, the air filled with the sounds of his grunts and your gagging.
He instructed you to slip a hand into your pants, to swipe your fingers through your folds and show him how wet you were from sucking an old man's cock.
"Fucking soaked," he groaned out, the slick on your hand shimmering like liquid gold as the sunrise filtered through the tinted windows. "Knew you'd like being on your knees," a calloused finger tapped your cheek, urging your glistening eyes to meet his, "always so eager to please."
The finger slid down to your jaw, tracing a line until his hand cupped the back of your neck. His grip was tight and strong, keeping your head exactly where he wanted it. His other hand encircled your wrist, yanking your hand coated in your arousal to his mouth. Eyes black with hunger penetrated yours, daring you to look away and disobey his silent command. His tongue slipped out, licking a strip up your fingers. Your responding whine was muffled by his cock thrusting down your throat, resulting in a sinful vibration that had his spine tingling.
In this moment, he wasn't your attending and you weren't his resident, weren't one of his closest friends' nieces. You were two willing adults—a man and woman troubled by their own demons, seeking release and relief.
His hand gripping your neck kept you still as he started to fuck your mouth in earnest, each hit of his tip to the back of your throat earning him a gag. Jack watched as tears breached your waterline, slipping down your cheeks to mix in with the slobbery mess glazing your neck. His eyes drifted down, taking in the sight of your wrinkled black scrubs—committing it to memory, to fuck his fist to later. The shift of your hips didn't go unnoticed, the way you were trying to grind against nothing drawing a mocking laugh from his chest.
"You that desperate, huh? Drooling all over my cock got you so worked up you're tryna fuck nothing."
You nodded your head with another muffled whine, lust overpowering your innate urge to bite back. He eased your head back, leaving his leaking tip resting on your tongue, letting you fill your lungs with oxygen before he continued his efforts to ruin you.
"Touch yourself, pretty girl."
You happily obliged, trying to pull your hand from his grasp.
"Uh-uh," he tutted, tightening his grip—just shy of leaving bruises. "This one's mine. You got another one, don't you?"
Your hand clutching his thigh for support let go in an instant, eager to please Jack and in turn please yourself.
You were so sensitive, your panties already soaked, your clit puffy from arousal and neglect. The first touch had you mewling around him, your hips humping your hand with fervour. Jack chuckled above you, gleaming eyes enraptured by your desperation.
"Fuck your fingers like you wanna fuck my cock." He ordered, heat gathering at the base of his spine when you obeyed immediately. He brought your hand back to his mouth, eagerly licking and sucking your slick off it, all while keeping his eyes locked on your hooded, hazy ones. "Taste so fucking good," he moaned, his hips picking up speed.
He came down your throat minutes later, watching your eyes roll back as you swallowed all of him down. Your own orgasm rushed up behind you, tightening every muscle in your body as you clamped down on your fingers with a moan.
Jack manoeuvred you onto the seat next to him, brows furrowed as his post orgasm clarity soured his gut again.
He kept his eyes locked on where he was twisting his ring around his finger. "That wasn't—I didn't mean to," he cleared his throat. "I didn't intend on being so harsh—mean."
You could feel the stress radiating from him, his words softly spoken and genuine.
"It's okay," you murmured, biting your lip. "I…I liked it." And because you wanted to ease his worries and silently give him permission—"I've begged for worse."
He lifted his head, shocked eyes meeting yours with a disbelieving chuckle and shake of his head.
"This is gonna keep happening, isn't it?"
You answered by pulling your scrubs and panties down your legs, pouting at him with a twinkle in your eyes.
"Need you to help me clean up my mess, Doctor Abbot."
You collapsed into the drivers seat of your car with two orgasms and a mutual agreement under your belt.
Strictly physical, no strings attached. No kissing, no cuddling, definitely no staying the night. Nothing untoward within the Pitt's walls—these two hookups in the parking lot staying as the only ones.
Never speak a word of this to anyone else.
Three nights—technically mornings—a week you found yourself pulling into Jack's driveway, parking your barely road-legal car behind his truck. His black, navy, and white minimalist interior didn't surprise you one bit, neither did the barren walls. The first few times, he led you into the kitchen with the offer of a drink, exchanging idle chatter about the weird cases that came through the Pitt's doors hours before.
The first time your skin touched his soft sheets, he had you on your back with large, calloused hands pushing your legs towards your chest as he devoured your pussy like a man starved. He made your vision dance with stars, made your ears ring from two earth shattering orgasms before he removed his face—his mouth and chin soaked with your release, a cocky smirk deepening the lines carved around his eyes. Your skin was still tender from his stubble when he sunk in deep, reaching spots you didn't even know existed—pulling sounds from your chest you didn't know you could make.
As you floated from his front door to your car, you knew that Jack Abbot had ruined you for any other man. No one had read your body that quickly before, no one else had found the switch to turn off your brain and give in to primal desire.
And you didn't even know what the simple touch of his lips against yours felt like.
By the sixth night you had learnt absolutely nothing new about him. Well, nothing that was outside of bodies and pleasure.
You learnt he was an ass man, needing to land slaps to your cheeks no matter what position you were in. You learnt he liked to talk—liked to mock every pathetic sound he wrung out of you. You learnt that he had a bottle of blue pills in his bedside drawer, learnt that he was unashamed to swallow one down in front of you and fuck you with his tongue and fingers until it took effect.
You knew exactly what Jack liked in bed. Outside of that? Absolutely nothing.
His favourite colour? Fuck knows.
How he cared for his leg after a long shift and long night of screwing you senseless? That was between him and his physiotherapist, you guessed.
And he knew nothing about you. Or, at least, he didn't try to get to know you.
You stopped thinking of this arrangement as friends with benefits—friends felt too generous of a word. Coworkers with benefits sounded the closest to the truth. You worked together, spent at least twelve hours a day in the same building, exchanged the occasional witty remark under fluorescent lights. There were no lingering looks, no secret touches, no dropped voices and subtle smirks. And you were fine with it being that way.
Until you weren't.
By month two it had become impossible to ignore the pang that ricocheted behind your ribcage every time you drove away. The pang that grew to an ache every time you went to Dana and Benji's for dinner.
You adored their relationship, admired it. Your parents' messy divorce had left you skeptical of love, had you doubting if it was worth pursuing if it only ended in misery and spite. But your aunt and uncle softened that cynical side of you, reminding you that yes, love could be messy, but it could also be beautiful and fun. It could be coming home to your best friend everyday, hugging each other even after an argument because going to sleep angry never solved anything.
You tried to find what they had in your exes, putting more effort into relationships that drained you by the end. You heard too many times to count that your lives weren't compatible, that they couldn't give their all to someone who was happy to run out the door when the hospital called.
They didn't understand you—didn't understand what it meant to make a difference, to hold someone's life in the palm of your hands and safely return them to their loved ones. They only focused on the days when you couldn't save someone, when the grief held you captive and motionless. They didn't want to continue holding your hand on those hard days.
And so somewhere along the way you stopped trying—convincing yourself that you were fine with casual, that it was the most suitable relationship for your lifestyle. But every time you saw Dana and Benji, you knew that wasn't true.
They reminded you that you wanted, and deserved, more.
Jack had never slept better. Even with that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he had crossed a line—that he was risking not only your career but his friendship with Dana. He managed to silence that voice three times a week; the sounds of the pleasure he was unleashing on you drowning out everything else.
He truly believed he could keep things separate—that the beautiful woman he had in his bed wasn't the same beautiful woman he trusted and found himself proud of every shift. He could totally keep them separate.
So what if his eyes followed your ass when you walked away from the Hub, admiring how the black scrubs clung like a second skin, knowing how they looked discarded on his bedroom floor. Knowing how the globes of your ass felt clutched in his hands, the sound of his palms slapping them reverberating off his walls.
So what if he found himself craving your taste a minimum of three times every shift, the mere thought of your sweet nectar drenching his face leading to inopportune boners.
No one had to know that whenever he saw you biting back at arrogant surgeons that his eyes were glued to your lips, remembering how good they looked—how good they felt—wrapped around his cock. The no kissing clause had been his suggestion—a subconscious part of him knowing that if he felt your lips against his, he wouldn't be able to let go.
The simple act of kissing felt infinitely more intimate than everything else you did. It was a tender act, saved for the person who walked out his door in the morning only to return in the evening. Saved for the person that had left one cold, winter morning and never returned in the frigid evening.
Jack ignored the warmth that spread throughout him in your company, convincing himself it was just lust, just sexual desire. He convinced himself he didn't need to know anything new about you—he already knew what type of student you were, the doctor he had watched you flourish into from the sidelines.
He knew where to touch you, that mouthing at the spot below your ear made you putty in his hands. He knew what positions had you trembling, had your eyes rolling back as you squirted on his dick, on his face. He knew his favourite view was a tie between you above him, suffocating him as you ground your pussy on his mouth, nose, chin, and him behind you, holding you up with a bicep wrapped around your neck in a chokehold, ordering you to keep your eyes on the mirror across from his bed as he stretched your tight pussy with his thick cock over and over again.
He knew that your car was a piece of shit, knew he was worried every time he heard it sputtering out of his driveway—worried enough to demand you stop driving it, to let him drive you to and from work until you could get it fixed, or better yet, buy a new one from this century. (You compromised by getting the bus instead, saying that you two arriving and leaving together would look suspicious.)
And unfortunately, due to his close friendship with Dana, he knew other things about you. What your childhood nickname was, that you once found an abandoned kitten and tried to hide it from your parents—the kitten that was now an old cat, spending it's days curled up on the couch in Dana's sunroom. He knew your parents had an ugly divorce, one they threw you in the middle of—forcing you to choose a side, which subsequently left you in the care of Dana and Benji for a few years.
He knew more about you than he ever wanted to.
"Strip."
Oh, you fucked up.
The drive to Jack's had been dead silent, his anger rolling off of him in waves—sitting in between you two like a physical being. It had your muscles tensing, and more shamefully, had a fire brewing in your core. Because you liked when he got mad—when he barely spoke a word to you, choosing to get his frustrations out by relentlessly drilling you into his mattress. You liked when he got mean—because at least then you knew he was feeling something towards you other than indifference.
You did as you were told, stripping out of your black scrubs, leaving you in your mismatched bra and panties. From his spot leaning against the wall, Jack could already see the damp patch spreading on your underwear. He let out a humourless chuckle, a thrill running through him seeing how desperate you were already.
"Take your bra off. Lie on the bed."
Again, you followed his instructions with no complaint, no backtalk. Which was the complete opposite to how you had been three hours before—questioning his treatment plan in front of everyone in Trauma One, implying that his orders would cause the patient unnecessary problems later on.
You had a good argument, but he was not going to let your attitude go unchecked. He was not going to let you think the way you spoke to him was something you could do again.
He pushed off the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg—he would deal with it later, once you were in an uber on your way home. He sat down next to you on the bed, trailing light fingers from your ankle up your leg, avoiding the area you wanted him the most. He revelled in the sight of your breasts heaving up and down—you were so responsive, nothing more than his teasing touches starting to unravel you. His fingers continued their journey up your body, skimming over your trembling stomach and resting in the valley between your breasts.
The light touches distracted you enough that you weren't expecting his other hand coming up, slapping your tit before pinching the pebbled nipple. Hard.
"Ah—Jack!" You shrieked, your back arching away—or towards, you weren't sure—from the pain. Whimpers slipped from you as his touch eased up, his head dropping to place soft kisses around the tender skin. The fingers between your breasts trailed to the neglected nipple, tweaking it gently.
He pulled back, smirking when you whined at the loss of his touch. "Anything you want to say before we get started?" He drawled, raising his eyebrows pointedly.
You pouted, pretending to think. "Your curls looked really good today."
A rough hand dropped to your thigh, spreading them apart and pinching the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. "Flattery will get you nowhere, not in this room."
"So there are other rooms where it will get me somewhere?"
"You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut." He didn't give you time to talk back, raising his hand and landing a harsh slap to your clothed pussy. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, chasing the friction—needy for it. He openly laughed at you, his free hand pushing your thigh down as he delivered another slap.
He moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh with a warning look. He watched with sick pleasure as you crawled towards him on all fours, grabbing your upper arm once you were close enough and pulling you over his lap with force. You let out a yelp, muffled by the sheets as you failed to catch yourself on your arms.
His hands gripped your ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them. "Love this ass, sweetheart. Distracts me a bit too much at work, though. Somethin' else you need to be punished for."
You huffed, pushing up on your arms. "How is that my fau—" you cut off with a gasp, a hard slap to your left cheek stealing your breath and jolting you forward. The heat travelled the short distance to your core, adding fuel to the flames already blazing. Your panties were embarrassingly soaked from his rough treatment, sticking to your skin and his scrub pants.
"What did I say about keeping your mouth shut, huh?" His hand rubbed over the tender spot, tsking.
"Technically," you started, voice light and breathy, "you didn't tell me to shut my mouth."
You were rewarded with three slaps in quick succession, pulling a loud moan from you. You ground your hips the best you could, trying to get the right angle for your aching clit to rub against the growing bulge under you.
"Fucking brat," Jack spat, faux malice lacing his tone. "Running your mouth in my ED, and now you're trying to get off without my permission?" He pulled the ruined cloth between your legs to the side, a light finger ghosting along the slick covering your folds. He groaned, pulling his finger back to suck it clean. "You're dripping—not much of a punishment if you're enjoying yourself, is it?"
Any response you had is stolen from your mouth, whines falling out instead as he plunged two thick fingers into you. He didn't start slow—he never did when he was like this—pistoning them in and out at a force that was bordering on inhuman, making sinful wet sounds fill his room. His other hand forced your head into the sheets, muffling your whimpers—the sheets growing damp underneath you from your drool.
He hit your sweet spot with every thrust, your clit rubbing against his leg from the force. You could feel your high rapidly approaching, the spankings leaving your nerve ends feeling raw and exposed. Jack could feel it—how your walls were fluttering and clenching around his fingers, your muffled whines and moans turning high-pitched. He inserted a third finger, stopping the thrusting and leaving them still—the pads of them rubbing oh so slowly against the textured spot.
He knew it felt like torture to you, how slow he was going—keeping you right on the edge, suspended in the air, looking down at the waves of pleasure he was denying you. Your hips moved back and forth, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers. His hand left your head, delivering another harsh slap to your aching ass—making you sob from the unbearable mix of pain and pleasure swirling in your core. "Who said you're allowed to do that, sweetheart?" He asked, mockingly sweet.
"Please," you whimpered, turning your head to look at him with glazed eyes. "Please, Jack."
"Begging isn't gonna do you any favours tonight, pretty girl."
He pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. "Up you get," he said, helping you move until you were straddling him—your naked thighs bracketing his clothed ones. One large hand was clutching your ass, keeping your hips from meeting his—prolonging your search for sweet relief. His other hand came up to your mouth, a wet finger tapping your bottom lip. "Clean up your mess," he muttered, hooded eyes focused on your lips parting for him.
You licked the tip of his finger teasingly, moaning at the taste of yourself on his skin. Something low rumbled in his chest, and he pushed all three fingers into your mouth—watching intently as you licked and sucked your slick off of them. Your dazed eyes met his and it struck him—not for the first time—how beautiful you were, how you allowed him to see you like this. It made that annoying thing in his chest happen—the thing that felt like his heart was aching in longing, yearning.
He thrust his fingers in deeper, making you gag around them—watching in sick delight as tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hips started to rock in his hold, seeking friction that you weren't going to find. His cock was painfully hard and tenting his scrubs, making it impossible to ignore—especially not when you looked so fucking ruined.
He removed his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva keeping them connected to your lips. He felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you—again, not for the first time—and knew that the only way to stop himself from doing so was to fuck you from behind—a position he had been favouring lately, for this very reason.
He unceremoniously shifted you onto the bed next to him—a small, surprised squeak escaping you. His lips twitched at the cute sound, and he briefly forgot what he was doing, what he was mad about. Your hand sneaking onto his lap to squeeze his cock reminded him.
Jack abruptly stood up, placing himself between your open thighs. He gripped your chin, tilting it up so you couldn't look anywhere except his eyes—his desire painting them black, amber flames surrounding the dilated pupils. "You're just making this harder for yourself, sweetheart. You sure there's nothing you wanna say?"
Your eyes dropped down to the tent inches from your face, your fingers twitching with the need to start palming him. "You sure you're not the one making it harder for yourself?" You met his eyes again, watching them narrow menacingly as your innocent smile morphed into a cheeky smirk.
His hand moved from your chin, gripping your cheeks hard and squishing them 'til your lips puckered. "Still haven't learnt your lesson." He pushed your head back, encouraging you to lie back.
He grabbed the sides of your soiled underwear and yanked them down your legs, leaving you completely bare while he was still fully dressed. His hands found your waist, flipping you onto your stomach with ease and pulling you back so your legs were hanging off the bed with your ass in the air.
Your cheeks received one more slap each—Jack really was obsessed with your ass—before you felt his tip prodding at your entrance, slipping down to nudge your clit. You whined at the teasing, pushing your ass back against him. A large hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the mattress with force.
"Stay. Still." He ordered through gritted teeth.
Then he plunged in, sinking to the hilt in one thrust. A choked moan lodged in your throat, his size still a shock no matter how many times he stretched you open. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a harsh rhythm, making your hands scramble around on the sheets looking for support.
"So big," you gasped out.
A deep laugh rumbled from him. "So big," he mocked you. "You say that every time."
Skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with his grunts and your mewling. You could feel the fabric of his scrubs on the back of your thighs—the fact he was fucking you while fully clothed sending a shiver down your spine.
Jack picked up on the signs of your impending orgasm straight away, feeling his own tightening his balls. "Hold it," he demanded, slipping a hand under your hips and easily finding your clit. You sobbed into the sheets as he rubbed tight circles, your body locking up in effort to keep your release at bay.
"S'not fair," you whined, high and wrecked. The fire in your core was raging, threatening to set you aflame—Jack's orders be damned.
"Y'know what's not fair?" Jack grunted. "When pretty residents walk around like they own the place." His hand moved from your back, his palm resting on the sheets next to your head. He dropped forward, dragging his lips up your spine, biting down on the curve where your shoulder met your neck. Your eyes rolled back, the pain adding to the dizzying pleasure that was making your whole body ache from holding back. "S'not fair," he mocked you again, "when you make me walk around hard. All. Fucking. Shift." He punctuated the last words with hard thrusts, the force knocking breaths out of you.
"Come in me, Jack, please." You whined, delirious and in need of whatever he'll give you. "Need it s'bad, I'll be good f'you—promise!"
He groaned at your begging, pulling out at the last second to deny you what you were so prettily asking for. Even if he wanted nothing more than to fill you to the brim, this was part of your punishment. He spilled over your ass and lower back, painting your skin in white streaks.
You sobbed at the loss of him, at his hand leaving your burning clit and giving you no relief. He leaned back over you, his mouth hovering right next to your ear. "Aw, you wanna come, sweetheart?" You nodded fervently, tears soaking the sheets below you. He gripped your chin tight, turning your face until your lips were inches from his—your breaths mingling together. "Be a good girl and apologise."
