forever is the sweetest con

“...and the results have come out wrong again and the whole premise of this experiment is flawed and the entire earth is going to freeze to death and I am going to deserve my fate of dying a virgin for being an abject failure!”

All things considered up until this point you were doing well aboard Stratt’s Vat. You had risen to the challenge magnificently when plucked straight out of your university lab, working on your second post-grad thesis, and placed into the heart of the world’s best scientific minds trying to build something which would save the world. After all, this was why you pushed yourself to be the youngest doctorate in your university’s history. To make an impact, to do something that mattered.

But having a knack for navigating the rigour of academia did not necessarily mean you had the instinct to keep pushing until you got something correct. If your experiments failed like this before you would have written a fascinating paper about what you learned from the dying astrophage and resigned the rest to the next study, the next funding round, and have six months to consider how to redo it. That wasn’t an option here. You had to test how to keep the little buggers alive in the fuel tanks, and that was proving difficult. They simply did not like something about the way the tanks were being put together and it was driving you mad not being able to work out why for the last week. The current rate of dying off (by about ten percent) would doom the mission completely, and then no one would be saved.

So your little outburst was not that extreme, you would like to think. Not really.

And yet as soon as you finished speaking you buried your head in your hands. Doctor Ryland Grace was the world’s leading expert in astrophage biology and had spent the last day trying to help you understand why these results were failing. He had been buzzing about the various labs since you arrived, leading talks and meetings and helping organise all astrophage-based research for Stratt. The man was kind, dorky, fiercely intelligent, and actually kind of hot. It was unfair he got to be all those things at once, quite frankly.

Still, he certainly didn’t deserve your loud breakdown. When you prized your hands away from your face and dared to look at him, the man was staring at you with a puzzled look, hair sticking up where he had been running his hands through it staring at the computer screen.

“You’re a virgin?” he muttered, face confused, then his eyes widened and he immediately scrambled to cover himself. “Wait. I’m sorry, that’s entirely inappropriate. You do not need to answer that. I didn’t mean to cross any lines or make you uncomfortable at all I was just... surprised.”

His obvious stammering embarrassment helped quell your own. It was kind of cute?

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Surprised?”

He turned quite red and looked down at the microscope in front of him, adjusting the wheel with one hand when he said, “Well, you’re a very attractive woman. I’m just surprised no one has tried to, uh, make any advances.”

You laughed but there was a bitterness to it. “Most of the boys at university with me were scared shitless of a girl outperforming them with ease. And for the few who did try, I turned them down. You don’t get to being the youngest doctorate in Edinburgh's history by getting distracted by romance.”

He looked at you curiously, head tilting. “So you didn’t date at all at college, university?”

Now the cat was out of the bag, you did not feel too humbled to admit the rest. Ryland Grace was not being mean or judgemental or teasing you about anything, he seemed curious in a genuine way.

“I've never even been on a proper date.” You admitted. “And now my devotion to academia had earned me a ticket to a Chinese aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean where I’m about to doom humanity by not being able to keep these bloody microbes alive.”

Okay, so maybe that was laying it on a little thick. You gave him a shrug and a smile to make it clear you knew you were being melodramatic.

Ryland raised an eyebrow but you could see the amusement in his face. He stepped closer to you and put his hands on his hips. “Do you perhaps need a hug?”

You laughed. “Probably.”

To your surprise he stepped round the desk towards you, and when he held out his arms for a hug you only hesitated for a moment before stepping in. It was only brief, a single squeeze before being released, but that moment of warm grounding as his arms wrapped around you was like a life raft. Gods, you really had needed that.

The man even smelled good. How unfair.

“This mission gets to all of us.” He said as he stepped back. “The pressure is ridiculous. If you need help, Stratt can have 10 more people in here to help in under fifteen minutes. You just need to accept that you need the help and ask for it.”

You huffed. “That’s the hard part.”

He grinned. “I know. But this is bigger than pride. Believe me, I threw my toys out the pram when we found out the astrophage were water based. But we are doing important work here, don’t let it get you down.”

You took a deep breath and sighed as you started clearing up your last failed experiment.  “It just makes me wonder what it was all for sometimes, you know? Like it kind of stings on a personal level to feel like you might die without ever really living.”

Doctor Grace nodded thoughtfully. “I get why it might feel that way. But the work we are doing here is objectively the most worthy thing you can dedicate your time to.”

He stepped up to help you clean away the experiment, and the two of your worked together in comfortable, companionable silence.

It was not until the next experiment was running that he lent back against the bench next to you, hand tapping on the edge of the table as he looked you up and down.

“I was wondering if...” he paused and swallowed before speaking again. “Do you wanna go on a date with me? It doesn’t have to really mean anything if you don’t want it to. And I can’t offer you anything beyond what the canteen is serving here so it will probably just be whatever bad mystery meat they are serving over rice, but, I don’t know, it might be nice?”

You froze when he started speaking, wondering if you had heard him correctly. Surely Doctor Ryland Grace was not interested in you? But as he pushed his glasses up gingerly and carried on babbling you realised he was genuinely nervous about your response.

Okay, so two options. Either he felt sorry for you and this was a pity date, or he was one of those male territorial weirdos who thinks it’s really hot to try and fuck someone no one else has. But the first of those was harmless, and the second only mattered if you took him to bed, which you weren’t planning on doing after one date. You could go on a singular date without sleeping with him and by the end of that it would be clear which option was correct.

And really, what else was there for you on an aircraft carrier full of dour military personnel and serious scientists? Why not live a little and let the hot man take you on a date?

“Sure.” You agreed. “That would be nice.”

He looked up at you from behind his dorky glasses and a smile spread across his face. Shy at first, but then a smirk, and then he was beaming. It was beautiful to watch. “Well then, what are you doing, uh, tomorrow night? It’ll be Saturday.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up. “You know damn well we'll both be working in this lab until dinner time.”

He nodded. “Work until six, go change, and then meet down at the canteen for seven?”

The smile spread wider across your face, matching his.

“It’s a date.”

He had been beaming the rest of that day in the lab. And very cheerful all of Saturday too, making cheesy jokes and looking for your reaction or catching eye contact with you and smiling. It was, quite frankly, adorable. And now that he had opened that door, you caught yourself staring at him more too. He really was very attractive, and it was sort of unbelievable that he was willing to go on a date with you.

Even though you still suspected it was out of pity, it was a nice gesture. You appreciated it massively.

Halfway through the Saturday the day got significantly better when you were able to isolate a problem with the waste disposal with the burnt up astrophage in the spin drives, which fixed your issue. It was not that the astrophage were dying off in the tank, it was that there was a problem with cross contamination in the incoming feed versus the outgoing. Live astrophage were escaping and their used-up counterparts were being thrown back into the fuel tanks. A poor engineering mistake not on your head, which could now be fixed by a different team.

When you realised you slumped back against the bench in the lab with relief. Ryland had pressed you for all the details and made you walk him through it. When you had shown your process and findings he smiled triumphantly and gave you a hug. He even wrote up the findings for you and passed them to Stratt, meaning you did not have to interact with the terrifying woman.

When six rolled around you said goodbye and sloped off down to your dorm. A quick shower, some of the handful of make-up you’d brought with you and the nicest blouse you owned, though most of the clothes you had brought skewed more professional work wear than date. You settled for showing one button’s more cleavage than you would in a professional setting.

When you arrived down at the canteen he was waiting by the doorway, stood on his phone. He had changed as well, and while still looking nerdy and dishevelled his shirt at least had a collar. It suited him, this kind of smart-casual wear.