"But I didn't do anything wrong." You whimpered out.
He tutted. "Try again."
His hand returned to your clit, fingers rubbing agonisingly slow figure eights—the fire blooming at full force beneath his touch. He watched the sweat beading at your hairline, the tremors running through your body making his bed shake; you were so determined to not give in, and it only made him inevitably breaking you that much sweeter.
He moved his head, nuzzling into the side of your neck—breathing in your intoxicating scent before he started nipping and sucking at the spot below your ear. And just as he predicted, that was your breaking point. Your body shook harder underneath him, a debauched moan slipping from you lips.
"M'sorry, Jack! I'm so sorry—won't do it again." You whimpered, hips rolling back and forth, trying to hump his hand. "Please—it hurts so bad!"
Satisfied that you finally said you were sorry, he moved off of you—flopping onto his back next to you and not wasting a second to grasp your waist and pull you on top of him. He positioned you so you were hovering over his face, giving you a moment to get your bearings before yanking you down and absolutely devouring you.
Your hands were quick to thread into his curls, tugging hard as you rode his face. Three fingers thrust into you again, this time curling and hitting your g-spot perfectly. The most sinful sounds he'd ever heard fell from your mouth, a sharp cry jolting out of you when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked hard. You were so close already, the teasing and edging for what felt like hours leaving a painful knot that was ready to unravel violently.
"Jack—oh, fuck!" You shook above him, your body glistening with sweat as you climbed higher. He groaned, marvelling at the sight of you—yeah, he was never going to forget this. It sent vibrations through your pussy and your vision started to blur at the edges. "I'm gonna come—please let me come!"
He doubled his efforts, silently telling you to let go. You threw your head back with a scream, an all-consuming orgasm tearing through your core—ripping every single one of your nerves apart, a new galaxy bursting behind your eyes. You squirted all over Jack's face, his eyes never once leaving your heaving body as he eagerly drank every drop you offered him. He continued fucking his fingers into you, mouthing at your clit as you came down. You tried to lift your hips off his face but he refused, not letting up until overstimulated sobs left you and you begged him to stop.
He sat you on his chest, rubbing his hands along your thighs and hips. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"
You returned home feeling both light and heavy—your head light from the brief sub space Jack put you in, your heart heavy because you couldn't do this anymore.
You couldn't do casual, you deserved more. And you knew Jack could never offer you what you truly needed, not when he was so adamant on being alone—which, honestly, was bullshit. He was never alone—choosing to either strap his SWAT vest on or pick up an extra shift in the ED, calling you up when he wanted company sex, refusing to sit in the silence by himself.
You didn't re-download the dating apps right away, content with accepting the fact that you were ready to start looking again. You continued your routine with Jack, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than usual. If he picked up on it, he didn't say anything—it wasn't like you two talked much anyways.
A few weeks later, you were at the Northside Farmers Market with your mom, browsing the stalls before you had to leave for your night shift. It was something the two of you tried to do every other week when your schedules lined up—an old tradition you had as a kid, every Friday going to the market to buy fresh, local ingredients for your family dinner the following Sunday. It stopped when your parents' tumultuous arguments in front of the vendors, the public, tainted something you once held so dear. Now that you were an adult, you were determined to replace those memories with good ones again.
You were at the baker's stall, exchanging idle chit-chat with Billie—the vendor—when a tall man approached the stall. Billie's face lit up at the sight of him, the older woman rounding the counter to pull him into a hug.
"Ollie," she said, pulling back and swatting his arm lightly. "I should be mad at you, y'know. You work how many blocks away, and you're only visiting your Ma now?"
You turned to the man in surprise, watching his cheeks flush red. He was older than you—most likely in his forties, if you were to guess from the few grey hairs streaking his dark beard. He was ruggedly handsome but tamed—his clothes looking like he would fit in on a farm, but the stitching on his jacket told you he would've paid at least a couple hundred for it.
Before he could respond, Billie looked between the both of you—the smile of a cunning mother overtaking her face. She placed a hand on his bicep, turning to you. "This is my son Oliver, he works at Westbridge as an anesthesiologist. If I remember correctly, you work at a hospital, don't you?" Oliver turned to you fully then, kind green eyes looking you up and down in pleasant surprise.
You smiled bashfully. "Yes, you remember correctly. I'm a third year resident at PTMC, specialising in Emergency Medicine." Oliver held out a hand and you shook it, offering him your name.
Billie returned to the other side of her stall, helping out with another customer. You and Oliver stepped to the side, falling into easy conversation about your jobs. Time passed quickly, and before you knew it your warning alarm to leave for your shift was going off. Oliver politely asked if he could get your number—saying that it's been really nice talking to you, and that he would love to get to know you more over a coffee or dinner sometime. You happily gave it to him with the smallest flutter in your chest—something in the shape of hope.
You found your mom at the books & records stall, gushing to her about the handsome man you just met.
"People hardly meet organically anymore!" She exclaimed, looping her arm through yours, the two of you practically squealing as you left the market.
Not even an hour later, you were standing at the Hub, talking to Lena about the parents in North Three with a degree in medicine from Google University, when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a text from an unknown number.
7:15pm
(412) 858-5725: It was really great meeting you today, I would love to take you out for dinner one night soon if you're interested
(412) 858-5725: I completely understand if our schedules don't match up, no pressure at all :)
(412) 858-5725: This is Oliver, by the way. If that wasn't obvious already haha
"I know that look," Lena singsonged, pointing an accusatory finger at your face. You looked up from your phone to see a sly smirk on her face. "Who's the guy?"
You looked away, biting your lip to suppress the smile you didn't realise had bloomed across your face. "It's no one, really. We only met, like, an hour ago."
"Ah, young love," the older nurse swooned. "Let me know how it goes, hon." Then she was throwing you a wink and calling after Vivi who was rushing past.
Luckily, you and Oliver figured out you both had the following Friday off and made plans to go to a family-owned Italian restaurant—not too intimate, not too casual. You kept the date to yourself—not even telling your mom—in fear of jinxing it. The two of you exchanged a handful of texts before your date, each one making you feel more giddy about your upcoming date.
You went to Jack's once in the week before your date with Oliver—cutting your usual three nights a week down to one, claiming that you were feeling too unwell the other nights. Which technically wasn't a lie, the guilt was starting to make you feel uneasy. You reminded yourself that you had no reason to feel guilty—you and Jack weren't dating, weren't exclusive, and you hadn't even been on a date with Oliver yet. But even with your reasoning, there was something clenching your chest and curdling your gut. You reminded yourself that you and Jack were just coworkers who used each other for stress relief; you didn't tell Shen about your date, so why would you tell Abbot?
The guilt stayed with you as you got ready for the date—feeling like you were trying to cover a cold secret with someone else's warmth. Your thoughts were briefly distracted when your phone pinged with a text.
7:03pm
Abbot: Come over to mine tonight. 9pm.
You: Sorry, can't tonight. I have plans.
Abbot: 👍
You scoffed at his response, your previous guilt evaporating in an instant. This was what you needed—the reminder that you deserved more than what Jack could give you.
You walked into the restaurant just before seven thirty, feeling like you had something to prove—to yourself or to someone else, you weren't sure.
The date went well—great, even. Oliver was charming, but also humble—mentioning his less than glamorous upbringing, how he got into med school on a scholarship, that the first thing he did with his first big paycheck was pay off part of his parent's mortgage.
You bonded over the struggle that was med school, the failing healthcare system, the weirdest cases you've worked on. Dinner continued into dessert, then another bottle of wine, but there was still a tension in the back of your head. It had you turning your head when he leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing your cheek instead of your lips. It had you comparing the hand on your bare shoulder to another hand, one that wore a dark ring and knew exactly how to touch you.
You parted ways with tentative plans for a second date; the next time your nights off aligned wasn't for another two weeks, and you both didn't want to put too much pressure on a set date just yet.
You visited your mom the next day for lunch, filling her in on all the details about your date. She was ecstatic for you, claiming that she always knew the market was going to pay you back somehow.
Monday rolled around quickly, and you walked into your shift ten minutes early like you always did—allowing yourself a few minutes to catch up with your aunt before she went home. Dana was at the Hub as usual, complaining to Robby about the nurse shortage and the pressure it was putting on her people.
She looked over as you approached the counter, her face morphing into a smirk that you knew meant she had been talking to your mom.
"Hey, doll. How was your weekend?" She emphasised the question with a small wink. "Your mom told me you had a handsome date on Friday."
You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "I should've known she'd tell you as soon as I left on Saturday."
Dana rounded the counter and slung an arm around your shoulder. "It wasn't straight away, she waited until we had dinner that night." You laughed with a small shake of your head. "Don't leave me hanging, how was it?"
Robby was still stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, partially paying attention to you and your aunt. His face was pulled into a puzzled expression as he observed Jack standing not far behind you—clearly eavesdropping on your conversation with Dana, a small frown furrowing his brows and setting his mouth in a straight line. It wasn't really eavesdropping since you were both talking at a normal volume, any of your colleagues passing by would've heard your conversation.
What Robby found odd was that Jack had stopped walking on his way to the lockers to listen, one hand frozen on his bag strap and the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His cheek twitched in the way that meant something was bothering him, and Robby came to the chilling realisation that Jack was jealous. Over you—Dana's niece.
You started recounting the date to Dana, a giddy smile stretching your lips. It felt good to be openly wanted by someone, to not be a secret kept in the dark—to be something other than a stress relief booty call.
Robby watched in unease as Jack continued to stand as still as a statue, the vein in his forehead starting to bulge as a dark red crept up his neck.
Robby grabbed a tablet and casually rounded the Hub's counter, trying not to draw your attention. He started towards the North rooms, grabbing Jack's bicep in an iron grip and forcing him through the North Bay doors.
Once safely out of your earshot, he turned to his friend with a scolding glare.
"What the fuck did you do?"
Jack was pretty damn proud of himself. He managed to get to the end of his shift without blowing up at you once. It was due to Robby's threat ringing in his ears for the most part—having your best friend threaten to castrate you with a dead serious face tends to lower your anger to a simmer.
Jack hadn't uttered a word to Robby, the guilt and jealously written all over his face told him enough. Robby kindly reminded him that he was the least of Jack's worries—if Dana found out he so much as touched a hair on your head, losing his dick would be sweet relief compared to what she'd do.
So, Jack treated you as normal—ignoring the stabbing in his chest, the beast in his gut demanding to be let out.
There were less than ten minutes left of his shift when he caught sight of you talking to Lena at the north nurse's station.
Keep walking, he told himself. His feet didn't seem to get the memo.
"I meant to ask," Lena said, leaning her arms on the counter. "Any update on Market Guy?"
Robby had dragged Jack away before he heard the full recount of your date to Dana, which he had been both grateful for and disappointed by. He needed to know like he needed air to breathe—which was a terrifying realisation to him.
"We went out for dinner on Friday," you replied, biting your lip to hold back yet another smile. "It was really nice. He was a total gentleman, very charming, pretty down to earth." Lena nodded along, hanging off of every word. "We're planning a second date for when our schedules next align."
That was it for Jack. His vision clouded with a red fog, the beast in his gut rearing its head and breaking out. He stormed over to the two of you, gripping your upper arm.
"We need to talk," he bit out, ignoring the shocked look Lena gave him.
He didn't wait for your response, pulling you towards the only empty Central room. Once the door was closed, you struggled in his hold, trying to rip your arm free.
"Let go of me, Dr. Abbot." You demanded as calmly as you could, your heart beat quickening at the storm rolling over his face. He let go but stepped closer, crowding your personal space.
"That's why you couldn't see me on Friday? Because you had a date?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You stepped back, anger starting to grip your chest. "I'm sorry—what?"
He followed you, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Did you sleep with him?"
"How the fuck is that any of your business?"
Unbeknownst to the both of you, the day shift had started filtering in—Robby and Dana finding their command posts at the Hub. Dana was the first to notice the two of you in Central Seven, her eyebrows drawing together at the furious look on your face.
"Hey," she said to Robby, getting his attention. She nodded towards where you and Jack looked like you were having a heated discussion. "You know what's going on with them?"
Robby followed her eyeline, tensing as he saw what he prayed wouldn't happen within the walls of his ED. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. "Uh, no, not a clue."
Dana eyed him suspiciously. "Well, do you mind telling them we have patients who could use that room?"
"I'd rather not go in there."
Dana slowly turned to him, levelling him with a glare. "Michael Robinavitch, what aren't you telling me?"
Back in the room, your hands were starting to shake from anger, and Jack's head was throbbing from holding back the full wrath of his jealousy.
"I have the right to know if you're screwing other people."
You let out a humourless laugh. "Are you kidding me right now? You don't have the right to know shit!"
Jack's cheek twitched. "Yes I do. You said no to me to see some other guy."
"Oh, what—so I'm meant to come running at your beck and call?"
His jaw flexed and he opened his mouth, but your anger and disbelief at the situation had taken over.
"This has just been one big waste of time! I don't want casual anymore—not with you, not with anyone."
Jack opened his mouth before he could think better of it. "I didn't hear you complaining when you opened your legs for me."
A crack echoed throughout the room, the sound of your palm slapping Jack's cheek filling the tension riddled air. "You're a fucking asshole, Jack Abbot."
You shoulder checked him as you rushed out the door, refusing to let him see the tears streaming down your cheeks. You hurried past the Hub, not noticing Dana and Robby watching you with shock painting their faces. Your hand was tingling from the impact, your vision blurring as you made your way out the ambulance bay doors.
Dana didn't stop to think, storming into Central Seven where Jack was staring at the ground—his hand rubbing his tender cheek.
"What the fuck did you do to my baby?" She demanded, her voice dangerously low.
Shit.
The cold morning air made the tears staining your cheeks sting slightly, the sensation grounding and stopping you from completely falling apart. You never cried over a man—it was a rule you made for yourself when you were young, after seeing how your dad would make your mom fall apart at least once a week. They weren't worth your tears.
You wanted to charge back into the ED and slap Jack again for making you cry.
You stayed sitting on the ground with your back against the brick wall until your tears dried, until your breaths evened out and didn't hurt on their way out your lungs. You tensed when you heard uneven steps approach you—there was only one person whose steps sounded like that.
Your head shot up as he sat down opposite you, glaring daggers at him. He raised his hands placatingly.
"Please don't hit me, I'm here to apologise." When you didn't make a move to leave or attack him, he slowly lowered his hands. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean what I said—to imply that you were easy."
"Then why did you say it?" Fuck, you hated how small your voice sounded.
He let out a long breath, looking up at the sky. "Because I was mad—upset." He looked back at you, his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "I didn't know that's how you felt…you never said anything to me."
"How could I when you barely speak to me? You just fuck me and then push me into an uber. Really makes a girl feel special," you shook your head, wrapping your arms around your chest—starting to feel exposed. "I can't read your mind, Jack. You can't tell me you want casual one day and the next get mad because I went on a date."
He had the decency to look ashamed, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut. "That's fair. I don't really have any excuses, no good ones at least."
You sighed, your head feeling heavy and starting to throb. "I don't need excuses; I just want to know why. Why you act like you don't know me, why you won't—" your voice dropped, wobbling slightly. "Why you won't kiss or hug me. I mean," you let out a bitter chuckle, "do you even know what aftercare is?"
He started to twist his ring around his finger, his mouth moving side to side as he struggled to find the right words to say. "Kissing and hugging felt too intimate—felt like things I couldn't take back." He looked up at you again, his eyes glassy. "I didn't want to admit to myself that I had—have—feelings for you, and the thought of kissing you…I mean I've thought about it a lot—to the point it's been driving me insane." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, a huffed laugh leaving him. "I was worried that by kissing you I wouldn't be able to let go, and that terrified me. It meant you could become another photo I keep in my nightstand."
You knew what he was talking about—you had opened it while looking for tissues, finding a collection of photographs in the drawer. You tried not to snoop, but you were fairly certain one of them was his wife and a couple others were his old army buddies.
"I get that, I do. The universe has handed you more than enough grief and hardship for one lifetime." You stood up, closing the distance between you and sitting next to him. "But that isn't solely your decision to make, Jack. You've been hurting us both by keeping your feelings to yourself." You brought your knees up, hugging them to your chest and resting your cheek on them. "And, honestly? A girl needs kisses and cuddles after coming four times in one night; a sub drop can be pretty brutal."
Jack's guilt multiplied tenfold. "Shit. Fuck, I'm sorry—I didn't even think about that." He shifted slightly, turning to look at you fully. "I would like to try again, if you'll let me. No casual bullshit, no pretending like I don't think about you all the time. Lots of kissing and cuddling—and orgasms, so many orgasms."
It was then that you noticed the ice pack in Jack's hands, resting over his groin. You couldn't stop the snort that slipped out. "I see you had a chat with Dana."
"Don't know if I would call it a chat. She's got a harder kick than I was expecting."
You hummed. "Just be glad you didn't get to experience her right hook—she gave my dad a black eye when she found out he was cheating on my mom. And she won't hesitate to give you one if you hurt me again."
His eyes were shining, hope swirling around the honey gold and sunlit green. "Does that mean you'll give me another chance?"
"Yes," you replied, letting the small smile break through. "But no sex until I think you deserve it."
Jack nodded, his own megawatt smile putting the sun to shame. "You're in charge here, sweetheart." He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "Can I kiss you, at least?"
You barely managed a nod before his mouth descended on yours, his lips achingly tender. He moved slowly, basking in the warmth he had been denying himself of for so long. A cold hand came up to cup your cheek and you jerked away in surprise, making him laugh and apologise before diving back in, settling the hand on your back to pull you in closer.
"I was right," he mumbled against your lips. "There's no way I'm letting go now."
SUMMARY ➩ moving in with your older sister tammi, you develop an odd fixation on her husband
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ for my sammy lovers! also note that sammy does say no or things like “we can’t” multiple times but he’s a willing participant (just a guilty one) NOT PROOFREAD
Your sister was the absolute last resort when you suddenly needed somewhere to stay.
The college housing situation you last minute arranged had fallen through, your parents sold your childhood home randomly in the fall to travel after retirement, and most of your friends were already triple bunking up with eachother by the time you started to get desperate.
You and Tammi couldn’t be more different and after a childhood full of arguing, hair pulling, and tense silences whenever you were in a room together, you pretty much resorted to only speaking on holidays.
Tammi thought you were boring and afraid of change, she’d go on and on about you wasting your youth and having no ‘shine.’ You thought, to put it frankly, she was an imbecile. You couldn’t stand her immaturity and lack of structure that left you often feeling like the older sister despite before over ten years her junior.
It didn’t help her case that she had an absolute bore of a husband.
Sammy was nice enough in the handful of conversations you’d had with him during visits back home, Tammi somewhere off demanding things of your parents or complaining about the niche aspects of holiday decorations.
He’d make awkward small talk with you while holding a beer that was growing warmer and warmer the longer he nursed it, asking you how school was going and scratching the back of his neck when you gave a dry response.