“So.” You said as you sidled up to him. “How does this normally work?”

Ryland gave you a grin as he put his phone away. “Well, normally your date would drive you somewhere, but I don’t drive and we’re on a boat, so quite frankly how this normally works is out the window already.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean you don’t have a romantic jet-ski on hand to take me to a private island?”

He mockingly knocked the side of his own head with a palm. “I didn’t even think of that!”

“You’ll have to up your game if there’s to be a second date.”

He grinned. “Moments in and you’re already considering a second date? That’s better than my usual track record.”

You snorted a laugh. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

The two of you queued for food and spoke at length about the quality of the canteen food vs other places you had been. Ryland told you about the school canteen and you were fascinated to learn about his life as a teacher, asking questions and listening intently when he described the effort he put into his classroom and making it as fun as possible for the kids. God he looked attractive when he was describing his love of it. Then the conversation turned to how awful the food had been in your university halls and he eyed you thoughtfully.

“It’s very impressive, your academic record.” He said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever said it outright, but the thesis you wrote at nineteen was really groundbreaking.”

You felt the blush creep up your cheeks. “Well yes, I am glad that worked out. I guess I just had the correct idea for an original research question at the right time for the field, you know?”

He shook his head. “It’s not just that. It’s the determination, forethought and skill to navigate academia and see the project through. I had lots of clever ideas when I was in academia, but I was an arrogant ass who spoke out of turn and offended people with how correct I had to be all the time.”

That surprised you. It was nothing like the man you had spent the last few days with.

“I’m sure you weren’t that bad.” You said agreeably.

“Oh no, I was.” Ryland shook his head. “Got kicked out for it, in the end. But ten years of working with kids will humble you. I’ve had to lean to be patient with them, take my ego out of the equation if I actually want to teach them and have them understand.”

“Well, we all learn our lessons at different speeds. I was academically smart, but here I am in my mid-twenties with the life experience of a fifteen-year-old. You can’t be meaningfully building every skill at all times, you know?”

“Exactly.” Ryland smiled. “So you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. I do want to know how you got to the root of that chlorophyll issue though, how did the photosynthesis proposal come together?”

Explaining your work was surprisingly gratifying. Ryland was a good biologist. He listened. He understood. He asked interesting questions. And by the time you had finished eating you had let some of the tension you had carried into the room with you go.

“It’s getting a little busy in here.” You noted, watching the tables fill up. “Do you want to go up to the bar? I’d love to hear more about your doctoral thesis.”

And that was how you found yourself in the bar an hour and a half later, a drink and a half under your belt to give yourself some liquid courage, finally able to broach what you had been wondering all evening.

“So,” You said, putting you glass down on the table. “Grace.”

“Pretty sure you can call me Ryland at this point.” He looked over his glasses at you and you pretended it didn’t do weird things to your stomach with how hot it was.

“Ryland.” Your gaze darted nervously away before coming back to him. “I have had a very lovely evening. But I have to ask, why did you feel the need to give me the pity date?”

His eyes widened, and his face flashed through a series of emotions. “Oh no I didn’t- I mean, that’s not what this was at all. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Huh. You had ruled out sociopathy at this point, so it seemed the only other option. Unless…

“So you are actually into me?”

The man looked like he would rather take a physical dissection than the emotional one you were giving him. But he swallowed and, looking at the table, said “I mean, you are a very attractive woman so… yeah?”

A surprised laugh burst from you, one which you quickly tried to shut down. He looked up confused and seemingly unsure he should be offended, but you waved it off. “I’m just really surprised that you would be interested in me. You’re fifteen years older than me, the leading scientist in your field, you’re so talented, and funny, and hot it just doesn’t make sense why you’d be into someone like me.”

When you dared to take a look at him his jaw was hanging open slightly, and he looked deeply flushed with embarrassment.

“I think you overplay my talent by a significant margin.” He said dryly. “Besides, you’re all of those things too? You’ve proven fiercely competent in the last week and you’re great to talk to. I’ve had the best evening I’ve had in a long time, actually.”

It was real then. This man was actually into you, this was not just a pity thing. Wow.

There was a charged moment in the air where you weren’t sure what to say. The idea that the man was genuinely into you was still baffling, but if it was true then a whole world of possibilities had just opened up which you had no idea how to approach.

And why shouldn’t you? He had been kind and respectful all evening. It was time to be less respectful.

It was the boldest step of your life to say, “Well I don’t see why it should stop here. Do you want to come back to my cabin?”

You saw his eyes widen, and the blush creep up his cheeks, and then the blink and the correction of his own face. “I-, I mean. You know I don’t… expect anything from you, right? In return for the date? You are under no obligation to invite me anywhere or offer me anything.”

Your heart soared, affirming your choice. “I know. But I don’t want all the people in this bar watching when I ask if I can kiss you.”

It was a delight to see the slack-jawed shock on his face at your forwardness. You let yourself grin and he caught himself and mirrored it, slamming the end of his own drink and rising and offering to take your arm.

“Well then, My Lady, may I offer to escort you to your quarters.” He teased, in a mock-old-timey voice.

The giggle rose in your throat unbidden as you replied, “Why yes, Doctor Grace, that would be most delightful.”

Looping your arm through his you felt the warmth of his own skin through his shirt sleeve and leaned in a little, looking up to give him a grin. He met it with a welcoming, conspiratorial one of his own as he led you out of the bar and down to the cabins.

“Where are you, in terms of cabins?” he asked in a murmur.

“Deck four yellow quarter.”

“Aren’t those shared rooms?”

“Yeah.” You sighed. “My roommate is a Korean Sargent who speaks minimal English, but she’s on shift until midnight most nights so the room should be ours for a little while.”

Ryland glanced at his watch. “Gosh it’s late, that’s only an hour away now. I’ve got my own cabin so I’m happy if we go back to mine, so we don’t have to worry? Unless of course you want the excuse to kick me out.” He seemed to stumble over himself in his haste to backtrack. “I don’t want to presume staying any longer, obviously, and if you come back to mine you are under no obligation to stay a minute longer than you want-“

“Ryland.” You cut him off. “Your room would be lovely, thank you.”

He blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “In that case, uh, we’re headed down this way.”

He led you down to his floor and talked quietly the whole way, finding small talk about the shifts of the military personnel on board and the way things were organised. You played along, but anticipation and nerves were bubbling in your gut. What did you want from him? Definitely to kiss him. Beyond that? How far were you willing to go? You weren’t really sure.

Those nerves were reaching a fever pitch as you got to his room. Ryland opened the door and ushered you in with a hand on the small of your back which made your stomach flutter. The room itself was small, with piles of paperwork sort-of-organised on the small desk and dirty washing in a sort-of-neat pile on the floor.

The door closed behind you. You turned to face him and you felt the beginnings of the anxiety starting to paralyse you. Wondering what to say, how to initiate what might come next. But he surprised you by bringing his hands up to cup your face and kissing you right away.

It was wonderful. It was very gentle, and soft, and brief. You melted into it, eyes fluttering closed and suspending yourself in the moment, before breaking away with a smile spreading unbidden across your features along with a fierce blush you could feel.

He was looking at you with a softness, reaching up and tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You stepped closer and tentatively brought a hand to rest on his chest as you went for another kiss.

This one was more in every way. The gentle softness was replaced with a desire stirring from within, pressing your lips firmly against his to show what you wanted, moving them passionately and letting out a little noise of want. You were delighted when he reciprocated, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

It had been a long time since you had made out with anyone. A few awkward encounters round the back of the bike sheds at school. This was different. Grace did not have the cocky-but-terrible kisses of a teenage boy. He made out with you like it was a dessert he was savouring, a confident taking of something he planned to enjoy.

And it was effortless, the way one of his hands came to rest on your waist, and how the other cupped your jaw. How you rose on your toes to give more and in return received a surprised but very satisfied noise from him, prompting his mouth to slide open and for the kisses to get dirtier, messier, more intense, and somehow still not feel like there was any rush or urgency.

His hand slid down to meet the other at your waist. Then they moved together to grab your hips and pull your body in close. It was just a taste of being manhandled and it had your breath hitching with delight.

By the time you broke apart your body was on fire in a way you had never experienced with someone else. And looking up, there was a spark of something which had crept into his blue eyes too. No one had ever looked at you with real hunger before. The reaction it caused in your body was something you would be fascinated to examine in closer detail. To file away the sudden awareness of the weight of your own breasts and the heat between your legs, how a few minutes of making out could light your whole being up like this. God it was intoxicating.

Ryland took your hand and guided you to sit on the edge of the bed. As he lowered himself in front of you, you hoped this was about to become more heated, but to your chagrin his blue eyes just softly searched your face and asked, “Tell me what you have done.”

He was knelt down on the floor in front of you and on his knees your head was a fraction higher than his own. You realised he had put you in a higher position to ask you the potentially embarrassing question. It still did not stop the embarrassment clawing its way up your throat. You looked away from him shyly.

“Hey, it’s okay.” His voice was soft. “I just want to know, if I start running my hands over your clothes will it be the first time anyone has ever done that? Or have you had partners you’ve gotten off with but just not gone ‘all the way’” he used air quotes.

Closing your eyes to answer felt less embarrassing. “I uh, had a boyfriend for like two months in senior school. I got him off a couple of times with my hand, it didn’t take much. He awkwardly squeezed my tits and stuck his hands down my pants a couple of times but didn’t really, uh, achieve anything.”

When you opened your eyes Grace’s mouth was quirking up, an amused crinkle in the corner of his eyes. “Sounds like a teenage boyfriend all-right. Thank you for telling me.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then crowded in to kiss you deeply again. “Why don’t we just take this at a leisurely pace, and you tell me when you want to stop for tonight, okay? Again, no expectation. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” You breathed, unaware you needed to hear that until he said it.

“And don’t be afraid to stop me if we’re mid… anything.” He reached up and cupped your face with his hand. “Don’t continue anything in discomfort because you think it will make me happy, alright? I already got to make out with a very hot woman tonight, I’m, frankly, overjoyed.”

You broke into a giggle and leaned forward to bring your mouth to his again, enthusiastic, messy, and a bit sloppy. He met it in kind, bringing his hands confidently to the top of your thighs and making your whole-body shudder. The more the evening went on, the less nervous he seemed to be. Like the reality of seeing you nervous made him braver. It was really hot.

After a long few minutes of making out you began to run your hands up and down his muscled arms and across his broad shoulders. You felt around his neck and ran a hand through his hair, making him moan into your mouth. It felt incredible to pull that sound out of him. You did it again, just to hear it. He responded in kind with a smile against your lips you could feel.

You wanted more.

And so you let your legs fall open and pulled him in flush against your body where he was still on his knees. He leant back and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, searching your face, and his eyes went wide when your fingers started on the buttons of his shirt.

“Is this okay?” you whispered as you moved down the line of them.

“More than. You can do whatever you want with me.” He answered, a little too quickly. You grinned and popped the last button out, opening his shirt. Your jaw dropped as he shrugged it off his shoulders.

“How are you this ripped?” you blurted. “I’ve never seen you outside the lab.”

“Good genetics and gym visits when I can’t sleep.” He pushed in to kiss you again as his hands slid from your thighs, over your hips, up your waist and came to the buttons of your own blouse. “Can I?”

You nodded enthusiastically as he undid the fiddly little buttons on your blouse. “You look great in this by the way.” He added. “Was it really obvious I was staring at your cleavage all night?”

“No you were pretty subtle on that one, actually.” You admitted, though the idea that he had been staring did make you feel very good about yourself.

“Damnit, shouldn’t have said anything.” He joked before he reached the bottom of your shirt and you shrugged it off. You had the delightful experience of watching Ryland’s eyes go wide at the sight of your laciest bra, the one with the push up which really made the girls look good.

He seemed to hover in a trance for a moment. You smiled and took his wrists, placing his hands on your breasts in encouragement. He let out a groan and squeezed, which felt really, really good.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He murmured between kisses, checking in.

You hesitated only a moment before being honest. “That your hands feel amazing on me and I want them everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” he smirked.

“Everywhere.” You affirmed.

And then his hands were sliding down over your waist and hips, squeezing there before running down your thighs and all the way back up again. Except instead of your breasts, this time his hands slid around your back and your bra was unclipped in a single motion. It was pulled off one shoulder, then the other, then just as you started to feel self-conscious Grace moved to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, along your collarbone. By the time the bra fell away his mouth was there, soft kisses along the swell of your breast.

He cupped your other breast with his hand and brushed a thumb over the nipple. You knew you liked to play with them during your own alone time but were completely unprepared for the rush of sensation that tweak from someone else sent shooting between your legs.

“Ryland.” You gasped his name as he took the tip of your other breast into his mouth and did something equally arousing with his tongue. Your arousal was instantly dialled up to ten and you were suddenly away of how wet you must be.

When he pulled away the smug look on his face was beautiful. “I can give you more of that, sweetheart.”

And then he set about worshipping your chest with his mouth, taking his time to kiss around the area thoroughly and see what motions drew the best breathy noises from you. While he did so his hands continued to run all over your body, even snaking up into your hair and experimentally grabbing a handful. When this made you whine and writhe he chuckled against your skin and started trailing his kisses lower.

By the time he was at your belt, you were desperate for friction. Screw not sleeping with him after one date. You wanted more.

“May I?” he murmured, mouth against the leather of your belt.

“Yes, please.”

He made quick work of your jeans, ditching them. The laciest underwear you owned hid very little, and the hunger in his eyes as he looked between your legs sent another thrill of sensation down there, even as the hesitant flutter of your heart thundered in your chest.

Ryland pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your knee, then slowly moved those kisses up the inside of your thigh, the brush of his stubble a new sensation you did not know how to categorise. When he got close to the crease of your thigh the sensation disappeared, and suddenly he was at the other knee, kissing up towards the centre slowly again.

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch him. He had closed his eyes, concentration on the feel of your skin under his lips, but as you shifted he opened them at looked straight at you, blue and piercing.

And he maintained eye contact as he slowly, so very slowly so that you had time to object if you wanted to, brought his mouth to press a kiss to your centre through the underwear.

The noise which came out of your throat was unauthorized and undignified. A smile spread across his face in return, and he brought his hands up to the waistband of your underwear, grabbing and then pausing, looking at you for permission.

You nodded frantically.

With a smile he slid your underwear off, and then you were exposed to him, his face inches from you.

A thrill of fear went through you. This was completely new. This was scary. You were nervous. But the way he had touched you was amazing and while the vulnerability was scary Ryland was not. You still felt safe with him. The logical part of your brain reasoned that you were probably too nervous to be able to orgasm, but you still wanted to find out if he could make you feel good.

He started with his fingers, featherlight touches through your folds. You inhaled sharply when he first touched you but that quickly settled into shaky breathing as he moved his touches up and down, not explicitly trying to pleasure but getting you used to the sensation of being touched there by someone else.

“How are you feeling?” he checked in.