The most interesting thing about him was the one time you’d walked in on him smoking weed in the garage, his eyes widening as he hurriedly waved the smoke away from his face and told you it wasn’t what it looked like.
You’d told him you weren’t stupid and asked him for a hit, hand already extended with the same bored look on your face as always.
You both never talked about it and you wished you could have said you were surprised when a few years later he was suddenly in the police force but it seemed like a very obvious thing to do for a man as boring as Sammy Bryant.
Now that you were staying with the not so happy couple, he actually provided a good amount of entertainment even though it was a bit hard to watch.
They’d fight over just about everything, from dinner sides to him coming home a few hours late and being too exhausted to help out around the house. He’d get the same embarrassed look on his face everytime he saw you watching them curiously, either because he was the one stuck married to her or because he felt guilty your stay was a far shot from peaceful.
You weren’t sure when your small fascination with him started.
Sammy was of course easy on the eyes, especially when he would come home after a long day with his hair curlier than usual from exertion and his hands tugging at his tie and shirt buttons. You hadn’t ever missed the fact he was attractive but it seemed a lot more apparent now that you were seeing him more than annual visits.
And he was gentle, one of the sweeter men you had met in your lifetime. He was endlessly patient with Tammi even when she was acting in a way that would drive any normal person insane, devoted to his job and the troubled youth he encountered, and even warm to Richter who had his own share of canine problems.
You found him fascinating when he’d come home in the middle of dinner and greet her with a stiff kiss, starting to talk about his day with enthusiasm and then trailing off unfinished when he noticed she wasn’t paying attention.
Sometimes he’d catch your eye and you’d give him a sorry glance but most nights he silently finished his meal while staring at his plate.
Currently you’d been standing in the doorway of the kitchen for a few minutes, watching the muscles in his tense back as he scrubbed the dishes and occasionally muttered under his breath.
Him and Tammi had fought again, one of the screaming matches that seemed a bit heavier than the usual bickering.
“I’ve got it.” He jolted a little at the sound of your voice barely audible over the running water, stopping his movements and glancing over at you. “Seriously, you must be exhausted. I’ll finish up.”
He hesitated like he wanted to protest but the fatigue was obvious on his face, only having had walked through the door less than half an hour ago. Dinner had ended abruptly with Tammi in a fit of tears as she screamed about her broken camera and he screamed back about her getting a real job instead of spending all of his money.
You weren’t sure if he had even eaten anything before he was shoving his chair back and aggressively clearing the plates.
“You sure?” He sighed it out and ran a hand over his face, looking a lot less angry now as he slowly gained that familiar embarrassed look.
You gave him a reassuring nod and gestured for him to leave the kitchen, your eyes staying locked together in a silent exchange for a few seconds before he was pursing his lips and doing exactly that.
It became a bit of a routine after that, the two of you cleaning up together after dinner. Most of the time it was quiet between you but occasionally you talked about his day or rambled about your part time job downtown and the variety of ridiculous customers.
Tammi didn’t seem to notice the small bond forming between you considering she most likely wasn’t even aware you had a dishwasher in the house. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen her clean a single thing despite her messy tendencies.
However she did apparently notice your choice of wardrobe now that the summer weather had kicked into high gear.
“It’s a pair of shorts Tammi.” Your voice was detached and unbothered as you fiddled with Richters collar, attaching the leash to the metal ring and ignoring your sister as she scoffed.
“Barely. My husband lives here too you know.” She spat back in that shrill voice of hers and now you fixed your gaze on her with a sharp glare.
“He’s not even home and it’s almost 100 degrees outside, what the hell do you expect me to wear?” Your voice was louder now as you moved towards the door, a typical sister argument if it wasn’t for the slight truth behind her annoyance.
Despite your denial, you did find yourself dressing a bit more provocative when you knew Sammy would be around.
Maybe it was a bit cruel of you but you liked how awkward he got when you walked past him in a tight tank top without a bra underneath, or bent down to unplug the vacuum in a tiny pair of sleep shorts. His gaze was always on the ceiling when you checked his reaction, neck a little flushed as he cleared his throat and made some excuse to leave the room.
You saw the way he kissed your sister good night, both of them stiff and without any type of chemistry or heat. They barely touched and looked almost disgusted when they had to be in close proximity, no noises from their bedroom at night that would indicate either of them having a good time.
Sammy looked more heated when you were simply doing laundry together.
You didn’t blame him even though you could tell he blamed himself, an almost pained look on his face whenever you gave him a flirty smile or giggled a little too girlishly. He wasn’t the type of man to let his eyes wander in a marriage, even one as unhappy as his was.
It didn’t help that you were his wife’s younger sister, much younger.
You were storming out of the house as Tammi continued to try and lecture you about your clothing, lightly tugged along by an excited Richter. He pulled a little harder than normal when he spotted the car in the driveway, Sammy getting out right as you were passing by.
“Hey.” He greeted gently, approaching just enough to bend down and pet Richter on the head. His eyes slowly drifted up to your face, not before trailing over your bare legs and thighs. “You guys heading out?”
“Your wife is driving us both insane.” You said flatly and he laughed a little, shaking his head in disagreement. Sammy was never one to talk down on your sister, even after a huge blowout argument he still would try and convince you she just was having a hard time lately. “How was your day?”
He kissed his teeth at the question, eyes drifting off as he squinted against the bright sun. “Could’ve been better.”
You nodded sympathetically and gestured back towards the house with a thumb over your shoulder.
“Good luck in there then.” You said softly, half joking but genuinely feeling a little guilty knowing your sister was already in a terrible mood.
He clenched his jaw a little like he was just as aware as you were that a fight would unfold in no time, nodding his head in parting as he disappeared inside.
You took your time walking Richter around the neighborhood in circles, hoping that Tammi would be in bed avoiding household chores by the time you got back there. Both because you couldn’t take anymore bitching from her and because you were selfishly hoping to catch Sammy alone.
Fate was clearly not on your side because you walked back in to a rare sight, the two of them curled up on the couch beside each other as they watched a movie.
You could remember being in high school and seeing them like this, sitting together by a Christmas tree or kissing happily on Thanksgiving. There’d been no sign of it since you moved in and you felt a little surprised at the pure bitterness you felt in your stomach, a little rough as you tossed Richters leash on top of the shoe rack and shooed him away.
Tammi complained when you purposefully passed by them, blocking the TV momentarily with an emotionless look on your face.
You weren’t sure why it bothered you so bad.
Sure you thought Sammy was attractive and you liked getting under his skin, the complimentary nature of his stuttering when you blinked up at him or took a deep breath if you brushed by him closely. It was flattering and an ego boost for him to so obviously struggle around you but that shouldn’t leave you feel so sick at the sight of him resting his head on your sister’s shoulder.
His wife’s shoulder.
Your movements were a little rougher than necessary as you cleaned up the kitchen and you didn’t hear his footsteps over the clanking of the plates.
You stiffened when he was suddenly next to you, unbuttoning the wrist of his sleeves so he could roll them up to his elbows and help you wash up. He was silent for the first few minutes and then he cleared his throat, your eyes going to the side of his face.
“She feels bad that you fought.” He muttered and you glanced back at the living room, unable to see your sister sitting on the couch now and assuming she had retreated back to their room.
“Bet she does.” Your voice was cold and sarcastic which made him sigh in that disappointed paternal way that apparently made you shiver. “Did she tell you what it was about?”
You’d stopped with the dishes now to fully face him and he was putting a noticeable amount of effort into avoiding looking at you, letting you know she had in fact told him before he even hummed in confirmation. You scoffed bitterly and nodded slowly in disbelief at how obvious it was that she had said something to him about your clothing.
“Really Sammy? You’re not even going to look at me now?” Your voice dropped into a low whisper that made you feel like you had done something wrong.
Your intentions may had been a little misguided but you’d never actually crossed any type of line. His gaze and your subtle flirting could easily pass as just being friendly and a little awkward, you’d never done something as simple as felt his skin against yours before even in an accidental graze.
You’d never once actually flirted with him or said something that could have a hidden innuendo. The tension was simple enough it could have been entirely in your head even though you started to doubt that when he finally looked at you, clearly a little conflicted.
“Maybe you could just throw a shirt on sometimes.” He said it so softly that you almost felt bad, a little awkward stammer stunting a few words from leaving his mouth.
“It’s not my fault if you look at my tits Sammy.” Your words were harsher than you meant them to be and definitely a little counterproductive towards your possible end goal of actually catching his attention but you could practically hear your sister’s voice in his suggestion.
You were nearly certain she had whined and complained to him about you and how uncomfortable it was making her, begging him to talk to you and put up some boundaries.
He fully flushed at the statement and his eyebrows furrowed, taking an instinctive step back and resting a hand on the counter as he stared at you.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.” He practically whispered and now it was your turn to sigh.
“Do you even care about how unfair this is?” You took a step closer to him under the guise of keeping the conversation private and he stared down at you with a level of knowing that almost made you embarrassed by how obvious you apparently were. “Isn’t this my house too?”
He said your name so softly that you felt a little dizzy, a little hot all over from him scolding you for some reason.
“You know how she gets.” He whispers like it’s a secret the two of you share and now you’re frowning, hating most of all when he tries to defend her to you like you don’t know her better than anyone for the worst reasons.
“Yeah she’s ridiculous, borderline crazy.” You say back and it’s a little less quiet which makes him send a panicked look towards the hallway that leads to their room. “She treats both of us like shit Sammy.”
“She’s go-“ He starts and stops the second you send him a sharp look, not needing to hear the same spiel about her and the hard times she’s apparently going through for the dozenth time this week.
He huffs out a defeated breath but thankfully doesn’t try to continue and make excuses for her that you both don’t actually believe. It’s followed by a moment of tense silence before you turn and head down to the guest room, feeling so bothered by your first slight argument that your chest burns.
Sammy doesn’t bring it up again even though Tammi clearly gets more and more annoyed by you, not just the fact that your clothes have since gotten shorter and tighter since the fight but now she’s started to nitpick just about everything she could think of.
Going for long walks with Richter just didn’t cut it for you anymore which is exactly how you found yourself sitting at the counter of some random dive bar you’d pass on your way back from work.
It wasn’t that late yet so there was only a dozen or so people sat with drinks, either having been there for most the day already or just getting off a shift and seeking solace the same way you were.
You felt almost like life was playing a cruel trick on you when the door opened behind you and a loud group came in, already a bit annoyed at the volume before you glanced over and saw the familiar uniforms now standing next to you.
There was a group of about six officers, most of them rowdy and shoving at eachother with overlapping jabs you couldn’t make out under the layers.
And in the middle of them was Sammy.
He was currently being nudged at by one of the guys who was clearly mocking him about something, a boyish grin on his face as he waved the man away playfully. He looked different like this, so much lighter than he seemed at dinner or after an argument with Tammi.
You weren’t sure if it was the feeling of your gaze on him or just natural instinct to scan his surroundings but his eyes were landing on you and the smile on his face was gone, replaced with a sort of deer in headlights look that almost made you laugh.
It took about four seconds for the others to notice where his attention had gone to and it clearly peaked their interest, seeing an opportunity to make the situation completely humiliating for him.
“Sammy.” You couldn’t stop yourself from saying his name in a light greeting, tipping the top of your beer bottle at him and slightly angling your body in his direction.
“Why aren’t you at home?” His response didn’t help his case at all with the other officers, curious smirks on their faces as one grabbed his shoulders from behind and shook him lightly.
The question was a bit nonsensical considering it wasn’t that late at night yet but the area you were in definitely wasn’t the safest and you’d never really been the type to go out, typically heading back home as soon as you were done with work or class.
“You didn’t tell us your wife was a total smoke show Bryant.” The guy behind him was loud and obnoxious but you smiled at the comment, fully turned in their direction now with your back leaned against the bar top.
He was either new or didn’t know Sammy very well considering he’d definitely brought Tammi around before but you figured her appearances probably dwindled in recent years once their marriage got rocky.
“She’s Tammi’s sister.” He mumbled but it was barely registered by the others who were going between snickering at his awkwardness and trailing their eyes up and down your frame.
“Ah younger model.” One of the others snickered and Sammy tensed completely now, jaw tensing when you audibly laughed.
“New and improved.” You were clearly laying it on thick, twirling your hair with your finger and arching your back in a way that practically shoved your tiny tank top covered chest in their direction. Your tone was flirtatious and far more seductive than necessary, maybe not noticeable to the rowdy officers but definitely to Sammy who had never heard you like that.
He was moving faster than you could process it, gripping your forearm and lightly tugging you off the stool as you made a sound of protest.
“Let’s go.” He gruffed and you had no choice but to follow after him, the whistles and hoots of his coworkers getting more and more distant behind you.
You yanked your arm away from him as soon as you were outside, feeling a burning sensation where he had been touching you.
“What the hell is your problem?” You hissed and he spun around to face you, expression just as irritated as it was when he fought with your sister which left a weird feeling in your gut.
“Why are you saying shit like that?” He spat back and your eyebrows furrowed, not buying that he was really that upset about your slight dig towards Tammi.
You were quiet as you contemplated the real reason he might be this agitated by the brief interaction, taking a few steps forward that made him clench his jaw and gulp as that familiar nervousness started to replace his anger.
“Don’t be like that Sammy.” You said it softly, that tone of voice you used when you were trying to fluster him. It was already effective enough in the kitchen doing dishes but even more deadly now, standing outside a bar in that outfit. “Are you mad they can look and you can’t?”
He didn’t reply, his eyes locked on your face intensely like he was physically restraining himself from letting his gaze wander, and you knew you had gotten it right.
“I won’t tell her.” You say quietly now and shift even closer, a bit distracted by the rare sight of him in full uniform and the way the shirt stretches around his biceps.
“Come on.” He says and it sounds exhausted, taking a few steps away. “Get in the car.”
You sigh but follow him without any resistance, disappointment that your first actually incriminating line hadn’t gotten much reaction from him. His lack of reaction was a win within itself though considering how pained he looked from trying to keep himself in check.
He drove in silence back to the house, parking in front of it when you arrived instead of in the driveway. You could see all the lights turned off except for their bedroom, blinds completely drawn where Tammi was undoubtedly obsessively editing her photos or searching for new camera equipment she’d force him to buy.
“I have to go back to the station for some paperwork.” He mumbled in explanation for the distant parking and you stared at him for a second.
He was keeping his gaze focused on the wheel in front of him, only glancing over when he felt your eyes on him. It was almost instinctually, the way it dipped down to your chest before flickering back up to your face with pure guilt.
You wanted to laugh but you almost felt pity for him and his inability to keep anything hidden.
“Sammy.” Your voice was half pleading and half tempting, your body shifting until you were facing him fully. “Go ahead and look.”
His eyes stayed locked on yours for a few breaths, clearly conflicted with himself. You felt a wave of heat at how obvious he was with his desire, regardless if it had anything to do with you or just the fact you were a young and attractive body in front of him when he was so obviously starved of intimacy.
Then he was finally caving and staring down at your chest, covered by the tank top mostly but still a noticeable amount of cleavage and smooth bare skin for him to gawk at.
You didn’t want to lose his attention now that you finally had it and you weren’t really thinking straight when you reached up to your shoulders to pull the straps down, ignoring the way he said your name in warning and tugging the tank top so it bunched up at your ribs.
He inhaled sharply at the sight of you in your bra, eyes darting all around your torso for a second like he couldn’t decide if he should still look or find something else to focus on.
His hands were twitching in his lap, curling into a fist and balling up the fabric of his pants.
“More?” You asked softly and now you were toying with the final straps on your shoulders, eyes curious as you obsessed over watching him and his reactions. He was almost embarrassing to observe, so clearly overwhelmed and torn by the sight of you.
You smiled when his head was nodding eagerly after a moment of contemplation, maybe too desperate to think straight or just having realized you’d already crossed a line.
Sammy wasn’t going to touch you, you knew that for a fact, atleast not yet. But he clearly had given up on pretending he didn’t want to look at you.
Your hands were steady unlike his still fidgeting anxiously, undoing your bra with an easy motion before you were taking it off completely and letting it rest on the middle console. His eyes went to it briefly, almost touching his forearm, before they were immediately locked back on your now bare chest.
You stared at him as his breath hitched.
He almost looked like he was going to cry when you were letting your palms glide over your ribs, teasing your skin until he seemed like he was going to lose his mind before you were cupping your breast and pushing them together.
“Do you like that?” You whispered softly and the sound of your voice, flirty and coaxing seemed to almost break him.
He groaned audibly and ran a shaky hand over his face, slapping it against the top of the steering wheel after as he adjusted his posture before looking back at you closely.
“Yeah.” He croaked it out with noticeable effort and you hoped the satisfaction you felt wasn’t as obvious on your face, practically beaming at the admission. “Keep going.”
You hummed in response and did exactly as he said, rubbing and groping your own chest as you stared at him closely. He seemed almost transfixed by the sight of it, your soft flesh being pushed and pulled by your hands and your hard nipples peeking through your fingers.
“Wish you’d touch me Sammy.” Your voice was definitely breathier now as you felt a familiar stirring in your gut from your own stimulation, a low groan leaving him when your words registered. “You don’t have to say anything. Just watch me touch myself.”
He stayed silent like you expected, clearly having decided that speaking to you would only make this situation worse than it was, but he kept his gaze locked on you and the way you were playing with your nipples and skin.
This went on for a few tension filled minutes before his radio was crackling to life with some combination of words you couldn’t register. You frowned as he noticeably stiffened and finally looked away from you, taking a deep calming breath.
“Please go inside.” He whispered, back to pointedly staring at the steering wheel and avoiding the sight of you. “Please.”
It was nearly begging and you had a feeling if you pushed just a bit further he would fold, halfway considering it before you were nodding and grabbing your bra off of the middle console.
Sammy was pulling off with a squeal as soon as you were at the front door, having waited and watched until you were off the sidewalk.
—
He practically acted like you didn’t exist after the encounter, no longer helping you with dishes or lingering around after dinner to have small talk with you about his day.
You’d expected it but it still stung the same.
He hadn’t taken advantage of you, if anything it was the opposite, but you still felt almost sick with shame and rejection. It drove you nearly insane to see him with Tammi now that you knew what it felt like to be under his wanting gaze, an obsession of sorts brewing dangerously under your surface as you went about your days like nothing had happened.
You waited to try your luck again until one of the rare days Sammy was home and your sister wasn’t. She had mentioned to you this morning that she had a dinner with a ‘model’ before talking your ear off about the photoshoot subject but you’d stopped listening as soon as she said she’d be gone for a few hours.
Sammy was somewhere in the living room when you had gone into the shower, making it one of your shortest of all time. You stayed in there just long enough to let the room get steamed up, your wet hair sticking to your shoulders and your bare skinned adorned with nothing but a small towel and water droplets.
You waited for a second after shutting off the shower head, listening closely to see if you could hear him in the living room. You smiled when you heard him clearing his throat and muttering something to Richter.