“Nervous.” You admitted, “But excited.”

“Good.” He murmured. His fingers slid down to your entrance and traced lightly around it. Oh god now you were conscious for the first time in your life of feeling empty and wanting something inside you. Your hips squirmed in response and he steadied them with a flat hand on your lower stomach, which also did something for you that you would never have realised did something for you without him doing it.

After a few moments his fingers traced back up your slit, and with no guesswork whatsoever he gave one confident flick of your clit.

“Ryland.” You gasped, head falling back, feeling dizzy with want as you stared at the ceiling.

“Yes?” you heard the smugness in his voice.

“More.”

And then his finger pressed on your clit firmly, experimenting with different movements and pressures while he found what you reacted best to. Glancing at him found him watching you with the same measured concentration and infinitesimally small frown he usually had over a microscope. Watching. Learning.

When he found a motion which made you cry out and arch you back off the bed he grinned and proceeded to do it over and over. Fuck the notion you might be too nervous to finish, this was incredible. Could he come and do it every night?

It was not long before the familiar build started between your legs.

“Ryland,” your breath hitched on his name, “I’m getting close, I might…”

You were still staring at the white ceiling of the cabin, but heard the heat in his tone as he spoke in a voice you had not heard him deploy yet, “That’s it, relax. Let go for me.”

He slid his spare hand up to tweak the tip of your breast, his mouth pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs while his finger worked you.

And then the wave was crashing over you, and you were arching up and crying out, and everything went fuzzy. Your ears rang. Your vision went. Every sensation aside from the wave crashing over you disappeared.

Letting go for someone else was a very different experience to getting yourself off, and good god was it so much more intense. When your brain caught up with the boneless pleasure in your body Ryland was kissing his way back up your chest before climbing onto the bed next to you and scooping you into his arms.

“How was that, was that good?” he murmured. A real question in his eyes, like he wanted to know if it went quite as well as he suspected it did.

You let out a breathy laugh. “That was amazing. Thank you.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of your head and you melted into him, catching your breath. After a couple of moments, you rolled over and administered a long, relaxed kiss to his mouth, making it clear exactly how much you enjoyed that.

He was lazily lying back, looking at you with a spark of desire in his eyes, but making no move to act on it. You suspected that if you said goodbye and went back to your own cabin he would not push you for anymore.

But he had proven himself trustworthy. And caring. And sexy. And into you. So why not push to overturn the comment which started this whole debacle?

“Why don’t we take this further?” You tried to sound sexy, but heard the nerves bleed through.

He hesitated, catching your tone, then made a show of shrugging it off. “I’m happy if you want to stop here.”

Your breath caught in your throat a little. Would he actually be happy? Or would he look like a kicked puppy if you told him no, just saying it to take the pressure off you?

“Grace, do you want me to touch you?” you asked dryly, raising one eyebrow and bringing your hands to your hips.

His façade crumbled and he let out a sharp laugh as he turned red and admitted. “Oh believe me, I want you to touch me very badly.”

“Then let’s continue.” You said confidently, before your voice dropped and added. “Just uh, let me know what you like?”

He sat up, reaching forward and pressing a long, slow kiss to your mouth. “Of course.”

The man did not release you and let you begin experimenting straight away. He took his time making out with you again, his hands running up and down your naked body from your thighs to hips to waist and back again. Immediately the thrill of being touched relit a spark in your core and you gave a warm “Mhmm” into the kiss.

Before you lost the threat of where you were intending to go next, your kisses trailed around his strong jaw and down his neck, your hands moving to explore his torso. Ryland’s breathing became heavy but otherwise he was holding still, letting you learn him. When your mouth closed over one of his nipples, he let out a small whine, and when your hand reached for his belt he looked down at you with an almost helpless expression.

“Yes, please.” He breathed, and you fumbled with the belt and zipper. Ryland lifted his hips and helped you kick off his jeans and socks, leaving him in just heavily tented navy boxer briefs.

That bulge was… sizeable. Not like, comically, but certainly more than anything you had handled before. Before you got in your own head about it you helped him remove those non-descript boxer briefs. Then he was naked beneath you.

He was gorgeous. Every part of him. It was frankly unreasonable such a nerd could have all this.

Heart thundering, you tentatively brought your hand to touch the hard length in front of you. He groaned and his head fell back as you ran a finger tip up and down him before tentatively wrapping a hand around, feeling the weight and size of him.

“How do I…?” you trailed off. What angle was best here to move your wrist at? In a way which would be comfortable for him and you?

Ryland blinked for a moment and you saw the moment he realised you needed help guiding through it.

“Here.” He brought his own hand to cover yours. “Grip just like that. Not too tight. Start slow. That’s it.”

He seemed pretty sensitive. It took a couple of attempts, but when you found the right rhythm he choked out a moan and sat back on his elbows.

“Oh my, yes. Like that.”

The praise did something funny in your lower stomach. As did watching him watch your hand move like it was a divine revelation.

You tried speeding up a little, adding more pressure. “Good.” He choked out, voice in a higher pitch than before, almost in the same register as the whine.

Despite the praise opening up doors in your head which had previously been undiscovered, your wrist started to tire. This was not a motion you were used to. No part of you wanted to stop pulling these pretty noises out of him though so you slowed down and shuffled back on the bed, kneeling forward to bring your mouth to him.

“You don’t need to-“ he started, eyes widening, but you pulled back and cut him off again.

“Stop telling me I don’t need to do anything. I know I don’t. I want to try this.” You asserted.

There was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes before he responded.

“Yes ma’am.”

And then your mouth was on his tip. It was sensitive, and he whimpered. Like actually, fully whimpered in a way which immediately rewired your brain chemistry and which you knew immediately would live in your brain for the rest of your life.

But this, it turns out, was also an acquired skill. You opened wider and took more of his length in, leaning it was surprisingly difficult to keep your teeth out of the equation. As you started working your head up and down the gag reflex was all too present and being constantly fought. You were painfully aware your movements were experimental and awkward and unskilled.

But Doctor Ryland Grace was looking at you with a tenderness which was almost embarrassing, and the comments he was murmuring to you between his laboured breaths kept coming.

“Good.”

“Take your time.”

“Careful there it’s sensitive.”

“That’s it.”

“Mmm, more of that please.”

“Oh that’s good.”

He would wince an indrawn breath on occasion when your ability to hide your teeth failed you, but moaned and groaned very prettily when you did something right. His voice vibrated straight through your body and down to your core.

It was a very fun, very educational practical lesson. But after a while your jaw started to hurt too. You pulled back, filing everything you had learnt to redeploy later.

“Everything okay?” His heavy, wide blown eyes came partially back to the room as he checked in with you.

The admission was on your tongue. Clumsy and juvenile. Something which filled you with fear to say even though it was the entire reason to be here.

“I want to have sex. Like, properly.” You blinked and looked away from him to say it aloud. “Can we?”

And then he was sitting up and cupping your face in his large, warm hands and searching your eyes with his own. You saw a penny drop behind his eyes and a flash of disappointment cross his face.

“I’m not sure we can sweetheart.”

The contrast of the nickname shooting desire between your legs and the dismay at his statement was jarring. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t have any condoms.” He admitted. “I did not anticipate getting this far tonight.”

You stopped yourself laughing just a little too late, you saw him track the twist of amusement in your jaw with his own frown.

“What?”

“I agree to go on a date with you, fully admitting I am looking to find someone to fuck before the sun dies, and you don’t think the evening is gonna go there?” you grin.

He huffed out a laugh and fell forward until his head hit your shoulder. “I was intending to be respectful. Three dates at least.” The muffled voice said into your neck.