“Sammy?” You called out in an exaggerated helpless tone. You repeated it louder a few times until the sound of his quick footsteps coming down the hallway and you grin with excitement.
“You okay?” He asked softly, first half of the question muffled behind the door and the second clearer as you swung it open.
His gaze immediately raked over your towel covered frame, the bottom of it barely covering the swell of tour ass. He had a knowing look on his face when his eyes finally met yours again, worsening when you gave him a sweet smile.
“My clothes were too close to the shower and got wet.” You frowned at him in an exaggerated manner and he sighed loudly, glancing behind you to see the piles of clothes that looked suspiciously dry. “It’s too cold to walk all the way to my room like this, could you grab me something to wear?”
He said your name slowly in warning, fingers tapping against the wooden doorframe like he was considering calling you out on how obvious you were currently being. But Sammy was too sweet to do such a thing and you knew it, using his kindness as a clear weakness.
“Please Sammy.” Your pout was even more pronounced and you leaned in close enough for him to inhale sharply, leaning back immediately until he was nodding and heading down the hallway. “Thank you.”
He ignored your call after him and you waited patiently for him to return, leaning against the doorway in the tiny towel and trying to ignore the slight shiver that ran over you for the sake of your plan.
He came back with a stern look like he had mentally prepared himself to be unaffected by you and pushed a handful of clothes in your direction. You took it and laughed after a quick glance over.
“No underwear?” Your head cocked and his face fell, genuinely having forgotten in his determination to do anything but think about your drawer full of lacy panties. “That’s okay.”
There was no hesitance to the way you dropped the towel, letting it pool in a ball at your feet. His shoulders deflated and he instinctively stared at your chest before drifting down the smooth plane of your stomach and finally between your thighs.
He couldn’t see much considering you were both standing close enough together that he’d have to very intentionally strain his neck downwards to really look but you were fully naked in front of him and that fact was enough to make his head spin.
It was only a few seconds of bare skin before you were pulling the shirt he had grabbed over your head but it was long enough for the image to burn in his mind.
“More comfortable this way anyways.” You said softly as you smiled up at him and brushed past, letting your chest rub against his arm as you went to your room.
—
It turned out that driving Sammy Bryant to insanity was a highly entertaining hobby to have developed. He was so easy to fluster even after seeing all of you that day in the bathroom, still getting all red in the face whenever you got too close or touched his hand while passing salt at dinner.
Tammi had been relatively calm lately, the fights she picked daily consisting more of brief bickering than actual screaming matches. You figured it had something to do with that so called model she had dinner with the other night but that was also keeping her out of the house more often so you weren’t going to mention it.
You liked being alone with Sammy and for more reasons than your own selfish teasing. It gave you a genuine warmth to cook dinner for him, cleaning up side by side and sometimes watching movies when he could stomach being around you for long periods of time.
He would never sit next to you of course, maintaining a respectful distance and excusing himself awkwardly to bed the second you said something flirty or a romcom got too steamy.
Sammy Bryant was sadly a good guy.
So you really were left with no choice but to cross the line for him, knowing he’d never do it himself.
You’d been watching a movie silently like you were so often these days when you grew too impatient to continue trying to toe that stupid fucking line with him. You stood up and went to block his view of the TV, his gaze questioning and then panicked when you climbed into his lap.
“What are you doing?” He halfway gasped out and you kneaded your hands into his shoulders.
“Don’t play dumb Sammy.” You sigh softly as you settle onto him, knees on both sides of his thighs as you straddle his lap. “I can’t take it anymore.”
“We can’t do this.” He rushes out but he makes no move to remove you, maybe too scared to touch you at all.
You frown and lean forward so your chests are pressing together before placing a light kiss on his jaw. He practically melts right away, unsurprisingly easy despite how much he was pretending to not want you the same way you wanted him.
Your mouth is hot and wet on his skin and only gets more feverish when he’s finally letting his big hands rest on you, one on the small of your back and the other tangling in your hair like he’s preparing to stop you if you go too far.
“Does that feel good Sammy?” You whisper against his neck and he makes a sound from deep in his chest. You suck on his jaw lightly and his hands clench on you, eyes closing at the sensation. “Let me make you feel good.”
“Yeah.” He breathes out in agreement, a desperate pant as he nods. “Please.”
Your mouth is on his as soon as the word leaves him and it’s messy right from the start, moving together roughly as he slightly sits up off the couch to press into you. It’s depraved and dirty, the tension boiling over into a crash of teeth knocking and tongues colliding desperately. Sammy kisses you like he’d been thinking of it for far longer than you might have realized and you return it tenfold, gripping his shoulders tightly.
He hums and grabs your jaw to keep you steady as you lick into each other’s mouths, tilting your head just enough to allow him to get deeper as he eagerly tastes you. You hadn’t expected him to be this dirty considering how stale every interaction with Tammi seemed.
You’re desperate to get your shirt off and he waste no time, caught up in the heat of what’s happening and both of you dazed from how fast things escalated. His hand is roughly cupping one of your breast and he’s bringing his hot mouth down to it, wrapped around your hard nipple as you whine loudly and grab his hair.
“Oh fuck Sammy.” You gasp, back arching to push yourself further into him as he feverishly licks and sucks your heated skin. “There we go baby, I knew you wanted me like this.”
“Stop talking.” He grunts as he comes up for air just long enough to pull you into another bruising kiss, tongues immediately tangling again.
You’re rocking in his lap now and he’s groaning so much he can barely keep up with your mouth, more so just you licking into him while he completely loses control of himself now that he’s finally allowed himself to have you.
“Oh my god.” He grunts out, clearly pained from the desire filling him, his eyes lock down on his lap where you’re currently rolling your hips against the obvious tent in his pants. “What the fuck am I doing?”
“Letting yourself have what you want for once.” You’re whispering in his ear as you rock against him, panting slightly into his neck as you cling to his shoulders. He groans and lets his hands grip your hips roughly to help you move.
“Oh god.” He nearly whimpers as you speed up, getting sloppy and desperate as his own hips leave the couch to try and thrust up against you. You gasp at the feeling and nod to encourage him to continue.
“Fuck Sammy.” You whine and he grips you harder at the sound. “Wish you could fuck me like this, I’d ride you right now.”
“N-no.” He groans and you’re suddenly very aware of the cold metal band around his finger digging into your skin. “We can’t.”
“But I’m so tight.” You tease, going back to kissing him between panted temptations while what you actually mean is heard silently by both of you, tighter than Tammi, better than Tammi. “I’d make you feel so good.”
He curses under his breath as he bucks up to meet your pace again and you nearly collapse against his chest as you fall silent and let yourself atleast enjoy the feeling of humping against him like this.
You’re both losing it, whining and groaning as you make out sloppily and his hands rub up and down your bare back, occasionally snaking to the front to desperately grab at your chest and any part of your body he can touch.
“Oh my god.” He grunts out and you know exactly what the pained sound means, encouraging him with kisses to the neck and a nod of your head.
“There we go Sammy, come on baby please.” You gasp as you keep moving on top of him, the heat filling you almost making you dizzy as you exert yourself to please him. “Want you to cum for me.”
He’s gripping you so hard it’s painful as he rushes forward to kiss you again and shut you up, both of you moaning and panting into each others mouths as he finishes in his pants, still thrusting up against you until your whines get high pitched and you’re following right after him.
There’s a moment of softness after it’s over where you relax against his chest and continue to kiss each other, less heated now but still deep and passionate as you taste him eagerly.
It’s almost sweet, his hands much gentler now as he rubs your back and yours hold his face softly.
You kiss for a long time and your heart senses the end before it actually happens, just a split second of hesitance from him making your chest tighten up. He pulls away and his face is full of guilt, nearing so close to disgusted that you almost want to cry even though you know it’s not directed towards you.
He’s fully hating himself for what happened because Sammy is a good man. So good that it’s hard to blame him when he’s gently pushing you off of his lap and onto the couch before he’s standing up and retreating back to his room.
—
He’s flat out avoiding you now and not even bothering to hide it.
His hours at work nearly double and suddenly he’s always too tired to eat dinner with you and your sister or not feeling good, a headache or a back ache or anything that warrants him getting to hide out in their room as much as possible.
Tammi rants to you one of the nights he doesn’t come home until far past normal, telling you how she thinks he’s depressed and that he needs a creative outlet or a hobby.
You want to tell her that she’s an idiot and that if he was depressed he’d need real help and not a fucking paintbrush, but you settle for humming in vague acknowledgement.
You’re only half paying attention when she mentions the fact they’re trying for a baby, head snapping up to stare at where she’s currently sitting at the table and scrolling on her laptop.
“What?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it too and she narrows her eyes at you. “A baby? I mean… are you sure that’s a good idea Tammi?”
You tell yourself you’d have the same reaction regardless of what happened between you and Sammy, the knowledge of your sister being a terrible candidate for a mother existing long before you even took a second look at him.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” She asked just as tensely, another sister disagreement already building at the mere suggestion you disagree with her.
“You just said Sammy might be depressed.” You reason even though it doesn’t even feel right to say.
Sammy would be an amazing father regardless of how he was feeling emotionally, you could just tell by how patient and gentle he was with just about everything and everyone around him. Including you before you’d pushed him too far, holding out for much longer than anyone else might have with your advances.
And even now he still wasn’t cruel to you although the distance was worse in your opinion.
“It was his idea.” She shrugs as she says it like it doesn’t send a pang directly to your heart.
It takes all of your effort to not show how affected you are on your face.
Sammy can’t avoid you when he comes home, you made sure of it. Tammi had fallen asleep hours ago and Richter was resting in his kennel, dishes done and house spotless without a single excuse for him to ignore you standing in the kitchen.
He’d have to really be an asshole and purposefully walk right pass you when you’re so clearly waiting for him and it’s just not in his nature so he slows down with a sigh, lingering there as he waits for you to or do whatever thing you’ve decided on torturing him with today.
“You’re having a baby?” Your voice is quiet and sounds more hurt than you expected it to, a little too accusatory. It was meant to be a question but the delivery barely landed and his eyebrows furrowed immediately.
“What?” He surprisingly takes a few steps closer in confusion, setting down his jacket on the chair. “What are you talking about? Did Tammi say that?”
You sigh and shake your head, realizing how what you said could be misunderstood as a very poor announcement of something he wasn’t supposed to know.
“No I just meant.. she said you were trying.” You try and explain but it comes out awkward and a little lost.
He takes a long pause as he just looks at you and you hate that it’s the first time he’s really paying attention to you in days and it’s with so much pity. The pity is ten times worse than any anger or distaste he might be able to muster.
“We talked about it yeah. Months ago, before you even moved in.” His voice is soft and reassuring even though you both know that it makes no sense in this scenario. He doesn’t owe you anything, not an explanation and certainly not loyalty.
You nod but your lips are pursed tightly and you feel a weird scratching feeling in your throat, suddenly very aware of the fact you want to cry.
You have no idea when your twisted attraction for Sammy turned into something else entirely. It had been a fun game for you to occupy yourself with while you were stuck in a suburban hell but somewhere along the ride you had gotten lost in the domestic nights you shared.
“Hey.” And then there was that, the sweetness of his voice as he moved closer to you.
It was rare he ever initiated contact, barely staying in a room with you lately, but his caring nature clearly made him drop some of his walls because he was cupping your cheek gently.
“Don’t do that please. I don’t want you to be upset.” He’s still whispering but it feels incredibly invasion, like he’d seen right through you far easier than you preferred.
You weren’t sure what drove you to it but you almost couldn’t help yourself, leaning forward on your tiptoes and pressing your lips against his.
He kissed you back immediately almost out of instinct after last time before he was sighing and pushing you back lightly, shaking his head and clenching his jaw.
“We can’t.” He said sternly but his hand was still on your face, thumb lightly rubbing your cheek. “You know we can’t.”
It would have hurt more if it wasn’t for the expression he had as he stared down at you, gentle and so clearly wanting. You nodded in reluctant understanding but he was surprising you again when he made a low noise and dipped his head to kiss you again, clearly pushing past the mental block he was facing.
You eagerly kissed him back, similar to the last one you had shared full of sweetness and undeniable passion.
Your mouths moved together perfectly, chemistry obvious between you as your tongues tangled in sync and you halfway deflated in relief at the ever growing familiar taste of him.
“I’m sorry.” He mumbles against your mouth and you try to quiet him with more kisses, a few being allowed before he’s continuing to speak. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you Sammy.” You attempt to reassure even though you know it most likely falls on deaf ears. “It’s okay to want something.”
“Not this.” He immediately disagrees but still pecks your mouth a few more times, the final time being a long press. “I can’t want this.”
You’re both silent for a second as you frown softly, your hands on his biceps as you rub softly.
“But you do?” It’s more vulnerable than you mean for it to be but now you’re plagued with the thoughts of him and Tammi having a baby, sealing their lives together forever and shifting his priorities and attention far away from you and whatever this was.
You needed to hear him say, not just assume from the desperate longing look in his eyes whenever he glanced at you.
“Yeah.” He whispered the confirmation down at you with little to no hesitance and you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding so deeply. “I want you.”
Sammy only had a few more seconds to spare before Tammi’s voice was coming down the hallway, questioning and beckoning him to bed while your stomach clenched painfully. He glanced down at your lips again like he was considering kissing you goodnight before he seemingly decided against it, giving you a pitying look before he was leaving.
—
He stopped ignoring you after that but you had decided that was almost worse.
You craved him all the time and it was a little less embarrassing now that he was hiding his own wants less. His hands were constantly finding you when Tammi wasn’t paying attention, grazing the small of your back or tucking your hair behind your ears with an overwhelming gentleness.
And then there was the kissing.
It happened less often than you would have liked but still almost every time he could, initiating most of the time. You’d be doing the laundry and suddenly pressed against the machine with his mouth on yours or getting a quick stolen peck when he passed by you in the living room before going to work.
You could almost pretend that he was your husband instead of your sisters.
You had the same domestic fantasy when you were walking into the police station, Richter in front of you slightly pulling you along as you tried to reel him in to the best of your ability. He was excited for the same reasons you were, spotting Sammy at his desk and nearly yanking your arm off.
“Hey you guys.” Sammy’s voice was soft when he spotted you both, rolling his chair slightly away from the desk so he could greet Richter with some playful pets. His eyes went to you next and you were glad to see him smiling, halfway worried he was going to be upset you showed up unannounced. “You okay?”
“Ask him.” You smiled back and gestured down towards the excited dog, pulling out the small baggie you’d been stashing when Sammy raised his eyebrows in question. “He found this on our walk, almost tripped me in the process of getting it out of a bush.”
You’re holding the plastic with your fingertips to avoid touching it too much and Sammy laughs in slight disbelief at the baggie filled with white powder, nodding his head slowly with a low whistle.
“I figured I should bring it to you instead of throwing it away at the park.” You continued to explain and he was standing now, pulling a plastic glove out of one of his drawers and taking it from you.
“You figured right, thank you sweetheart.” He said lightly and you both tensed up at the pet name, definitely accidental judging by the embarrassed look on his face.
You blinked at him for an awkward second before clearing your throat and glancing around the station.
“You have a second?”
His eyes darkened just enough for it to be noticeable before he was nodding and gesturing for you to follow him. You left Richter behind with some of the officers who had been fawning over him since he walked in.
Sammy was on you practically as soon as you turned a corner into a quiet hallway, mouth pressed against yours as you giggled softly into the kiss.
“Shouldn’t we go somewhere more private?” You asked him softly, your hands flat on his chest and rubbing softly while his went to the small of your back. He ignored you for a second in favor of kissing you again before he was huffing out a breath and nodding, taking your hand in his and leading you further down.
It was a small room with a few printers that looked old or broken, some leaning shelves full of stacks of paper and a noticeable lack of windows.
You kissed him desperately now that you were free to, hand holding his jaw as he guided you back against the door with his own grip on your waist. His mouth was hot and desperate on yours in a way that made your stomach clench with anticipation after waiting for him to want you like this for so long.
“Been thinking about you all day.” He confessed against your lips and you beamed up at him, letting the hand that was on his face move up to his hair.
“Yeah?” You whispered softly as pecked his jaw which drew a low hum out of him. “What about?”
You were kissing again like that was an answer within itself, his tongue slipping into your mouth and sending waves of warmth through your body. You matched it eagerly, tangling them together and using your free hand to try and tug his tie off.
He made another sound, this one of disapproval and grabbed your wrist lightly to stop you as he sighed and pulled away from your mouth. You frowned but were slightly satiated when he rested his head on your shoulder like he was physically exhausted from denying you.
It was quiet for a minute or two and you wondered if he was coming to a similar realization to that one you’d recently accepted.
This was more than lust and stupidly now.
Your hands were gently rubbing him, in his curls and across his back while his grip flexed on your hips. You could hear the sounds of other officers and detectives outside the door, a whole life he lived and belonged in while you were guided to the storage closet.
“You called me sweetheart.” You said softly just to break the silence, not even realizing the pet name he had accidentally used earlier had stuck in your head until you spoke.
His head lifted off your shoulder so his eyes could be locked on yours, they were so ridiculously fond and gentle it made you a little dizzy, a big change from the nervous and guarded look he had a few weeks ago.
“Yeah it just came out.” He spoke quietly, leaning forward as he did so you felt his breath on your lips before he was kissing you again. “Is that okay? Is it something you like?”
“Yes.” You breathed back immediately, deepening the frustratingly slow kisses for a few seconds before pulling back again. “I like it a lot.”
Sammy wasn’t shy with the pet names after that, using them almost constantly now that he knew you liked them. He used them so habitually that you felt a little anxious anytime Tammi was in the room and he was speaking to you, wondering when the time would come that he slipped up out of instinct.
Things were good between you for weeks even though there was the selfish part of you that was always wanting more and more. He still had that same guilt in his eyes, especially when you got a little more heated than just kissing in passing.
But he wasn’t denying himself of you any more and you were completely greedy.
You felt no shame about what you were doing, it didn’t keep you up at night thinking about how you were betraying your sister. That’s where you and him were different, where he was a good man still despite the growing affair.
The need for more was never satisfied just by kissing him, even if it was the type of kissing that left you with shaky legs and damp underwear. He’d let you say filthy things to him, running his hands all over your body and being a little too nervous to talk dirty back to you. You liked the redness of his neck when you whispered sweet sins to him
He even pushed aside his shame to let you blow him in the front of his patrol car, stopping by on a lunch break when you texted him that you had a terrible shift.
He’d looked so concerned when you pulled up that you almost felt bad for the hunger that hit you seeing him in uniform. He had barely gotten down the street before you were leaning over the middle console and gently kissing at his neck, trying his best to ignore you before he was turning into an empty parking lot.
It was the same as always with your mouths hot on each other, tongues tangling and him tugging you out of your seat until you were sitting on his lap and whining against his lips.
You could feel him getting hard under you and you were so desperate you could barely breathe, mouth watering as you begged him to at least let you see it, even let you just jerk him off before he went back to work.
“No baby no.” He had protested against your mouth even though he was visibly shuddering at the suggestions and groaning everytime you shifted your hips ontop of him. It didn’t take long before he was gently moving you back over and letting you take his belt off.
Things got much harder for you after that, getting to see his length and taste him on your tongue and down your throat without having him completely. It was driving you genuinely insane enough to the point you would have jumped his bones right in front of Tammi.
He was currently making it much worse by walking in the kitchen with the tired look on his face you liked so much and his big hands tugging off his tie.
“Is she asleep?” His voice is low and you nod, lip pulled between your teeth as you rest your back on the kitchen sink drawers and watch him approach you slowly. Your hands are behind you and curling around the edge of the counter with anticipation. “Hey baby.”
It’s soft, far softer than the things you’re currently imagining and you lean closer to him when he presses against you and cups your face to give you a greeting kiss.
Like you’re his wife.
“How was your day?” You hum back, more than happy to play the part.
“Long.” He says back and you can feel the words vibrating your mouth, answering him and his stressed out tone with a deeper kiss.
He doesn’t hesitate before reciprocating it, hand leaving your face in favor of spanning across your lower back and tugging you closer. Your head tilts naturally to allow the kiss to escalate even more and you almost feel guilty for the depraved things you’re thinking about.
“What’s wrong sweetheart?” He mumbles against your lips and you pout a little at the gentle question, not knowing how exactly he could tell your mind was occupied.
“Nothing’s wrong.” You say back and he gives you a slightly firm look, clearly not buying your answer. You sigh and peck his lips before taking a second to consider how you want to word it. “You’re being mean to me.”
He fondly laughs a little in surprise at your statement, rubbing your back softly as you blink up at him. Your hands go to his loose tie to help remove it fully, working on the top few buttons next.
“I’m not being mean.” He denies with amusement, eyeing you as you maneuver with his clothes. You don’t stop at the top three buttons and his eyebrows raises. “I give you what you want.”
“Not everything.” You disagree easily and he knows what you’re talking about, he must know by now what you really need so desperately from him.
“It’s hard baby.” He whispers and kisses you again like it’ll soothe you enough for you to drop it. You don’t at all, the opposite in fact when you let your palm leave his shirt and go down to the minimal space between your bodies to tug at his belt buckle.
You’re not trying to undo it but simply pulling him forward and indicating what you really are wanting.
“You know we shouldn’t.” He sighs in a whisper but he looks conflicted and still a little fond of you and your antics, no matter how whiny.
“Can I at least blow you again?” You pout up at him like it’s such a simple request and his breath catches in his throat. “I did so good, didn’t I?”
“Of course you did sweetheart.” He agrees easily, bending down to kiss you again and softly tucking your hair behind your ears. He’s so sweet that it makes you a little angry, wishing so bad he’d just take what you knew he wanted from you. “You’re always so good for me.”
You’ve gotten halfway down his shirt now with the buttons before you stop, leaning forward to press your lips against his chest briefly before you’re blinking up at him again. A warmth fills you at the praise even though you’re well aware of how good you make him feel.
“Say it.” You whisper and he knows exactly what you mean, the same phrase you’d requested from him numerous times by now with no shame. His head tilts as he sighs, wanting to tell you no but knowing by the look on your face it’s a terrible idea.
“You’re better than her.” He says back, barely audible but still sincere. He’s looks a little pained to say it but it makes you breathe out in relief and nod your head in quick agreement. “You make me feel so good babygirl.”
Your mouths are pressed back together and it’s filthy immediately now, tongues tangling and his hands moving off your back and down to knead your ass under the small skirt you’re wearing.
It’s heating up quickly again, getting dizzier and dizzier the longer it goes on.
He’s groaning loudly at one point and pulling away from the kiss to roughly turn you around. You gasp at the movement and the way he crowds up behind you, his chest pressed against your back as you halfway bend over the counter.
You whimper loudly when you feel how hard he is against your ass and bend over even more so you can rub yourself back on him. He groans and immediately goes to roughly grab your hip with one hand, the other one smoothing over your cheek before he’s pressing a finger into your mouth. You suck happily on it as he experimentally ruts his hips forward.
“Gotta be quiet princess.” He urges as he slips another finger in and you moan obediently around them, arching your back as he rubs himself against you and fills your mouth.
Your tongue is eagerly licking all over his fingers as you suck desperately and he is clearly affected considering the way he’s humping you a bit desperately. His soft noises are driving you crazy and so is the mental image of how the two of you look, his big frame leaning over you and trapping you against the counter just to dry hump you like a teenager.
“God you feel so good.” He grunts and you audibly whine, eyes closing in bliss as you try your best to push backwards and meet his grinding. “You’re so pretty sweetheart.”
“I need you.” You’d grabbed his wrist to take his saliva covered fingers out, kissing against them as you speak through near sobs. “Please Sammy I can’t do this anymore.”
“Let me taste you first.” He says in the lowest voice you’d ever heard him speak in. You shake your head in protest immediately but he ignores you, free hand coming down to slightly lift your skirt and rub across the wet slit of fabric between your legs. “Fuck baby you’re soaked.”
“N-no more waiting.” You nearly sob as you continue to shake your head to really sell your point. “I need it so bad.”
It’s silent for a few seconds like he’s trying one last time to search for the self restraint to hold back but it’s clear what you want and you know he needs it just as bad as you do. You’d let him get between your legs with that tongue of his another time, any time he wanted, but right now you were desperate to be filled by him.
Sammy has you pressed against the kitchen counter tighter, your stomach digging into the top of it now as he bends you back over fully and roughly tugs the skirt up so it’s sitting in a messy pile around your hips.
He doesn’t bother taking it off, pulling your panties down your legs and grunting when he sees you all exposed for the first time.
“Do you want me to stretch you out?” He asks it lowly and the sound of his voice is nearly enough for you as is, a high pitched whine leaving you as you lay your face down on the counter and close your eyes. “Want me to take my time with you?”
“No no.” You pant out immediately and arch backwards again, knowing how depraved the sight of you must look. You feel his thumb rubbing through your soaking wet slit experimentally, a low sound from his chest coming from behind you.
The metal clasps of his belt being undone comes next and now you really feel like you’re about to cry, straining your neck to try and look over your shoulder to get another look at the thick length you’d be obsessing over since he was pushing it down your throat not too long ago.
He stopped you with a slightly rough hand to the back of your head, pushing your face back down against the cold counter just as he shifted even closer and rubbed up against you.
You could feel him now, bare and aching against your core as he teased it up and down softly. You knew you must have been soaking him from how wet you were, no doubt his intention to make the stretch easier for you.
“Are you sure about this?” He asks from behind you and now the low rasp is gone again, sounding more like his typical nervous cadence that you’re so fond of. “We can’t go back from this.”
“Don’t want to go back.” You say immediately and you’re shocked by how much you don’t recognize your own voice layered in this much desperation. “Want you to fuck me.”
He chuckles a little at the unashamed answer you give and bends down to press a gentle kiss to the side of your temple, your heart racing at the gesture even though you’re a bit distracted by less domestic fantasies. His weight leaning against your back almost makes you want him that much more and you impatiently rock your hips backwards against him.
He stills you with rough hands on your bare hips before he’s sucking in a shaky breath, the life changing feeling of the throbbing blunt head of his length pressing against you making you whine out desperately in anticipation.
“This what you wanted huh?” He groans as he pushes into you slowly and you whine happily, face flat on the counter as your eyes close from the pain of the stretch. “Wanted to be fucked like a whore baby?”
“Yes yes.” You cry in agreement as you clench around him, barely past the tip and already feeling like he’s filling you. “I’m a whore Sammy, wanted you so bad.”
His hand lands roughly on the exposed skin of your ass and you yelp, instinctively trying to move back away from the pain and instead taking a few more inches of him all at once. Your pained gasp is followed by a moan and he curses behind you.
“Slow babygirl slow.” He grunts, that softer side of him you like so much still showing despite his need having caused him to get rougher initially. “Don’t wanna hurt you princess.”
“Could never hurt me.” You gasp as you try and move further back against him, he grips your hips roughly to stop you and you whine in protest. “Please Sammy please, want you to fuck me.”
“I’m gonna fuck you baby.” He soothes the best he can but you’re too desperate to focus on what he’s saying. “You’re just so tight.”
You try your best to be patient but it’s nearly impossible, whining and squirming nonstop as he rubs your clit with his thumb and kisses against the back of your neck to try his best to get you to relax so he doesn’t stretch you uncomfortably. You’re glad he didn’t work you open first with his fingers, the pain so good you let the tears in your eyes fall endlessly.
Finally he’s bottoming out inside of you and groaning lowly, his forehead resting on your back for a second as he tries to collect himself enough to properly fuck you.
“Sammy please baby.” You gasp in a sob and you feel him tense up at the wrecked sound of your voice. “Fuck me hard.”
That seems to be the trigger that he needs to go from a soft conflicted husband to somebody fucking a tight young thing, a low grunt leaving him as he stands back up fully and grabs your sides.
Sammy is almost animalistic as he thrusts into you, kitchen full of his grunts and your high pitched whines as he fills you over and over again. The stretch is the perfect blend of pain and pleasure and you can barely catch your breath from his relentless place.
Your stomach is digging against the counter roughly and you’re barely able to catch your breath or think as he roughly fucks into you, filled up so deep you can feel him in your stomach.
“Oh my god oh my god.” You’re sobbing as he fucks you and his big hand comes forward to cover your mouth roughly, slightly lifting you off the counter to make sure you’re kept quiet.
“Gotta shut the fuck up if you want to be fucked baby.” He says it softly in your ear but it’s completely filthy and a big change from how gentle he normally is when he speaks to you. You’re most definitely crossed eyed by now from pleasure as you dumbly nod and listen to your muffled moan under his palm. “Fuck you feel so good. Best pussy I’ve ever had.”
It’s completely filthy and all you could have imagined for when he finally lost control, ramming into you over and over as he continues to speak the dirty confessions in your ear. Your stomach clenches dangerously early as he tells you how good and pretty you are, how he wants to fuck you everyday, how hard you get him just from a kiss.
“S-Sammy oh my god.” You sob out as he lifts you further off the counter, one of his rough hands smoothing over the front of your stomach and pushing down at the soft skin there like he’s trying to feel himself deep inside of you.
“I know princess I know.” He practically coos, kissing your neck sweetly while he continues to fuck you like an animal. “Does it feel too good baby? You like getting stretched like this by me?”
You can’t even bring yourself to respond, the filth coming from him and the feeling of him inside of you completely taking away your ability to think or communicate. You’re just whining and sobbing softly as he gropes you all over and brings you the type of pleasure you didn’t even know was real.
He falls silent too and you can tell by the stutter of his hips every few thrust that he’s getting close too, grunts getting lower and more desperate as he kisses against your skin.
“Want you to cum inside.” You beg him once you finally manage to get your voice back, high pitched and breathy. “Please Sammy please I want your baby.”
He curses audibly at that, a little too loud for the otherwise quiet kitchen and then you’re slammed back against the counter and fully bent over again as he speeds back up.
You’re finishing as soon as you’re back in the position and he’s able to get as deep as you imagine possible, a loud cry leaving you that is only halfway silenced as he remembers to clap a hand over your mouth too late. You can’t be bothered to care about that right now considering he’s filling you up only a few seconds after, groaning lowly while his hips stutter through his climaxed.
You’re both silent for a few seconds after, panting and catching your breath as you lay against the counter with shaky legs and he practically drapes himself over your back again.
A beat passes before he’s standing with a tired sigh and rubbing your back softly as he pulls out. You squirm uncomfortable at both the emptiness and the ache from the pace he’d been going, his hand still massaging you lightly as he shushes you gently and leans over to the sink to wet a washcloth.
It’s cold as he cleans between your legs quietly and presses light kisses to your body the entire time.
“Are you okay?” He asks you gently as he adjusts your skirt and helps you stand up, turning you around and making a surprised noise when you’re throwing your arms around his neck for a tight hug.
His hands rest on the small of your back as you hug, rocking back and forth with you for a minute or two. You pull back and help him with his belt, his eyes locked on your satisfied but tired face fondly as you close it for him so sweetly with your little shaky hands.
You finally kiss him once you’re done and it’s sweet again now, like you’re two people genuinely in love and not in laws who just railed each other a few rooms over from your sister and his wife.
Summary: A cockroach, Abbot Bingo, and one very inconvenient wink. As you settle into the Night Crawlers, working with Jack starts to feel less like learning his rhythm and more like falling into it. It means nothing. Probably.
Warnings: Medical setting, insect in ear, assault involving a minor, head injury/subdural hematoma, age gap, attending/resident dynamic, slow-burn attraction.
Author's Note: Jack and Reader are getting a little too good at this whole working-together thing. Also: welcome to the inner circle. Abbot Bingo is now canon
Xoxo, Del
| Chpt. 1 |
Central was already loud when you came through the double doors.
Not bad loud.
Normal loud.
Monitors chirped from somewhere down South. A transport tech maneuvered an empty stretcher around the corner. Someone called for respiratory from one of the rooms near North. At the central workstation, Shen was staring into an enormous Dunkin cup with the betrayed expression of a man who had discovered corruption at the highest level. Crus stood beside him, peeling open the wrapper of a protein bar.
You adjusted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder as you approached. “Should I ask?”
Shen lifted the cup and shook it once. Ice rattled loudly inside. “This is a scam.”
Crus took a bite of his protein bar. “You say that every night.”
“Because every night I am victimized,” Shen replied. He pointed accusingly at the cup. “More ice means less room for coffee. They are charging me for coffee and giving me frozen water.”
You dropped your bag beneath the workstation. “Have you considered asking for less ice?”
Shen ignored the question and lifted the cup toward you. “Look at this. Half the volume is ice.”
You leaned slightly closer to inspect it. “Maybe sixty percent.”
Shen’s expression sharpened with vindication. “Thank you.”
Crus looked at you. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I believe in consumer advocacy,” you told Crus as you pulled your badge forward.
A dry voice came from the workstation beside you. “You believe in making this conversation longer.”
You turned. Jack stood at the computer in dark scrubs, one hand resting beside the keyboard, his attention split between the tracking board and the argument happening around him. You had looked for him when you walked in.
You were choosing not to examine that too closely. Instead, you glanced toward the clock mounted above Central.
Jack followed your gaze before looking back at you. “You’re late.”
You stared at him. “I’m two minutes early.”
Jack shrugged with a smirk. “Could’ve been earlier.”
You logged into the workstation beside him. “Good evening to you too, Abbot.”
Shen lifted his coffee again. “Do you see what I deal with?”
Jack’s attention shifted toward him. “You’ve spent ten minutes complaining about ice.”
Shen cradled the cup protectively against his chest. “Because less coffee is not a trivial issue.”
Jack looked back at the computer. “It is at the moment.”
Crus nodded toward Jack. “He’s got you there.”
Shen pointed at Crus. “You stay out of this.”
Crus took another bite of his protein bar. “Gladly.”
Jack reached toward the tracking board and tapped one finger against a patient listed in Central.
“Central nine,” he said.
You followed the gesture. Forty-three-year-old male. Ear pain. Possible foreign body.
You looked back at Jack. “You say the sweetest things.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “You’re welcome.”
You picked up the tablet from beside the keyboard and opened the chart. “Any idea what kind of foreign body?”
Jack leaned one hip against the workstation. “Patient says something flew at him while he was taking the trash out.”
Your thumb stopped against the screen. “Something flew at him?”
“That’s what he told triage,” Jack said.
You skimmed the note. Right ear discomfort. Sensation of movement. Unable to visualize object at triage. You looked up. Jack was watching you. Not obviously. But enough.
Your eyes narrowed. “You have a theory.”
Jack’s expression stayed neutral. “I have several.”
“That is not comforting,” you told him.
He shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
You studied his face for another second. “What do you think it is?”
Jack tipped his chin toward the hallway. “Go look.”
You stared at him. “Abbot.”
“Doctor,” Jack corrected, entirely too calmly.
Shen turned away from his coffee long enough to glance between the two of you.
You pointed the tablet at Jack. “You know something.”
Jack folded his arms loosely across his chest. “I suspect something.”
You waited. Jack waited longer.
You exhaled through your nose. “You’re enjoying this already.”
His mouth twitched again. “A little.”
You narrowed your eyes. That only made the amusement in his expression worse.
“If whatever is in his ear bites me, I’m putting your name in the incident report,” you warned him.
Jack pushed away from the workstation. “If it bites you, I’ll read the incident report.”
You turned toward Central Nine. “I hate working with you.”
Shen lifted his cup toward you in sympathy. “Godspeed.”
You looked back at him. “Thank you, Shen.”
Crus glanced toward the patient room. “Now I kind of want to know what it is.”
You kept walking and lifted the tablet slightly. “I’ll find you if I need backup.”
Jack’s voice followed you down the hall. “Central nine.”
You lifted one hand over your shoulder without turning around. You could hear Shen laugh behind you. The patient was sitting rigidly upright on the stretcher when you entered, one hand hovering near his right ear without quite touching it.
His wife stood beside him. Both of them looked miserable. That did not inspire confidence.
You gave them a small smile as you stepped inside. “Hi. I’m one of the residents working tonight.”
The patient nodded carefully. “Hi.”
You sanitized your hands as you moved toward the stool. “I hear something happened while you were taking out the trash.”
His wife made a face.
The patient closed his eyes for a second. “Something flew at me.”
You rolled the stool closer. “Did you see what it was?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head carefully. “I felt it hit the side of my head, and then I felt something go into my ear.”
You kept your expression steady. Something in his ear. Great.
“And since then?” you asked.
The patient’s mouth tightened. “It moves.”
Your entire nervous system objected. You did not. You reached for the otoscope.
His wife rubbed both palms against her arms. “He keeps saying he can hear it.”
You paused for only a fraction of a second before nodding. “Okay.”
The patient looked at you anxiously. “Is that bad?”
You pulled on a pair of gloves. “It means I should probably take a look before I answer that.”
He turned his head for you. You adjusted the light and leaned closer. For the first second, all you saw was irritated skin.
Then something shifted deeper in the canal. You stopped breathing. Tiny legs scraped against the edge of your view.
No. Absolutely not. You drew the otoscope back with what you considered an impressive amount of professional dignity.
The patient immediately searched your face. “What is it?”
You smiled. Calmly. Competently. As if you had not just seen your own personal nightmare living inside another human being.
“There is definitely an insect in there,” you told him.
His wife covered her mouth. “Oh my God.”
The patient went pale. “What kind?”
You glanced once more through the otoscope. The insect moved. You pulled back again. Your soul attempted to leave your body.
“It looks like a cockroach,” you said.
The patient made a strangled sound. His wife whispered something under her breath. You set the otoscope down and lifted both hands slightly before either of them could panic further.
“The important part is that we can get it out,” you assured them.
The patient stared at you. “That’s the important part?”
“Yes,” you said, nodding firmly. “That is absolutely the important part right now.”
His wife looked at the equipment beside you. “Does this happen a lot?”
You considered lying.