You sat back, cupping his face now and looking into it. “Well, I want this. And I have the coil in, actually, so I don’t think the condom is an issue.”

Blue eyes widened in hope, then twisted in confusion. “But…” he stopped himself.

“If you’re wondering why I have the coil if I’m a virgin: because it helps balance my hormones. It’s mood regulation.” You hedged.

“I realised just as I said it.” He shrugged. “I will not apologise for my brain not firing on all cylinders right now, there’s a very hot naked woman on my lap who just told me she wants to have sex with me.”

You snorted a laugh and wrapped your arms around him, laughing into his shoulder. He wrapped his around you in return and the two of your fell back onto the bed where your mouths connected again.

There was heat in this one. Promise.

He broke away and rested his forehead against your own. “I’m going to take my time with you. Stretch you with my fingers first.”

You nodded as his hand snaked down between your legs. It skirted over your sensitive clit to pull a gasp from you before finding your entrance again.

“I was worried about the lack of lube for your first time, but you feel pretty wet.” He admitted, one finger slowly pushing in.

You let your eyes flutter closed and focused on the feeling. “You’ve done a damn good job prepping me already. I want this.”

“Good to hear.” He brought a second finger into the equation. He curled them up and in and you almost arched straight off his lap, crying out.

He smiled and pressed a kiss against your temple. “Found it.”

The tone was very smug. It was annoying precisely because he had every right to be.

“My own fingers aren’t as long as yours. I can’t reach there myself.”

“What… here?” and then the infuriating man pressed into that deep spot again.

“Oh fuckkk…”

Letting the noises spill from you freely, your curses descending into nonsensical babbling. He continued to work you with two fingers for a while and then eventually introduced a third.

This one was a stretch. You felt yourself instinctively tense against the intrusion, but his low voice kept murmuring against your ear.

“Relax for me, I’ve got you.”

There was something about the way he said it which had a hypnotic quality to it. You unclenched and relaxed for him almost instinctively, like when you reached a level of pleasure beyond a certain point there was no input from your own brain to even consider disobeying his order.

“Good girl.”

To your absolute mortification the shockwave those words sent thorough your body resulted in very obvious clenching around his fingers as he moved them inside you. There was no way he missed it with how your breath caught in unison. He did not comment on it but you swore he was breathing smugly.

“Okay, I think you’re ready for me.” His voice was still pressed against your temple, voice rumbling through your own chest where you clung to him. “Do you have any strong feelings about what positions you want to try?”

You shook your head. “No. I always imagined lying back but it doesn’t have to be that, does it?”

His fingers were still inside you, keeping you stretched as he murmured “That is the traditional, but if you’re on top you’ll have more control.”

“I’m not sure I’d know what to do with control if it was handed to me.” You admitted. “I’m happy for you to show me the way.”

“Alright then.” Ryland pulled his fingers from you and it made you gasp as he brought them up to his mouth to taste you, licking them clean. Then, he swung round and laid you back on the bed, positioning himself between your legs and coming to his elbows.

He gently brushed the hair back out of your face where you lay back, looking up at him. “Let me know if anything hurts and I’ll stop immediately, okay?”

You nodded. “I will do. It shouldn’t hurt, given how much prep we’ve done.”

He huffed a laugh. “Well, that’s the goal. This should feel good, if it doesn’t, we can try something else.”

You reached up and pressed another kiss to his lips. “Okay.”

And then he was shifting his weight onto one forearm and pressing in close to leave a kiss on the side of your forehead. As he did so, you felt his length brush against your folds.

He did not push in immediately, running the head up and down from your entrance to your clit and back again a few times. It made you hyper-aware of how empty you felt, wanting to feel what it was like to take that inside of you. When he next grazed your entrance you made a needy sound and swirled your hips forwards, trying to feel him inside.

“Alright, okay.” He murmured, and then he was pushing in. Just an inch initially, just to let you acclimatise.

It was an alien sensation, the feeling of being stretched by an intrusion like that. It was terrifying. It was incredible. It did not hurt. It was also the most intimate thing you had ever experienced and therefore definitely the hottest.

“Ryland.” You gasped.

The sound of his name made him groan and his bright eyes flutter closed. “You good? Think you can take some more?”

“Yes.”

He pushed further in, more and more, eye reopening to watch the reactions on your face. The feeling of being stretched intensified. You became aware there were little gasping noises accompanying your laboured breathing but could not quite bring yourself to care. Your hands were grasping at him, his arms, his hair. Something to anchor yourself as you let him give you something so completely new.

And it just kept going. He pressed deeper and deeper. You were starting to wonder if that thing was infinite just as he bottomed out, biting his own lower lip, eyes blown wide.

“You feel amazing.” His voice was thin and desperate. “It’s been a while for me, I forgot how good this feels.”

“Mphm.” You experimented with shifting your hips a little, watching his eyes flutter closed. “It doesn’t hurt. You can move.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple before drawing out slowly and pushing back in again. The flutter of sensation at the friction was a pleasure you had never experienced and it had you gasping. He did it again, and again.

“You can speed up.” You urged him.

He laughed against the side of your head. “I was determined to be gentle with you.”

“Don’t want it. Fuck me, Grace.”

It was bold, for sure. As the words left your mouth you were wondering if you would live to regret them, if going too hard too fast would hurt. But the way he pulled back and looked at you, wide eyed and dishevelled, made it all worth it. Especially when he maintained eye contact and sped his hips into an even, well-paced roll, hitting deep inside you with every thrust.

He was watching your reactions closely. You nodded that you were enjoying and let the little noises escape, giving positive reinforcement in a way which did not require coming up with words.

He let out a groan of his own and repositioned his hips. When he thrust in again he hit that incredible spot he found with his fingers and it made you arch up off the bed. A smile crept across his face as he settled into that position and sped up again, ramming into that spot over and over.

There was something which felt fundamentally good about this. Good as in pleasurable, good as in correct, good as in the ideal way to exist. You were conscious of millions of years of evolution convalescing in your brain as the feeling of a man fucking into you hit some primal pleasure you had never known existed inside you before this moment.

He slowed his pace down almost to stopping. “I won’t last long if we keep that up.” He admitted. “Are there any other positions you want to try?”

You wanted to try everything, eventually. But right now, you wanted one thing.

“No.” you shook your head. “I want to know what it feels like to have you finish inside me.”

The man let out another whimper which bordered on undignified. He hung his head for a moment and took a deep breath before looking back at you.

“Do you think you could finish again?”

You tilted your head in thought. “If you can keep hitting that spot… maybe.”

“Touch yourself.” He suggested.

“What?” your eyes widened. You had not considered touching yourself while he was inside you. It felt almost rude? Like a demonstration that he was not doing enough.

“I can’t touch your clit and keep that angle up.” He reasoned. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get both.”

If you weren’t sweaty and bright red from exertion already you might have been self-conscious about your blush. But you only nodded. “If that’s okay?”

He frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be okay? Mutual pleasure is the goal here, do whatever you need to find it.”

You nodded. He kissed you long and deep and you snuck a hand down between your legs, finding your clit. When you rubbed it and clenched around him he broke off from you with a whine.

Then his hips started rolling again. He angled them again to hit that point and you moaned loudly, letting inhibitions go as you rubbed your clit and chased that feeling. His kisses started trailing along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbones while his hips moved.

When his mouth closed over your nipple again, the beginning of the end was in sight.

“Yes.” You gasped. “Keep that up.”