Instead, you reached for what you needed. “More often than anybody would like.”
The patient looked horrified. You decided that was enough information. You talked him through the plan before you started, keeping your voice even despite the fact that every cell in your body still objected to what you had just seen.
“I’m going to put some lidocaine into your ear first,” you explained as you gathered what you needed. “It’ll help with the discomfort, and it should stop the insect from moving before I remove it.”
The patient’s face tightened. “Please make it stop moving.”
You gave him a reassuring nod. “That is absolutely the goal.”
You instilled the lidocaine carefully and gave it time to work. When you checked again, the cockroach was still. Significantly better.
Still a cockroach. Still in an ear. But still. You worked carefully under direct visualization until you were able to grasp it and draw it free. The cockroach dropped into the basin. Dead. Entirely motionless.
You stared at it for one second. That was enough. You covered the basin with a towel.
The patient let out a breath so hard his shoulders dropped. “Is it out?”
You peeled off your gloves. “Completely.”
His wife sagged against the edge of the stretcher. “Thank God.”
You checked his ear again, making sure the canal and tympanic membrane appeared intact before reviewing what irritation to expect and providing return precautions. By the time you stepped back into the hallway, your face was perfectly composed. The door shut behind you.
You made it approximately three steps. Then you shuddered so hard your shoulders came up around your ears. Jack looked up from the workstation.
You immediately looked down at yourself. Your hands swept over the front of your scrub top. Jack’s brows lifted.
You twisted, trying to see the back of your own shoulder. “Is there one on me?”
Jack stared at you. “What?”
“A cockroach.” You brushed rapidly at one sleeve. “I feel like there’s one on me.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You pointed at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he replied.
Your brow furrowed. “You were about to.”
Jack shook his head. “I wasn’t.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely were.”
Jack walked closer, his expression settling into something suspiciously composed. “There is not a cockroach on you.”
You looked down at your scrub pants. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s left eyebrow rose. “I’m looking at you.”
“That means nothing,” you told him.
His mouth tightened.
You caught it immediately. “Stop smiling.”
“I’m not smiling,” Jack said.
You frowned. “You are trying very hard not to.”
Jack gave you a long look. “You’re being dramatic.”
You stared at him.
“There was a live cockroach inside someone’s ear, Abbot,” you said.
“And now there isn’t,” Jack replied.
You shook your head. “That does not undo what I saw.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth pulled upward.
You glared at him. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he said.
You looked genuinely wounded. “You suspected.”
Jack nodded once. “I suspected an insect.”
“And you didn’t warn me?” You asked, horrified.
He tipped his head slightly. “Would it have changed anything?”
“Emotionally?” You pressed one hand against your chest. “Yes.”
Jack’s smile grew.
“You’re horrible,” you told him.
Jack tipped his chin toward you. “You handled it.”
You gave him a flat look. “That is not the point.”
He gestured back toward the room. “You removed it.”
You folded your arms. “Also not the point.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you, amusement warm now instead of hidden. “Patient’s fine.”
“I’m not,” you said.
You shifted your weight. A stray piece of hair brushed the back of your neck. You yelped.
Actually yelped. Your whole body jerked sideways as you slapped a hand over the spot. Jack stopped.
You froze with your palm pressed to your neck. For one terrible second, neither of you moved. Jack pressed his lips together.
Your eyes narrowed. “Do not.”
His shoulders moved once.
“Abbot,” you warned.
Jack looked away. That was worse.
Your mouth fell open. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” he said, his voice suspiciously tight.
You pointed at him. “You are.”
Jack shook his head, still fighting the smile. “I’m not.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “You can barely speak.”
Jack looked back at you. His face was mostly composed. His eyes were not. Neither was the corner of his mouth.
You stared at him. “I hate you.”
That did it. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Low and warm and completely unguarded.
Jack dropped his gaze for a second, one hand settling against his hip as another quiet laugh slipped free. You stared at him. Your annoyance remained. Mostly.
But underneath it was the unexpected realization that you had never heard him laugh like that before. You had made him laugh like that. That thought felt strangely good.
Jack finally looked back at you, still smiling. “You done?”
You straightened. “No.”
His smile deepened. “You sure?”
You straightened. “I’m considering filing a formal complaint.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “For laughing?”
You gave him a pointed look. “For emotional damages.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. “Good luck with that.”
You started back toward Central beside him. “I still hate you.”
Jack glanced at you. His smile softened at the edges.
“No, you don’t,” he said.
Your step faltered. Just slightly. Jack kept walking like he had not said anything at all.
You followed him toward the workstation. And irritatingly, impossibly, you were smiling too. The emergency department did what it always did after allowing you approximately thirty seconds to enjoy anything.
It moved on. Central six needed discharge instructions. A patient in North wanted to know for the fourth time when radiology was coming. Someone in South had vomited on the floor despite having an emesis bag directly in his hand, and Shen spent several minutes insisting that this represented a personal betrayal. By the time you made it back to the central workstation, the phantom sensation of tiny legs crawling across your skin had mostly faded.
Mostly. You were finishing a note when a piece of hair shifted against your cheek. Your hand came up automatically.
Across the workstation, Jack looked up. You caught him. His mouth twitched.
You pointed at him without taking your other hand away from your hair. “Not a word.”
Jack lowered his gaze to his computer. “Wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
He clicked into another chart. “Can’t prove that.”
You dropped your hand. “Your face gives you away.”
Jack glanced toward you. “Does it?”
“Constantly,” you told him.
His expression suggested he disagreed. You smiled to yourself and went back to your note. A few minutes later, your name appeared beside a new patient in North.
Thirty-eight-year-old woman. Nausea. Epigastric pain. Dizziness. You opened the chart. Her vitals were reassuring. No fever. No significant medical history beyond hypertension. Triage described intermittent upper abdominal discomfort since that afternoon, nausea, and one episode of vomiting.
Nothing immediately alarming. Nothing particularly specific either. You pushed away from the workstation and headed toward North.
The patient was sitting upright when you entered, one hand pressed below her sternum.
You introduced yourself before moving to the computer mounted beside the bed. “Tell me what’s been going on.”
The woman shifted against the pillow. “I started feeling sick after lunch. I thought maybe I ate something bad.”
You glanced toward her. “What did you have?”
She made a face. “A cheeseburger.”
You nodded once. “A respectable suspect.”
The woman laughed weakly. “That’s what I thought.”
You moved closer to the stretcher. “And the pain started around then?”
She shook her head. “Maybe an hour later. It’s not terrible. Just uncomfortable.”
You asked her to show you where. Her hand settled over the upper middle portion of her abdomen, drifting slightly toward the right. You worked through the rest of the history.
No diarrhea. No fever. No urinary symptoms. No prior gallbladder problems. No significant shortness of breath. But when you asked about the dizziness, she hesitated.
“It’s more like I get kind of lightheaded,” she explained.
You nodded. “When you stand?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “But I felt it sitting down earlier too.”
That made you pause. You kept going. The discomfort had come and gone. She described it as pressure more than sharp pain. She had noticed some sweating earlier, but she had blamed that on feeling nauseated.
You finished the exam and stepped back. Gallbladder was possible. Gastritis was possible.
Reflux was possible. So were several other things. And there was one possibility sitting farther down your differential that you disliked enough not to ignore.
You thanked the patient and stepped back into the hallway. Jack was coming out of another room farther down North. His eyes found you almost immediately.
“There you are,” he said as he approached.
The words caught your attention more than they should have.
You tucked the tablet against your side. “Were you looking for me?”
Jack stopped beside you. “Yes.”
You had expected a denial. Something dry. Instead, he simply said it.
You blinked once. Jack seemed entirely unaware that there had been anything unusual about his answer.
He nodded toward the room behind you. “What do you have?”
You fell into step beside him as you headed toward Central. “Thirty-eight. Epigastric discomfort, nausea, one episode of vomiting, intermittent lightheadedness. Started this afternoon.”
Jack glanced toward you. “Tender?”
“Mild epigastric and right upper quadrant,” you said. “No guarding. No rebound. Murphy’s isn’t convincing.”
He nodded once. “Gallbladder?”
You tipped your hand from side to side. “Maybe.”
Jack looked at you. You knew that look. You had started to know several of them, apparently.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t think it’s gallbladder.”
Jack leaned one hip against the workstation. “I didn’t say that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Your face did.”
His brows lifted. “My face?”
“Very opinionated,” you said.
Jack studied you for a beat. “You’re reading a lot into my face.”
“I’m reading exactly enough,” you replied.
His mouth twitched. “That sounds scientific.”
“It is,” you said.
Jack gestured toward the tablet in your hand. “What else?”
You glanced down at the chart. “Gastritis. Reflux. Pancreatitis, although I don’t love it. Gallbladder disease is still on the list.”
Jack waited. You looked up at him. He kept waiting.
You sighed. “And cardiac.”
“There it is,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. “I was getting there.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” he replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “You were thinking it.”
Jack folded his arms. “You’re doing the face thing again.”
“Because I’m right,” you said.
From the opposite side of the workstation, Shen slowly looked up from his computer. His gaze moved from you to Jack and back again.
“Are you two arguing?” Shen asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
“Yes,” Jack said at the same time.
You turned toward him. “We are not arguing.”
“You’re disagreeing with me,” Jack pointed out.
“Disagreement is not automatically an argument,” you said.
Crus glanced over from the other side of the workstation. “It kind of sounds like an argument.”
You pointed the tablet toward him. “You stay out of this.”
Crus lifted both hands. “See? Now it feels like an argument.”
Shen leaned back in his chair. “I’m still unclear on what the argument is.”
Jack tipped his chin toward you. “She thinks gallbladder.”
“I said gallbladder was one possibility,” you corrected.
“You led with it,” Jack said.
You tapped the tablet with one finger. “Because she has right upper quadrant tenderness.”
Shen looked toward Jack. “And you think?”
Jack gestured toward you. “Ask her.”
You stared at him. He was enjoying this. Again.
You looked back at Shen. “I think we get the EKG before we decide her stomach is the problem.”
Shen nodded. “So you agree.”
“Thank you,” you said, pointing toward him.
Jack shook his head. “That wasn’t the argument.”
Crus leaned one forearm against the counter. “I’m starting to think there was never an argument.”
“There was,” Jack said.
You looked at him. “There was not.”
Shen’s gaze moved between the two of you again before he turned back to his computer. “Whatever this is, I don’t want to be involved anymore.”
Crus returned to his own work. “That makes two of us.”
You looked back at Jack. “EKG.”
“EKG,” Jack agreed.
You smiled. “So we agree.”
“For now,” Jack said.
The EKG tech was already in the room when you returned. Your patient now looked more annoyed than frightened, which you took as a good sign. She lay back against the stretcher while the last leads were adjusted across her chest, one hand resting loosely over her upper abdomen.
You stepped beside the bed. “We’re just checking your heart while we sort out everything else.”
The woman glanced down at the leads. “Because of the dizziness?”
You nodded. “The dizziness, the nausea, the pressure you described. Sometimes cardiac symptoms don’t show up the way people expect.”
Her expression tightened. “You think I’m having a heart attack?”
“I think there are enough possibilities that I don’t want to assume,” you said. “This is one of the quick things we can check.”
She seemed to accept that. A minute later, the machine finished printing. The tech handed you the tracing, and you stepped into the hall.
You were halfway back to Central when you slowed. The EKG was not dramatic. It was not catastrophic. It was also not something you wanted to dismiss. Jack looked up when you stopped beside the workstation.
His gaze dropped to the tracing in your hand. “What?”
You held it out toward him. “Well.”
Jack took the EKG.
You folded your arms. “I officially like gallbladder less.”
His eyes moved over the tracing.
Jack tapped one section with his finger. “Yeah.”
You leaned slightly closer. “Subtle.”
“But there,” he said.
You nodded. “I want troponins.”
Jack handed the tracing back. “Good.”
There it was. One word. Simple. Quiet. Still enough to feel good. You turned toward the computer and started placing the orders.
Jack stayed beside you.
You glanced at him. “You can say it.”
His brows pulled together. “Say what?”
You clicked through the lab orders. “That your extremely opinionated face was right.”
Jack looked at you. “My face doesn’t say anything.”
“You are very committed to that position,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “And yet?”
You submitted the orders. “And yet, apparently, it has excellent diagnostic instincts.”
Jack folded his arms. “Good to know.”
You gave him a warning look. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said.
You pointed toward him. “That. Right there.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “What?”
“The face,” you said.
His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. Almost. You caught it.
Something pleased curled quietly in your chest. There. Almost. You immediately decided not to examine why you had apparently started keeping score.
Instead, you tucked the EKG beneath the tablet. “Enjoy being right while it lasts.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I usually do.”
You stared at him. “That confidence is upsetting.”
His mouth twitched. “You’ll adjust.”
You started toward North. “I hope not.”
The first troponin result came less than an hour later. Elevated. Not dramatically. Enough to matter. You pulled up the result and turned the screen slightly toward Jack.
He stepped closer.
You tapped the result. “There.”
Jack read it. “Call cardiology.”
You nodded. “Already paged.”
His gaze shifted toward you.
You lifted one shoulder. “Your face told me you were going to say that too.”
Jack stared at you. You waited. His mouth twitched. You smiled.
Jack shook his head and turned back toward his computer. “You’re becoming a problem.”
“I thought I already was one,” you said.
“You’re becoming a different problem,” Jack replied.
Your fingers paused against the edge of the workstation. You looked at him. Jack was already back in the chart.
Naturally.
You leaned one hip against the counter. “Should I be concerned?”
Jack glanced sideways at you. “Probably.”
You smiled. “Good.”
For half a second, his eyes stayed on yours. Then Lena appeared at the end of the workstation. The expression on her face wiped the smile from yours.
Lena nodded toward North. “Seventeen-year-old in twelve. Assault at a party.”
You straightened. “Stable?”
“For now,” Lena said. “Awake, talking, vitals are okay.”
You tucked the tablet beneath your arm. “What happened?”
Lena fell into step beside you as you started toward North. “Sounds like she got shoved or hit. Went down and struck her head. Dad brought her in.”
You glanced toward room twelve. “Loss of consciousness?”
“Unclear,” Lena replied. “That’s part of why I’m sending you in.”
You looked at her. “What else?”
Lena’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know.”
That made you slow.
She looked toward the room. “I just don’t like how she looks.”
You nodded once. That was enough. You changed direction toward North Seven. North Seven was quieter than the rest of the department.
The girl on the stretcher looked younger than seventeen. Maybe it was the oversized sweatshirt swallowing her hands. Maybe it was the way she sat slightly folded into herself, one knee drawn up beneath the blanket. A red mark had started to darken along one side of her forehead. Her father stood near the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.
He looked tired. And angry. Not at her, necessarily. At the night. At the hospital. At whoever had put his daughter here.
You sanitized your hands as you stepped inside. “Hi. I’m one of the residents working tonight.”
The girl looked toward you. “Hi.”
Her father straightened. “How long is this going to take?”
You glanced toward him. “I’m going to examine her first, then I can give you a better idea.”
He nodded, though not happily.
You pulled the stool closer to the stretcher and looked back at the girl. “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
She picked at the cuff of her sweatshirt. “I was at a party.”
You waited.
The girl swallowed. “There was this girl there. We got into it.”
Her father let out a breath through his nose. “She got into a fight.”
The girl’s jaw tightened.
You kept your attention on her. “What happened during the fight?”
“She shoved me,” the girl said. “I think.”
You caught the hesitation. “You think?”
The girl looked toward her father.
He answered for her. “One of her friends said she got shoved and fell backward.”
You looked back at the girl. “Do you remember falling?”
Her eyebrows drew together.
“I remember arguing,” she said slowly. “And then I remember being on the ground.”
You leaned forward slightly. “Do you remember hitting your head?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Her father shifted at the end of the stretcher. “She’d been drinking.”
The girl looked irritated. “I had two drinks.”
“You’re seventeen,” her father said.
You held up one hand before the argument could build. “We can come back to that part.”
The girl looked at you.
You gave her a small nod. “Right now I just need to know what you remember.”
She relaxed a fraction. You continued through the history. Headache. Nausea. One episode of vomiting in the car. No seizure. No known medical problems. No blood thinners. The headache had gotten worse since the party.
That mattered.
You stood and moved closer. “I’m going to check your eyes and do a quick neurologic exam.”
The girl nodded. “Okay.”
You checked her pupils. Equal. Reactive. You had her follow your finger. No obvious gaze abnormality. You tested strength. Sensation. Coordination. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that screamed emergency.
And still— Something bothered you. You stepped back. The girl rubbed one hand against her forehead. You watched her.
“Has the headache changed since you got here?” you asked.
She took a second too long to answer.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Her father sighed. “She’s exhausted.”
You looked at the girl. “Do you feel exhausted?”
She blinked at you. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
You waited another second. “How about dizzy?” you asked.
“A little,” she said.
“When you stand?”
She frowned. “Sometimes.”
You glanced at the monitor. Vitals still reassuring. You looked back at her.
“Can you tell me what month it is?” you asked.
The girl gave you a confused look. “August.”
You nodded. “And where are we?”
“PTMC,” she answered.
You smiled slightly. “Good. And who’s president?”
Her father looked annoyed now. “She knows where she is.”
You kept your voice even. “I’m checking a few things.”
The girl answered correctly. You moved on. But when you asked her to repeat three words back to you a few minutes later, she missed one.
Not dramatic. Not definitive. Just enough to add to the growing discomfort in your gut.
Her father shifted again. “She’s been up all day. She drank. She got into a fight. Of course she’s tired.”
You looked at him. “That may be all this is.”
He seemed to latch onto that. “Exactly.”
You held his gaze. “But I don’t want to assume that.”
His mouth tightened.
You turned back toward the girl. “Did anybody tell you if you passed out?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Her father answered instead. “Her friends said she got up.”
You looked at him. “Right away?”
He hesitated. “I think so,” he said.
You looked back at the girl. “Do you remember getting up?”
She stared at you. Then her expression changed. Not fear exactly. Recognition.
“No,” she said quietly.
You nodded once. There it was. You finished the exam without rushing. Then you stepped toward the door.
“I’m going to talk with my attending,” you told them. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The girl nodded.
Her father looked toward you. “Are we talking about a concussion?”
“It’s possible,” you said. “I just want to make sure we aren’t missing anything else.”
He exhaled, but he let you go. You stepped into the hallway and pulled the door mostly closed behind you. Jack was coming down North.
His eyes found you. You didn’t have to call him over. He changed direction immediately.
“What do you have?” Jack asked when he reached you.
You glanced through the narrow window in the door before looking back at him. “Seventeen. Assault at a party. Shoved or hit, fell backward, struck her head.”
Jack nodded once. “Loss of consciousness?”
“Unknown,” you said. “She doesn’t remember the fall or getting up afterward.”
His attention sharpened. “Vomiting?”
“One episode,” you replied. “Worsening headache. Mild dizziness. Neuro exam is mostly reassuring.”
Jack caught the word. “Mostly?”
You folded your arms loosely. “She’s slow.”
He waited. You looked toward the room again.
“Not dramatically,” you continued. “She’s oriented. Strength is equal. Pupils are fine. Coordination is okay. But her responses are delayed, and she missed one on delayed recall.”
Jack watched you for a moment. “Walk me through it.”
You nodded.
“The mechanism is enough to make me cautious,” you said. “Add the memory gap, vomiting, worsening headache, and the fact that I don’t think her mental status is completely baseline.”
Jack looked through the window toward the girl.
You continued, quieter now. “I know the exam isn’t dramatic. I just don’t like it.”
He looked back at you. “Neither do I,” Jack said.
Relief came quickly. Not because you needed him to tell you what to think. Because he had listened.
Jack tipped his chin toward the room. “CT.”
You nodded. “That’s what I want.”
He gestured for you to go back in. “Then order it.”
You pushed the door open again. Her father looked up immediately.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
You moved back toward the stretcher. “I want to get a CT of her head.”
His expression hardened. “Why?”
You kept your voice calm. “Because she has a gap in her memory around the fall, she’s vomited, her headache is getting worse, and she’s a little slower to respond than I’d expect.”
“She’s tired,” her father said.
“She may be,” you replied. “But those symptoms overlap with things I don’t want to miss.”
He glanced toward Jack, who had stepped into the room behind you. You noticed it. So did Jack.
The father looked directly at him. “Do you really think she needs a scan?”
Jack didn’t step forward. He didn’t repeat your explanation. He didn’t take the case away from you. He simply looked at the man.
“She’s right,” Jack said.
The room went quiet. You looked at him. Just for a second. Jack’s attention was already back on the patient.
Her father exhaled and rubbed one hand over his face. “Okay.”
You nodded. “We’ll get it moving.”
The girl looked at you. “Am I going to be okay?”
You stepped closer to the bed. “Right now, you’re awake, you’re talking to me, and your exam is reassuring in a lot of ways.”
Her eyes stayed on yours.
You softened your voice. “The scan is how we make sure we’re not missing something that needs more attention.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
You gave her a small smile. “Okay.”
Then you stepped back toward the computer to place the order. Jack moved toward the door. As he passed you, his hand paused briefly against the edge of the workstation beside your hip. Not touching you. Just close.
“Good,” he said quietly.
You looked up. Jack held your gaze for a moment. Then he stepped back into the hall.
You watched him go for half a second before returning to the order. The patient still needed you. The CT results came twenty-three minutes later.
You were at Central when the notification appeared. You opened the report. Then stopped. Small acute subdural hematoma. No significant midline shift. You read it twice anyway.
Jack came up beside you. “What?”
You turned the screen toward him. His eyes moved across the report.
You exhaled slowly. “There it is.”
Jack nodded once. “Call neurosurgery.”
You reached for the pager clipped at your waist. “Already doing it.”
His gaze shifted toward you.
You looked at him. “What?”
Jack’s mouth moved faintly at one corner. “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Your face disagrees.”
“That again?” he asked.
“You started it,” you said.
Jack glanced back at the CT report. “Good catch.”
The teasing left you. You looked at the screen.
“It wasn’t much,” you said.
Jack’s attention returned to you. “It was enough.”
You were quiet for a second. He didn’t fill it.
You looked back toward North Seven. “I should update them.”
Jack nodded. “Go.”
You pushed away from the workstation and headed down the hall. The girl’s father stood when you entered. His expression changed the second he saw your face.
“What did it show?” he asked.
You moved closer to the bed. “The scan shows a small subdural hematoma, which means there’s a small amount of bleeding between the brain and one of the protective layers around it.”
The girl went still.
Her father stared at you. “Bleeding?”
You nodded. “It’s small, and there’s no significant pressure or shift on the scan right now. That’s reassuring.”
The girl swallowed. “Do I need surgery?”
“Not based on what we’re seeing right now,” you said. “I’ve paged neurosurgery so they can review the imaging and examine you too.”
Her father rubbed one hand over his mouth. “Jesus.”
You gave him a moment.
Then you looked back at the girl. “We’re going to keep a close eye on you, repeat neurologic checks, and make sure nothing changes.”
She nodded slowly. Her father looked at you again. Some of the defensiveness from earlier was gone now.
“I thought she was just tired,” he said.
You kept your voice gentle. “There was a lot going on tonight. The important thing is that you brought her in.”
His shoulders dropped slightly. You turned your attention back to the girl and answered the rest of her questions before stepping out. The door clicked shut behind you.
You stood there for a second. Not long. Just long enough to breathe. Then you started back toward Central. Jack was there when you returned. Of course he was. He looked up as you approached.
“You good?” he asked.
You nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”
Jack watched you. You waited for him to challenge it. He didn’t.
“Okay,” he said.
That was all. No interrogation. No lecture about taking care of yourself. Just okay.
You sat down at the workstation and opened the chart again. A bottle of water appeared beside your keyboard. You looked at it.
Then at Jack. His attention was already on another screen.
“Did you put this here?” you asked.
Jack kept typing. “Maybe.”
You picked up the bottle. “Are you monitoring my hydration now?”
“Someone has to,” he said.
You stared at him. “That is deeply invasive.”
Jack glanced toward the unopened bottle. “You haven’t had anything since you got here.”
“You don’t know that,” you said.
“I do,” he replied.
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s creepy.”
“That’s observable,” Jack said.
You held the bottle up. “Do you do this to everyone?”
Jack finally looked at you. “Only the ones who get useless when they’re dehydrated.”
Your mouth fell open. “Useless?”
His eyes dropped deliberately to the bottle. Then back to you.
“Prove me wrong,” he said.
You unscrewed the cap while glaring at him. “I liked you better when you were laughing at me.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No, you didn’t.”
You took a drink. He turned back toward the computer. And somehow, annoyingly, that made you feel a little better.
By the time you made it back to Central, the department had settled into one of those strange stretches of relative quiet that never lasted long enough to trust. Shen, Crus, and Ellis were gathered around the far end of the workstation. That alone was suspicious.
The fact that all three of them stopped talking when you approached made it worse.
You slowed beside your computer. “Why do I feel like I just interrupted something illegal?”
Ellis glanced at you, then made the decision for all of them. “I think she’s ready.”
You stared at her. “That sounds ominous.”
Shen pushed his chair back and reached beneath a stack of printed downtime forms beside the workstation. “You’ve been on nights long enough.”
Crus nodded solemnly. “You’ve survived us.”
Ellis folded her arms. “More importantly, you’ve survived him.”
You followed her gaze across Central. Jack was halfway down the hall, speaking with Mateo outside one of the rooms.
You looked back at them. “I’m afraid to ask.”
Shen placed a sheet of paper facedown on the counter in front of you. “Welcome to the inner circle.”
You looked at the paper. Then at Shen.
“You have an inner circle?” you asked.
Crus shrugged. “Apparently.”
Shen pointed at him. “Don’t cheapen this.”
You reached for the paper. “What exactly am I being initiated into?”
Shen grinned. “Abbot Bingo.”
You turned the page over. A five-by-five grid stared back at you. For several seconds, you said nothing.
Then you looked up. “You made bingo cards about Abbot?”
Ellis corrected you from across the workstation. “We all made our own.”
Crus pulled his from his scrub pocket. “Same basic premise. Different squares.”
You looked back down at Shen’s card.
Says “Absolutely not.”
Asks “What did you do?”
Tells someone to go home.
Says ‘Shen’ like a threat.
The center square read:
FREE SPACE: Visibly regrets choosing medicine.
A laugh escaped you.
Shen tapped the paper. “First person to get five in a row wins.”
You looked at him. “What do they win?”
“The other three each owe the winner one coffee or snack,” Ellis explained.
Your interest sharpened immediately. “Each?”
Crus nodded. “Three total.”
You looked between them. “Redeemable whenever?”
Shen pointed toward you. “See? This is why we knew she was ready.”
Ellis smiled. “Any shift. No expiration.”
You pulled an empty sheet of paper toward yourself. “Give me a pen.”
Crus handed one over. “Welcome aboard.”
Something warm caught quietly beneath your ribs. It was stupid. Completely stupid. A homemade bingo game devoted to tormenting an attending physician should not have meant anything. But Shen had said inner circle.
And apparently you were in it.
You uncapped the pen. “What are the rules?”
Shen leaned closer. “Has to happen naturally. You cannot directly provoke the square.”
Crus pointed toward him. “That rule exists because of Shen.”
You looked at Shen. “What did you do?”
Shen’s expression turned defensive. “I needed him to say ‘absolutely not.’”
Ellis shook her head. “So he asked Abbot if he could intubate someone from across the room.”
Your mouth fell open. “You did not.”
Shen lifted one shoulder. “It worked.”
Crus gave him a flat look. “And then we instituted the rule.”
You laughed and started filling in your card. A minute later, Shen leaned over your shoulder. His brow furrowed. Then he leaned closer.
“Why are yours so specific?” Shen asked.
You glanced at him. “They’re not.”
Shen pointed to the upper-left square. “Abbot raises his left eyebrow judgmentally.”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Ellis leaned over from the other side. “Left eyebrow specifically?”
“The left one is judgment,” you explained. “Both eyebrows are disbelief.”
Silence settled around you. You looked up. All three of them were staring at you.
“What?” you asked.
Crus glanced toward Shen. “She might be better at this than we are.”
Shen looked personally threatened. “She’s been here five minutes.”
“I pay attention,” you said.
Ellis pointed farther down the card. “Abbot crosses his arms menacingly.”
You nodded. “That happens constantly.”
Crus pointed farther down your card. “Abbot winks.”
Shen looked at you. “Abbot winks?”
You nodded. “I’ve seen him do it.”
Shen’s expression turned skeptical. “When?”
You glanced toward Jack’s side of the department. “That pregnant patient who came in with the headache and blurred vision. The one who seized.”
Ellis looked up. “The HELLP case?”
You nodded. “Robby asked if Abbot had it.”
Crus frowned. “And?”
You smiled at the memory. “Abbot said, ‘Yeah, I’m good. I got it with my eyes closed.’”
Shen waited.
You lifted one finger. “Then he went, ‘But I won’t. Maybe one eye.’”
You winked. Ellis started laughing.
Crus nodded slowly. “Okay. Documented wink.”
Shen pointed at your card. “Fine. That one stays.”
A dry voice came from behind the four of you. “What are you doing?”
Everyone froze. You turned first. Jack stood a few feet away.
His gaze moved across the group crowded around the workstation. Then down to the papers. Then back up. His left eyebrow rose.
Your eyes widened. “Oh, yes.”
You immediately marked the square.
Jack’s attention snapped to you. “What?”
You held up the card. “Left eyebrow. Judgmentally.”
Crus burst out laughing.
Shen pointed accusingly at your paper. “She already got one.”
Jack looked at him. “Got one what?”
Ellis lifted her card. “Abbot Bingo.”
Jack stared at her. His expression went completely blank. You bit the inside of your cheek.
Jack looked toward Shen. “Abbot Bingo.”
Shen nodded once. “Correct.”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest. You gasped again. His eyes went directly to you.
You marked another square. “Crosses arms menacingly.”
Jack looked down at his arms. Then back at you.
“This is menacing?” he asked.
You considered him carefully. “A little.”
Crus leaned toward your card. “Does ‘a little’ qualify?”
You pulled the card away from him. “It absolutely qualifies.”
Jack looked around at the four of you. “Explain.”
Shen straightened in his chair. “We each have a card containing things you regularly say or do during a shift.”
Ellis held hers up. “First person to five in a row wins.”
Crus gestured toward the cards. “The losers each owe the winner a coffee or snack.”
Jack looked from Ellis to Crus. “You’ve been doing this during work?”
Shen shook his head. “Only during periods of appropriate clinical downtime.”
Jack stared at him.
Shen shifted slightly. “Mostly.”
Jack extended one hand toward you. “Let me see that.”
You hesitated.
His fingers curled once. “Card.”
You handed it over. “Don’t judge my methodology.”
Jack looked down at the grid. His eyes moved slowly across your squares.
Raises left eyebrow judgmentally.
Winks.
Crosses arms menacingly.
Says “Doctor” in that tone.
Points toward a room instead of telling someone to go.
One-word praise: “Good.”
Looks over his shoulder instead of turning around.
Tiny almost-smile he immediately gets rid of.
Jack stopped. Then he looked at you. You waited. His gaze dropped to the card again.
“This is disturbingly specific,” he said.
You held out your hand. “It’s accurate.”
Jack gave the card back. “That doesn’t help.”
You smiled as you took it. “I disagree.”
His mouth twitched. Your gaze dropped immediately to the corresponding square. Jack saw you look. His mouth flattened. Too late.
You marked it.
“That counts,” you said.
Jack pointed toward your card. “No.”
Shen made a strangled noise. Crus immediately checked his own card. Ellis grabbed her pen.
Jack realized his mistake.
Shen slapped the counter. “Anybody have ‘No’?”
Crus marked a square. “Got it.”
Jack closed his eyes for one long second.
Ellis laughed. “Does that count as visibly regretting choosing medicine?”
“It should,” Shen said.
Jack opened his eyes. “Nothing I do while discussing this game counts toward the game.”
You shook your head. “You can’t add rules after the game has started.”
Jack looked at you. “Apparently I can.”
“You’re not playing,” you pointed out.
His stare sharpened. You smiled sweetly.
Jack looked around the workstation at all four of you. “I hate all of you.”
Your smile widened.
You held his gaze. “No, you don’t.”
For half a second, Jack said nothing. Then his left eyebrow rose. You looked down at your card.
Shen immediately grabbed your wrist. “Absolutely not. You already used that one.”
You started laughing. “He did it again.”
Crus sided with Shen. “One occurrence per square.”
Ellis nodded. “I agree.”
You pulled your hand free. “This game is corrupt.”
Jack shook his head and started away from the workstation. Shen looked at the retreating figure, then down at his own card. His expression turned calculating.
Jack made it four steps before stopping. He turned just enough to look over his shoulder at the group. Your eyes dropped instantly to your card.
You marked another square. Jack saw you do it. His eyes narrowed.
You lifted the paper toward him. “That one was on here too.”
Jack stared at you for a long second. Then he walked away.
Shen leaned over to inspect your card. “You’re going to be a problem.”
You looked down at the growing collection of marks and smiled. Apparently, you already were. By four-thirty, Abbot Bingo had disappeared beneath actual work.
Your card was still tucked under the edge of the keyboard, one square short of a win. You had stopped thinking about it somewhere around the second trauma. Mostly because you no longer had enough functioning brain cells to think about anything that was not directly in front of you.
You were standing at Central with a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago when Jack came out of Trauma Two. He looked about as tired as you felt. His gaze found yours across the workstation.
You lifted your cup slightly. “How bad?”
Jack glanced toward the tracking board. “You really want an answer?”
You looked at the wall of yellow and red. “No.”
“Smart,” he said.
You took a miserable sip of cold coffee.
Jack watched you swallow. “That’s disgusting.”
You looked down at the cup. “It’s caffeine.”
“It was caffeine,” he corrected.
You gave him a tired look. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
His mouth pulled into a small smile.
Jack lifted his own cup and tapped it lightly against yours. “Hang in there.”
You smiled. “You too.”
Someone called for him from Trauma One.
Jack started backing away. “Duty calls.”
You lifted your cup toward him. “Try not to have too much fun.”
His eyes met yours. Then he winked. Quick. Easy. That same cocky little one-eyed wink you had seen him throw at the patient during the HELLP case.
Except this one was for you. You stared after him for half a second. Beside you, Shen sucked in a sharp breath.
Your head snapped toward him.
Shen pointed at you. “The wink.”
Oh. You dropped your coffee onto the counter and grabbed for the card beneath the keyboard.
Crus looked up. “Did he just do it?”
Ellis was already laughing. “He did.”
You found the last empty square and slashed an X through it.
Then you held up the card. “Bingo.”
Shen groaned. “Unbelievable.”
Crus pointed toward Trauma One. “He handed you the win.”
You folded the card. “I didn’t ask him to.”
Ellis gave you a knowing look. “Nobody said you did.”
You tucked the card into your scrub pocket. “Three free snacks.”
Shen stared at you. “You are remarkably focused on the wrong thing.”
You picked your coffee back up. “I won. That is the thing.”
Crus shook his head. “She’s going to be unbearable.”
You smiled over the rim of your cup. “You invited me.”
By the time the board finally started thinning, the sky outside the narrow windows near the ambulance entrance had begun to lighten. Not sunrise yet. Just the first gray hint that morning was coming.
You finished your last note, signed it, and leaned back in your chair. For the first time in hours, nothing immediately needed you. The realization lasted approximately five seconds before your stomach growled.
Loudly. You looked down. Across the workstation, Shen looked up.
His eyebrows rose. “Was that you?”
You pressed one hand against your stomach. “Mind your business.”
Crus glanced over from his computer. “That sounded medically significant.”
You gave him a tired look. “I haven’t eaten an actual meal since yesterday.”
Ellis zipped her bag closed. “That explains a lot.”
You pointed at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Ellis slung the bag over her shoulder. “I am. Eat something.”
Shen stood and stretched. “I would offer to buy you something, but you already have a legally binding snack voucher from me.”
You smiled. “I’m saving that.”
His expression immediately turned wary. “For what?”
You pushed back from the workstation. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Crus shook his head. “Creating the no-expiration rule was a mistake.”
“You invited me,” you reminded him.
Ellis laughed as she started toward the hall. “And now we live with the consequences.”
The three of them began filtering out one by one, still arguing about whether your Abbot Bingo win had been assisted. You let them go ahead. Your bag had somehow migrated beneath a chair during the shift, and you crouched to retrieve it.
When you straightened, Jack was still at Central. Of course he was. He was finishing something at the computer, shoulders slightly rounded with exhaustion now that the adrenaline of the shift had worn off.
You hooked the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your stomach growled again. Loud enough that Jack glanced over from the computer.
You closed your eyes for a second. “Don’t.”
His brows lifted. “Don’t what?”
You sighed. “You heard that.”
“I think the entire department heard that,” Jack said.
You pressed a hand over your stomach. “Traitor.”
Jack looked back at the computer. “Go eat.”
You leaned one hip against the workstation. “Any suggestions?”
He paused.
Then Jack glanced toward you. “There’s a diner two blocks east.”
You waited. Jack went back to typing.
You stared at him. “That’s all I get?”
His fingers stopped. “What else do you want?”
“A name would be helpful,” you said.
Jack glanced toward you. “The Beacon. Two blocks east.”
You nodded slowly. “Is it good?”
His expression turned thoughtful. “It’s open.”
You laughed. “Glowing review.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You adjusted your bag. “What do you get?”
He looked at you. You waited.
Jack seemed mildly suspicious of the question. “Why?”
“Because you’re recommending it,” you said. “I need to know whether your judgment can be trusted outside this building.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You trusted it all night.”
“Medically,” you corrected. “Breakfast is different.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Pancakes.”
You stared at him.
His brows drew together. “What?”
“You eat pancakes?” you asked.