He moaned in agreement as he focused on the movements, his mouth and his hips and the way he was hitting that spot deep inside you driving any remaining nerves or doubts away.

“Ryland, I’m going to- it’s-“

And then you were falling over that cliff again. Having his length inside you as something to clench around felt beyond amazing. It was sort of life-affirming. Your vision blacked out for a second as everything but the waves of pleasure through your person and the strong body you clung to disappeared.

He had clearly been trying to hold out to get you there, as his own release followed seconds later. You were awed to feel his rhythm stutter, his breath catching, and the needy sound pour out of him as his muscles tensed up, releasing himself inside you. His body was strong and there was a faint recognition in the back of your head that he could physically overpower you easily, which was both terrifying and intoxicating. There go those evolutionary instincts again.

Ryland Grace stilled with his head buried in the crook of your neck, still buried inside you, both of you breathing deeply with your chests heaving. After a moment he pulled his head back to look at you, bringing a hand to cup your jaw as he breathlessly checked in.

“You good?”

You could hardly nod more frantically. “I am more than good, that was great.”

He smiled and his eyes crinkled with such fondness it made your heart catch. He saved you the feeling by letting his head fall onto your shoulder for a couple of moments before shuffling and pulling out.

Now that was a weird sensation. You gasped as he pulled free, suddenly able to feel the ache from the stretch and the wetness as his release trickled out of you.

And then he was there with some tissues grabbed from his desk, gently cleaning you up. You winced when he brushed over the soreness and he caught it instantly, brow drawing into a frown.

“You alright?”

You gave him the most reassuring smile you could. “I can feel I’ll be sore in the morning. It’s okay though.”

“I was going to be gentler with you.” He insisted.

Your mouth curled with amusement. “And why would I want that?”

By the time he sorted himself and curled back onto the bed with you, your eyes were feeling heavy, your body blissed out and boneless. It was a surprise when he curled his naked body around you and the rush of oxytocin made you want to whimper.

“I didn’t expect the post-sex cuddling to feel this good.” You admitted.

Ryland laughed and squeezed you tighter with his arms. “It does, doesn’t it? Millions of years of evolution to tell us job well done.”

“And I quite agree.” You mused. You let your eyes fall closed and your head fall to the side, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you. For taking such good care of me.”

He pulled back and looked at you incredulously. “Thank you for trusting me. I know it isn’t always a big deal for everyone, but the way you spoke yesterday made me feel like maybe it was for you, you know?”

Resisting the urge to squirm under his gaze you admitted “It just felt like a big part of life that was missing for me. Now I realise I was probably blowing it out of proportion in my head. It was great, but I’m not a changed woman.”

He huffed. “Sounds like I need to do better next time.”

One of your eyebrows slowly raised. “Next time?”

“One must live in hope.” He said nonchalantly to the ceiling.

You laughed, feeling your whole body shake with it. Against the warmth of his skin it was incredible.

“Can I stay here for a bit?” you asked as your laughter abated.

“Stay as long as you want.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “And let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Ryland.”

He pressed one last kiss to you shoulder before settling back onto the bed and letting the post-sex haze take him.

Most the time, you forget that Dr. Grace is nearing forty because he's always so cheerful and easy-going. It's why he's so loved by his students. There's nothing better than an educator who genuinely adores what he's doing. His dedication begets an air of youthfulness about him, and makes him seem younger than he really is.

But the lines on his face remind you of his age, and you spot them easily: there, between his soft brows, on his forehead; and some by the corners of his eyes and where his smile appears. they're part of his appeal, and complete the heart-wrenching, knee-buckling ensemble that you have the god-given privilege to behold almost every waking hour of your stay on campus. You even fantasize, as a habit, about how his perfectly tousled, wind-swept hair would feel between your fingers.

Dr. Grace teaches molecular bio — his specialization — to a large class, so that's why he has you. You handle some of the lab sessions and shoulder a portion of what he has to grade per week, but you'd say that your favorite kind of work is when he needs you to review the item pool that he's constructed for the long and final exams.

These instances usually happen when the regular classes have concluded. You find yourself alone with him in the faculty room; you're sitting close enough to catch a whiff of his cologne and the fabric conditioner that he uses for his clothes, and it takes everything from you to keep your focus on the task at hand.

You do what he asks of you, diligently and thoroughly. You give your feedback — which he always wants to hear — and suggest some minimal changes for better item discrimination.

Then you crack a joke; you say you want to try using SPSS for a post-hoc analysis of the test scores. Your heart soars when you get him to laugh. The sound of it echoes into your ears and carves anew the Grace-shaped niche that has already been created into your chest.

He shakes his head. "That's like bringing a sledgehammer to pound a small nail, [name]!"

You reply with an equally witty remark. You had something else in mind for your response, actually, but you hold your tongue. It really isn't appropriate to say aloud. Something about pounding some(one)thing else. Yeah, good call. Keep that in the vault.

The smooth motion of his arm slinking along the backrest of the swivel chair that you're in after his laughter dies down doesn't go unnoticed by you, though. Nor the way that he leans in when you point out a distraction item that he could have worded better. He's driving you crazy and he doesn't even know.

At least that's what you think.

Ryland hasn't been entirely indifferent to you. He practically can't — you're his TA (emphasis on the "his" part), you always work alongside each other. Everything began spiraling inside his head and his heart when he jokingly admitted to himself once that he'd be open to dating you if given the chance.

A week doesn't even pass before he realizes that you're his type: you're intelligent, conscientious, and sensible; and your beauty isn't lost on him either. He just… has to hold back because, well, you're his TA. At least in that respect, you're his. He can live with that.

He's way older than you, too — the mere fact that he's besotted with you fills him with searing guilt, because he thinks that he's not supposed to be staking his claim over you. You're young — you ought to be dating people your age. He has no business wishing that you'd look his way.

Ryland doesn't let that stop him from touching himself at night to the thought of you, however.

The tension begins to simmer and boil through the many catalysts that blaze the trail of your gradual, mutual ignition: the subtle yet not-so-subtle looks and smiles that you share; the ever-growing tally of inside jokes, and the light touches. A hand on your shoulder. Your fingers brushing against the back of his palm. The swish of the tips of your hair against his exposed arm when he rolls up his sleeve during late nights at the lab with you.

He recalibrates the sensitivity of a microscope for you once, while you're caged in his arms. He doesn't ask you to leave. He stands right behind you, towering over you and engulfing you in his presence as he does you a favor. Every hair on the back of your neck rises when he speaks.

"Should be good now," he says. He tilts his head so he can peer into your face over your shoulder. "Wanna give it a look for me?"

You can feel the phantom sensation of his stubble against the skin of your temple. You very nearly forget that you're supposed to look at the live algae on the slide instead of drifting off into Dr. Grace-land.

The universe, as you've learned in your undergraduate general chemistry course, tends toward disorder. Chaos. An expanding balloon will eventually pop. A full kettle on a lit stove will be blowing that whistle once the water inside reaches its boiling point.

And two desire-stricken adults with a common, underlying impetuous nature, will be drawn and pulled towards each other like the opposite poles of a magnet.

That's how you and Dr. Grace end up fucking in the empty bio laboratory at the top most floor of the natural science department, one night when the proverbial tension has bubbled over and overflowed. You're bent over the table — the one he uses for demonstration, and has a large mirror overhead — and he's driving his hips into you at a steady rhythm.

He doesn't undo his dress shirt all the way — just a few buttons unfastened to obtain some leeway — nor did he slip off his slacks. He leaves them undone at the zipper, and he pulls down his boxer briefs enough to free his cock and finally sheath it inside your aching pussy.

You have no time to fully undress. How can you, when the heat has just become too unbearable between you two to stave off and ignore? So you settle for the bare minimum and take off what your dwindling patience allows. Your blouse is on the floor along with your bra. Ryland's tie and tweed jacket soon joins that pile.

You support yourself with your arms on the cool surface of the desk. He isn't going fast, but the feel of him dragging along your walls is making your head spin, thus disabling you from forming any coherent thought. Nothing matters except this. You, and him. Him, inside you; you, wrapped around him. All you can do is subdue your noises and reduce them to soft whines and moans so as not to get caught.

Your legs, still clad in black pantyhose, tremble beneath you from each thrust. The soles of your heels are sliding along erratically over the polished floor. Try as you may to keep them steady, Ryland is two steps ahead: he's got one hand reaching under and between you so he can stroke your clit, and the other holding your chin so you're looking at him while he gifts you with praises. You're falling apart in a thousand pieces all over again.

"Mm, atta girl," Ryland sighs, "taking my cock so, so well, hm? 'Cause n-none of those boys can fuck you as good as I can? Hm?"

You whimper at his provocation. Two fingers slip into your mouth, and you're getting even more wet. You clench around him. You do it again, tighter this time, when he presses the digits onto your tongue. That rips a groan from Ryland's throat.

"F-fuck, sweetheart," he sucks a breath through his teeth. He pauses — he adjusts his angle and resumes, this time hitting squarely that spongy patch of nerves that has your jaw hanging slack. If he wasn't railing you like this, you'd have blushed at the pet name.

Ryland knows what he's done. And you know that he knows what he's doing to you right now because he doesn't change his pace. He wants you to cum. You're already halfway there; you can feel traces of your release dripping down on the floor. The realization makes your cheeks glow red.

You bow your head in defeat, surrendering to the ascent to which Ryland is delivering you.

He's now taken to gripping your waist with the hand previously in your mouth, so he can anchor you better and receive every piston of his hips. You shakily warn Ryland of your impending release. He chuckles, broken and affected.

"Cum right here, on my cock," he says, bending down so he's flush with your back. The fingers on your clit are now drawing tight ovals. "We'll finish up here and I'll take you home, y-yeah?" His lips stamp kisses all over your upper back. He whispers into your ear.

The first time feels like a fluke.

A rare silver lining of good stroked through the grey devastation that was today; after hours of wading through blood and gore, you at last strike gold.

“You heading off too, kid?” Despite the questioning tone in Jack’s voice, you know it’s an order.

He’s staring down at the park bench, eyes hovering over you and how tightly you’re still clutching that fourth can of beer, zoned out and completely oblivious to how everyone else has already packed up for the night and headed home. Not to sleep, no. It’s doubtful any of you will get much sleep, not after the events of today.

Robby had slipped away first, not without sharing a few final words of wisdom aimed at soothing everybody’s aching soul. Javadi followed soon after, abandoning a half-drunken beer as she went racing off to answer her mother’s beck and call. Mateo, Princess and Samira called it quits together, each heading off in different directions. Even Donnie left eventually, the now empty cooler in tow, his wife waiting patiently for him to crawl back to their newlyweds home and into her arms.

Then there were two.

Abbot and you.

Neither of you dared to interrupt the silence that had rolled in, minds too busy swimming in pools of thought, struggling against violent currents and attempting to escape the deep end.

Moonlight crept through the crevices between the branches above, cicadas came together to sing in disjointed harmony, and the world around you both kept moving, completely oblivious to how your own life had come to a halt. Somewhere between waking up to the screech of your pager and rushing through the doors of the PTMC to find it in a state of chaos, different and bloodier than you’d known it to usually be, you had shutdown.

Jack knew better than to force you out of that state.

He saw himself in your blank stares and the bouncing knees, remembered how it felt to be young, bright-eyed, and finally forced to reckon with how brutal this field could be. He didn’t need to ask to know: this had been your first mass casualty event.

Maybe that’s why he sat with you, the passing of time irrelevant, and let you fester in your shock. Let whatever cracks were forming in your heart deepen, because he knew it was the only way they’d be able to solidify. Let you exist on the periphery of life for however long you needed, his own senses fully intact and ready to watch over your body while your mind drifted elsewhere.

Only when he noticed you stifling a yawn did he act.

Jack, conscious of not startling you, moved slowly. Calmly.

He started with his prosthetic, lifting it off the bench and placing it back down onto the ground before safely attaching it. Then his bag, hands rummaging unnecessarily as though to check everything was in place — he’d already checked before leaving the locker room, but he figured another revision and a few more minutes for you to sit with your thoughts couldn’t hurt. Slinging one strap over his right shoulder, he pushed his frame off the wooden bench and came to a stand, the sickly-sweet gravel of his voice perforating the silence at last.

“Hmm?” Your reply is practically nonverbal, a simple hum. Enough to acknowledge the fact he’s spoken, yet not enough to answer his question.

Hazel eyes zero in on your own, observing how they’re tired, blinking just a little bit too lazily. The beer has warmed your cheeks, sped up your heart, and slowed your mind. Dancing on a tightrope between tipsy and inebriated, the last thing Jack is about to do is send you off home alone.

“C’mon,” he gruffs out, prying the can from your hand and laying it to rest on the bench. He replaces the weight of it in your palm with his touch, thick fingers effortlessly engulfing your own. To his delight, you give way easily, rising to a stand as he tugs you up. “Let’s get you home.”

You attempt some version of, “I’m fine.”

Jack pays it no mind.

Instead, he grabs at your familiar pink duffel bag. Something settles in his chest, dark and sickening, at the sight of dirt staining the bottom of the fabric, ruining your usually polished belongings. How apt it seems, a perfect mirror to how today has the left a smudge on you.

You stare at him all of a few seconds, eyes red. There’s no tears in sight, just the remnants of those that have already fallen. Then, when the older man shifts his weight off his right leg, you finally begin walking.

The journey is slow.

Jack’s unsure if you set the pace to accommodate to him or to put off the inevitable of going up to a lonely apartment, where all that work you’ve done to suppress the storm of emotions building inside you will prove useless the moment you step into the quiet of your home, the furthest place from danger and, yet, where all your troubling thoughts will at last catch up to you.

He thinks he’s better off not knowing, chooses to believe you’re doing it for his sake.

Some of your steps are swayed. The sight of your unsteady feet and teetering body are enough to keep his mind alert, fighting off the exhaustion that threatens to find him soon. This was supposed to be his day off, after all. He was supposed to be catching up on sleep right now, not watching over one of his nurses and worrying himself sick with thoughts of how today’s horrors will linger with you for years to come.

It was supposed to be your day off too, after all.

Neither of you should have been at the Pitt.

One man and a weapon had changed that.

You come to a stop abruptly, catching the doctor off guard and sending his solid frame crashing into your back. Before either of you can stumble too far, Jack’s snaking his free arm around your waist and stabilising you against him.

Maybe it’s the warmth of his palm, large and imposing and seeping through the cotton of your top. Maybe it’s the gentleness behind his touch, the way it anchors your feet to the pavement and silently promises that it- he won’t let you fall. Maybe it’s the weight of today finally shaking your unbreakable self, your arms too weak to keep holding you above water for much longer.

The reason doesn’t ultimately matter.

What matters is you’re finally speaking.

“Did you litter?”

Not exactly what Jack expected you to say.

It startles him for a moment, has him forgetting how today was full of horrors and has him wondering, instead, if you recycle.