Jack gave you a look. “I do. Why is that surprising?”
You smiled. “I don’t know. They just don’t feel very Abbot.”
His mouth twitched. “You have strong opinions about me.”
You adjusted the strap of your bag. “I have strong opinions about most things.”
Jack nodded. “I noticed.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Jack shook his head. “Their pancakes are decent.”
“Decent,” you repeated.
Jack looked at you. “That’s what I said.”
You started backing toward the hallway. “High praise from you.”
Jack pointed toward the exit. “Go.”
You smiled. “There it is.”
His expression flattened. “What?”
You reached into your pocket and pulled out the folded bingo card. Jack stared at it.
You grinned. “Tells someone to go home.”
“That game is over,” he said.
You tucked the card away again. “Still counts in my heart.”
Jack shook his head. “Goodnight.”
You turned toward the doors. “Goodnight, Abbot.”
You made it several steps before his voice stopped you. “Try the pancakes.”
You looked back. Jack had already turned toward the computer again. You smiled.
“I will,” you said.
Then you headed for the elevators. Working with Abbot had gotten easy. That was all.
You liked his judgment. You liked arguing with his face. You liked making him laugh.
And apparently, somewhere along the way, you had learned that he ate pancakes after bad shifts. None of that meant anything. Probably.
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SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Completed!
Alternatively, you can read on Wattpad or Ao3!
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]
⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]
PART FIVE 𖤓★ — When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]
PART SIX 𖤓★ — Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. [8.2k]
PART SEVEN 𖤓★ — When the double date from Hell roles around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang. [12.2k]
PART EIGHT 𖤓★ — Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest. [7.1k]
PART NINE 𖤓♡ — When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart. [10.1k]
PART TEN (FINALE) 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot was a creature of habit. Structure and routine were infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough. But that was before he met you and Phoebe. Before he fell hopelessly and irrevocably in love with the chaotic girls in apartment seventeen. [13.4k]
─── ⋆ BONUS CONTENT ⋆
TBA
─── ⋆ MISC ⋆
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
I just want to say a MASSIVE thank you for all of the love and support everyone has given this series 🥹 I am so incredibly thankful for the reception it’s received and for all the wonderful readers who gave it a chance at chapter one and stayed until the finale.
I’m feeling really sad that it’s over today, I keep opening my docs thinking I need to work on another chapter and then I’m like— oh, nvm HAHAHA
Genuinely so blown away by you all, thank you for loving my baby as much as I do 🥹🩷
hii i love all your fics so much <3 can you write something where reader is straddling jack abbot’s hips and they’re dry humping/grinding in the backseat of whoever’s car and making out then next thing you know they hear a knock on the window and to both their surprises it’s robby catching the two !?
a little shorter than normal, but im writing this on my lunch break at work. enjoy!
18+
Your plain black scrubs hid the absolute mess between your legs from Jack’s eyes, but they could do nothing to stop him from feeling just how wet you were. It was partly his fault, though.
He’d been the one to yank you into his car, tugging you down into his lap as he slid onto the bench seat of his truck. He’d been the one to grab you by the hips and drag your core over the half hard erection he’d been sporting for the past 30 minutes. He’d also been the one to slide his tongue through your lips.
And so you found yourself in your boss’s truck, grinding hard against his cock while Jack kissed you like he was starving for it.
Jack’s hands were sliding up your top, spreading wide over your ribcage on their way up to cradle your breasts through your bra. He tugged the cups down, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and causing your rhythm to falter. You squeaked into his mouth, the sound swallowed by Jack’s lips still furiously working against yours.
Every long, firm drag of your cunt over his cock ground your clit against the rough lace of your underwear. It was driving you closer to the edge frighteningly fast. You were so close to cracking open in his lap, right there in the parking garage at work.
Until 3 firm knocks on the window had you and Jack jumping apart. Your heart stopped, panic chasing away your release in an instant, until you laid eyes on the person who’d caught you red handed.
There was Robby, one eyebrow raised and an unimpressed look on his face. Jack chuckled, leaning over to roll the window down. Robby settled his forearms on the edge of the open window, a smile tugging at his lips at the bright red flush on your face and Jack’s hands still holding your breasts.
summary: after a confusing argument, jack proposes that slapping him would help you let off some steam and maybe make you less upset with him
jack abbot x resident!reader
warnings: 18+ smut with a little bit of plot, piv, fwb!jack abbot x reader, jealous!jack, avoidant!jack, slapping (dw jack likes it), riding, unprotected sex, creampie w/o warning [wc: 2k]
a/n: ah yes i hope i did this justice LMAO,,, who doesnt love a man who likes to get slapped while you ride him crazy style
Jack should be grateful for how lucky he is. How fortunate that even if you're absolutely fucking mad at him, you're still here, on top of him on his bed, riding his cock with fervor.
Half an hour earlier, you wouldn't even dare to look at him in the eye or to his direction. you can't even stand being in the same room as him when you were still in the hospital.
And yet, here you are.
He doesn't know what kind of pathetic impulse possessed him to act the way he did. He was, to be blunt, quite passive aggressive towards you the entire shift. Unbeknownst to you, it was simply because you spent a little too long chatting with a paramedic named Stan, after bringing a patient in.
Sure, you were being a little too nice and a little too friendly. But you figured Jack wouldn't mind, why would he when he's the one insisting for the past few months that whatever this was between you two was just casual?
Yet on Jack’s end, the ugly feeling that he refuses to name fueled his every irrational thought, so he did what he did best: bury it and convince himself he didn't care.
Jack gave you the cold shoulder for the rest of the shift. Only spoke to you when necessary, yet his voice carried an edge, a little bit of annoyance, that hadn't been there at the start of the shift and before it.
You tried to ask what's up with him, yet he never really gave you the chance to even have a proper conversation in the hospital.
Neither of you said anything on the drive home, his home to be exact. As much as you wanted to go to your apartment instead of his — unfortunately, your apartment building was still dealing with the water main issue, so his place was the default for now. It has been for the past few weeks.
The second the door was shut behind you both, an argument inevitably started.
One thing led to another, both of you are too prideful and too upset to actually talk it out — with Jack not admitting what he really feels, and you being completely confused what has gotten into him. Eventually, you find yourselves hastily stripping each other's clothes, and before your rational minds can even think past your lust, you're now on top of him.
You keep your reactions minimal out of pure spite. Jack's cock has always made you feel incredible, daresay he probably has the best girthy cock you've ever had. But, you don't want to give this guy anything to be smug about.
But that doesn't really stop him.
"Aww, you feel good, sweetheart?" Jack asks with that smug smile of his, keeping his voice steady as he musters everything in him not to moan pathetically like he always would when you're on top — two can play this game.
You just glare at him, not giving in to give him the satisfaction of getting a response from you, breathing heavily to keep any whimpers contained.
"You still pissed at me?" Jack asks. He would have you fooled that he's actually concerned from his words if it weren't for the arrogance laced with it.
He grins when you didn't answer, "You look so hot when you're mad."
Again, no sound came from you. Just an audible exhale when his tip hits the spot firmly, your cunt clenches around him instinctively.
"Shit—, I love it when you're mean—"
"Shut your mouth, Abbot," you sneer.
Fucking finally.
You never call him by his surname outside of work. But he'll take what he can get out from you.
"Ouch, now we're back to last-name basis? You must be really upset," he coos.
You grind down harder on Jack's cock, taking him deeper with every roll of your hips. Your pussy clenches around his thick shaft, but you swallow every sound that tries to escape. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room as you ride him, your thighs flexing with each movement.
Jack's hands grip your waist, fingers digging into your skin. "Fuck, you're tight," he groans, his smug grin never wavering. "Even when you're pissed at me, your cunt still grips me like it doesn't want to let go."
You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest. Your nails dig into his skin, leaving red marks. The angle lets his cock hit deeper, rubbing against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your breathing turns ragged, but you keep your lips pressed tight.
Jack pants, keeping his curses under his breath but you hear him regardless. His hips bucking up to meet your thrusts, his calloused palms pressing firmer on your waist.
You slam down on him, taking him to the hilt. Your clit grinds against his pelvis with each movement, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.
He's so hypnotized by the sight of your wet pussy oozing with so much slick that everytime you lift yourself before slamming down, there's glistening string of slick that briefly connects his pelvis to your cunt.
Jack takes his eyes away from the filthy scene to look up at you. Your breasts bounce with the force of your movements, nipples hard and aching. His hand reaches out to cup your tit, squeezing the plump flesh before pinching your nipple playfully in hopes of you making a sound — but you stubbornly bite your bottom lip.
Your fucked out face does a bad job at hiding how upset you still are, not that you're trying to hide it in the first place.
He knows that look. He's seen those furrowed brows and hard eyes multiple times before you got into this arrangement. The same expression that paints your face when a patient refuses to listen and insists that you don't know what the hell you're doing. The same expression you wear when someone pushes you past your limits.
You never looked at him like this, not until now — he can't even blame you. He was a jerk to you, undeservedly so. Even now, you still have no fucking idea why he's acting up.
His fingers close around your wrist before you can pull away. He turns his head just enough to press your palm flat against his cheek, holding it there like an offering.
"I know you want to," he says temptingly.
"What?" Your voice is already edged.
"Slap me. I can see it in your eyes."
"Abbot, I'm not that fucking mad—"
"Using that damn name again." He almost smiles, but it's tight, and completely self-aware that you're not. You would never hurt Jack, and that's what he despises about this whole thing — that's exactly what makes him want to push you further.
A slap wouldn't hurt him, it wouldn't even faze him one bit. He doesn't want it just to be hurt, he wants it because he deserves your anger. His irrational jealousy and what came after? He's completely ashamed of it.
If letting you, pushing you, to take some of that anger out on him could make you feel even a little bit better, he'd take it. A slap wouldn't feel as heavy as the weight sitting like stone in his chest.
"Come on, baby. I know you want to."
You're still straddling him, his cock buried deep inside you, your hips moving in that hard and sloppy rhythm . Every time you sink down, your thighs tense, your nails dig into his chest. He watches your face, reads the inner turmoil there, and keeps pushing.
"Aww, didn't know you liked me that much," he murmurs. "Look at you—completely pissed, but you're riding me like you're not."
He groans under you, hips twitching up to meet each slam of your body. God, how is he supposed to keep a smug face when you're fucking him stupid? But the stubborn little piece of shit that he is, perseveres.
Can't you just give in to what he's offering?
"God, who knew you'd be this aggressive when you're mad?" His voice is low, taunting, but there's something almost grateful underneath it.
He chooses his next words carefully, gambling that the next thing he's gonna spew out is what ticks you off.
"Y’know, sweetheart. It seems to me like… I can just do whatever I want and you'd still come back just to fuck—"
Smack
Your palm cracks across his face, sharp and sudden. The blatant disrespect finally breaking the restraints.
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes half-lidded. "'S that enough to get everything out of your system—"
Smack
The second slap lands harder, the sound ringing in the room. His head jerks with the impact, a red mark blooming across his cheek.
"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough, cock twitching inside you like the sting only made him harder.
Finally, a grin breaks through on your face. You seem pleased that such an act of violence turns this doctor on so much. You wonder if you have awakened some closeted filthy thing in him?
You bring your hips into halt to not overexert your legs. You start to grind on his lap, sliding your clit on his pelvis, making his cock throb inside you.
"Don't tell me you're gonna cum just from that?" you tease but you're no better. Your thighs tremble as you fight against the building pressure. Every thrust sends heat pooling low in your belly. Your clit throbs with each grind against him.
Jack just smiles below you, his hands sliding to the cheeks of your ass, spreading them open as to let more of your slick drip down on his length to his pelvis.
"I'm just glad my girl feels better now," he says with a lazy smile.
My girl? God that sounds so fucking cheesy and possessive. He's been doing a good job avoiding that endearment for months, but he lets this one slip. For once, he should be true to himself.
Your hips continue to rut against his, as you feel yourself getting closer and closer and so fucking closer.
Jack's orgasm hit him like a whiplash, unable to warn you how close he is that all he can muster to say is, "I, shit—fuck fuck fuck."
Soon enough, Jack's cock pulses inside you without any warning, and you feel the first spurt of his cum filling you. He groans, his hips jerking as he empties himself deep in your cunt.
The sensation pushes you closer, your walls clenching around him as he paints your insides.
You keep riding him through it, rubbing your sensitive bud on his rough pelvis, your pussy milking every drop from his cock. Your own orgasm builds until it breaks. The moans, curses, and whines come out all intertwined and jumbled after holding them back for so long.
"Jesus fuck," you catch your breath, letting yourself fall on Jack's broad chest, his cock still inside you. He holds you tight right there and then, immediately wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you close and savors your warmth as his breathing slowly settles.
You rest your cheek against his, while his hand moves absentmindedly along your back. For a moment, no one says a word.
But you never let your curiosity wind down.
"What's going on with you?" you lift your head, studying his face to grasp anything that can answer your own question.
"Nothing," he smiles, brushing a stray piece away from your beautiful face.
You keep your eyes on him and he chuckles. You were always so headstrong with finding out why things happen for a reason — which what makes you so good at your job.
He leans forward to kiss your cheek, "I'm just tired."
You're not convinced.But you're too tired to argue, so you choose not to push even further — which Jack is grateful for.
Maybe he'll tell you what he truly feels for you, but for now, he'd rather enjoy the calm before the inevitable storm that would come crashing down once he finally has the guts to be honest.
a/n: eek! i hope yall like this 😔 why is smut so nerve-wracking to write?????
engagement and feedback are much much appreciated! help ur jack abbot lover!writer out by letting me know whatcha think!
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The heavy front door clicked shut, the sound muffled by the deadbolt sliding home. Jack dropped his leather medical bag onto the entryway floor with a dull thud, letting out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in his chest for the last fourteen hours. The ED had been an absolute war zone, a relentless cycle of traumas and codes that had left him running on pure adrenaline and cold coffee.
All he wanted the only thing that had kept him upright through the final stretch of the shift was the quiet, steady anchor of home. Specifically, of Y/N.
He walked down the dim hallway, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his work shirt and loosening his tie. When he pushed open the living room door, the tension in his shoulders instantly melted, replaced by a sharp, sudden heat that flared low in his stomach.
Y/N was sprawled out across the sectional sofa. She had commandeered one of his old, worn-out cotton t-shirts the fabric faded and impossibly soft, hanging loose over her shoulders and falling just mid-thigh. Underneath it, she was gloriously, completely braless, the soft weight of her shifting with every slow breath she took. Her legs were bent lazily at the knee, kicked up over the arm of the couch, revealing a flash of bright, silky pink panties that contrasted sharply against the dark cushions.
She was entirely absorbed in a paperback, one hand idly tracing the edge of a page.
Jack stopped dead in his tracks, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. A slow, predatory smile curved the corners of his mouth as his eyes devoured the view. He was bone-tired, but looking at her like this soft, unguarded, and wearing his clothes made his blood run hot.
"Don't get up, honey," Jack murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly purr that cut through the quiet room. "Continue to read."
Y/N jumped slightly, looking up from her book with a start. Before she could lower her legs or shift the hem of the oversized shirt, Jack was already moving. He crossed the room in three long, silent strides, shedding his jacket and dropping his keys on the coffee table along the way.
He didn't give her a chance to speak. Instead, he knelt down between her knees on the edge of the cushions, hooking his large, calloused hands behind her calves and slowly spreading them apart.
Y/N's breath hitched, her fingers tightening on the spine of her book. "Jack..."
"Keep reading, sweetheart," he commanded softly, his dark eyes burning into hers with an intensity that made her pulse spike. He leaned in, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to the bare skin of her inner thigh, right where the soft cotton of the t-shirt ended. "I want to hear your voice."
With agonizing slowness, Jack hooked his fingers into the delicate elastic waistband of her pink panties. He nudged the silk aside with the back of his knuckles, his thumb brushing over her sensitive folds, finding her already wet and trembling for him. Y/N gasped, her hips twitching upward instinctively, but Jack anchored her down with a firm, heavy grip on her hip.
"Ah," he murmured against her skin, his breath hot and damp against her core, making her shiver violently. "Book, Y/N. Don't stop reading."
With a shaky breath, Y/N forced her eyes back down to the printed page, her vision blurring as Jack’s tongue flicked out, tracing her from root to tip in one long, devastating stroke.
"Chapter..." she started, her voice embarrassingly breathy and cracking around the edges. She swallowed hard, trying to steady the tremor in her chest. "Chapter four. The rain... the rain continued to fall against the glass, blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and—oh—"
Jack had sucked her neatly into his mouth, his teeth gently grazing her sensitive bundle of nerves while his tongue swirled in a relentless, hypnotic rhythm. The vibration of his low groan against her sent an electric shock straight up her spine. The book shook violently in her hands.
"Keep going, honey," he murmured against her, pulling back just an inch so she could catch her breath, though his lips remained hovering over her slick heat. "If you stop reading, I stop. Those are the rules."
"You're a—unh—you're a bastard," she panted, her chest heaving under the loose cotton of his shirt.
Jack chuckled, a low, rumbling sound of pure satisfaction. "Maybe. But if you're a good girl and finish the page without losing your place, you'll be rewarded. Read."
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut for a second, fighting the white-hot haze clouding her brain, and forced her gaze back to the words. The letters swam in front of her eyes, completely devoid of meaning, but she forced the sentences past her lips.
"He... he reached for her, pulling her close—God, Jack—pulling her close against his chest, refusing to let go..."
Jack didn't give her a second to finish the sentence. He devoured the rest of her words, his tongue driving into her with a sudden, merciless hunger that sent her hips bucking off the couch. The steady, wet friction of his mouth combined with the heavy weight of his hand sliding up her thigh, pressing her open to him, stripped away every coherent thought in her head.
The book slipped from her fingers, tumbling silently onto the rug.
"You stopped," Jack whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at her, his lips dark and glistening, his dark eyes fierce with desire. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face as he watched her chest heave, her hands clutching blindly at the leather armrests of the sofa. "Rule was, you stop, I stop."
"Jack, please," Y/N whimpered, her back arching off the cushions as her inner thighs spasmed. "Please."
"Ah-ah. What did I say about being a good girl?" He leaned back in, his voice dropping an octave, rich with absolute authority. "You want your reward, sweetheart? Earn it."
Before she could beg again, Jack buried his face back between her legs, driving two thick fingers deep inside her while his tongue lashed mercilessly against her sweet spot. The combination pushed her over the edge with terrifying speed; a choked cry tore from her throat as her vision went white, her entire body locking up around his hand as wave after shattering wave of heat ripped through her.
Jack caught every broken gasp of her name against his mouth, drinking her in until the tremors finally subsided, leaving her utterly limp, sweaty, and boneless against the cushions.
Slowly, he shifted upward, crawling over her body until he was caging her in, pressing his warm chest against hers. He braced his weight on his forearms, looking down at her flushed face, his hair messy from the day, a triumphant, impossibly tender smile curving his lips.
"Good girl," he whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips tasting herself on him.