It shouldn’t be so easy to picture you, bed head and a wrinkled shirt (preferably one that originally belongs to him), huffing and puffing your cheeks while you shoot around his kitchen, bags scattered along the island as you berate him.

Jack, how many times have I told you. Yellow is for plastic and cans, blue is for paper, green is for glass!

And wouldn’t it be so hard for him to fight back a smile, heart bursting with joy? A lovesick fool, happy to be lectured on the complex recycling system if it means having you, half naked, half awake, frowning at him as soon as you notice the shake in his shoulders.

Sorry, sweetheart. Promise it won’t happen again… And his hands finding your waist, pinning you to the marble counter-top so there’s nowhere for you to run from his mouth, trailing molten kisses up the expanse of your neck, lips lingering just to feel the steady thrum of your carotid pulse, physical evidence that you’re real, and here, and in his arms-

The blaring of a horn pulls Jack Abbot back onto the sidewalk.

You’re still in his arms but his lips are far from your neck and the speed of your heart is testament only to the anxiety speeding through your veins.

“Yeah. Maybe. I- I’m not really sure,” try as he might, he can’t remember if he ever moved your can from the bench. Is it still there now, half empty and waiting for its owner to return? “I’m sure someone’ll throw it away.”

Like you can’t dwell on the thought for too long, you move on, and finally say what’s really been troubling you.

“I don’t know if I-” the words catch on your throat, dry from the beer and raw with emotion. “How do I go back?”

Vague, unspecified.

Jack, with years of becoming fluent in you, understands.

“You find a way.” He wishes he could give you something more helpful, more reassuring. All he can offer you is the truth. “It’ll be hard. Different to how it was before.”

“I don’t think I can-” once more, emotions cut you off.

You’re not crying, not yet.

Stubborn as he knows you to be, steadfast in your need to remain strong until the very end. It wounds him in a way that feels a little too deep for a man who should see you as nothing more than a coworker.

Attending physician. Nurse. Colleagues.

Those are the only three words that either of you should use to describe the other. Jack knows, has known so for years. So, why does he keep having to remind himself?

“I don’t think I belong there, Doctor Abbot. You saw it, I froze. I hesitated. You had to ask me twice for the scalpel, and then- We lost him. If I had just- I should have-”

The hand at your midriff finds your shoulder, turns you around, and then his eyes find yours.

“Stop that, now. That man, he was good as gone when he reached us,” it’s a brutal truth but one that needs to be said. Jack knew it then just as much as he knows it now; that red wristband was destined for peeds. “You could have handed me that scalpel at the speed of light, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing, okay?”

You take a steadying breath.

It doesn’t work.

Instead, Jack watches it shake right through your frame. Your eyes drift from his own, like if he stares too long, he might catch a glimpse of every self-blaming thought racing through your mind.

“D’you even realise how many lives you helped save today?” The question comes tumbling out before Jack can stop it, some enate part of himself screaming at him to reassure you, to scramble up all the fractured pieces of you and slot them back together. That’s an attending’s job, right? To keep watch over the crew, to take care of the crew. So what if you’re off-the-clock? “One-hundred and six.”

“I only worked on-”

“Doesn’t matter who you personally worked on. Every one, you hear me?” He gives a squeeze of your shoulder, tells himself it’s because he wants to get you to look at him. If the touch happens to ground him too, it’s a coincidence. “Every life we saved tonight, you had a hand in that. You being there mattered, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

The words settle over you like a blanket, wrapping you in warmth and promising you shelter.

They don’t erase the sadness, don’t make it dissolve into a puddle on the ground, left to be forgotten on the dirty surface of the sidewalk. But they do enough to ease the tension between Jack’s brows and to wipe a layer of uncertainty from your eyes.

Then, unable to help himself, Jack adds, “I know I certainly couldn’t. Can barely intubate without my favourite nurse at my side.”

You laugh, slightly.

It eases something in Jack’s chest, nonetheless.

“Doctor Robby says it’s not right for attendings to play favourites.”

Now Jack is the one laughing.

You take the chance to pry your bag from his grasp, throwing the strap over your shoulder. The first act of Goodnight.

“Yeah, well, come to me again when Robby starts taking his own advice.”

There is no grand goodbye between you.

Just an exchange of fractured smiles, a subtle nod of approval from Jack as you take the first step towards the building’s entrance, and the wave of your hand before you turn fully and dash to safety.

Before you can slip through the crack you make in the building’s heavy door, Jack calls out, “I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.”

Once again, not a question. An order.

The second time is all about convenience.

It’s the last night of your monthly seven-days-on, the kind of shift where the hours stretch themselves impossibly thin and it feels like you’re crawling towards the end, a goalpost that keeps moving an inch out of reach each time you start to feel relief. By the time you officially clock out, shooting off towards the locker rooms before Whitaker can ask you to accompany another patient for a CT or Princess can enquire on any night shift gossip, you’ve worked an extra two hours and the bags beneath your eyes feel so heavy, they may as well be dragging by your feet.

Out of your scrubs, back into clothes that only partially carry the sterile stench of bleach and blood, you busy yourself with cramming things into your bag while trying your best to let Mateo’s generosity down softly.

“It’s fine, really,” even you have to admit that you don’t sound as sure as you mean to be. For a moment, you mull it over, imagine the comfort of letting yourself sit back and relax in the passenger seat of Mateo’s car. The sooner you’re home, the sooner your week off can start, right? Still, something within forces you to decline. He lives on the opposite side of the city and, with gas prices rising and his body’s tank running on empty hours before his next shift, the last thing you want to be is a nuisance. “I don’t mind the walk, gives me the chance to decompress.”

Your fellow nurse looks at you with a level of distrust, doubting the reassuring smile you cast his way.

“Are you sure?” Mateo pushes, dragging his tired body along the lockers until he stands behind yours. His curls, freed at last from the constraints of a hair-tie, peek out from the door. “I really don’t mind taking you. I mean, no offence, but you look like you belong on the set of Night of The Living Dead right now. Don’t wanna send you off just to later find out you tripped over air and wound up back here as a patient.”

Slamming your locker shut and giving his shoulder a shove — with no force behind it and doing little to move the man — you roll your eyes, “I’m fine, dingus.”

“Dingus? What are we, five?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one treating me like a toddler.”

“Like a toddler-?! I’m trying to be a good Samaritan. A gentleman!” You dodge Mateo’s hand as it reaches for your duffel bag. “Now quit being stubborn and let me make sure you get home safe-”

Everything happens so suddenly, your brain is forced to compartmentalise every action, step by step, as they unravel.

Mateo reaches for the bag, again.

You dodge it, again.

You glide to the left.

You run shoulder-first into a solid wall of warmth.

And there he is. Jack Abbot, freshly changed out of his scrubs. Hair wet from a shower, an overly woodsy scent clinging to damp skin, black t-shirt stretched a little too tightly over his chest. Despite his attempts to scrub the night away, he’s thrown on the same pair of cargo pants he spent the last fourteen hours rushing around in.

You almost want to chastise his stupidity, until you remember you can’t.

Not only is he your colleague, he’s your senior.

What business do you have telling a man like him to do anything?

“I’ll take her home.”

Never a question, always an order.

Unlike weeks ago, world turned upside down and veins full of sickly beer, you have half the mind to turn him down this time. To inch away from where your body collides with his. To reinforce your grip on the pink strap of your bag. To shake your head and offer a polite, though bashful, smile.

“Doctor Abbot, it’s fine, really! You don’t have to offer me a ride, I really do prefer walking-”

“I’m not offering you a ride,” Jack shuts you up with a pointed look, eyebrows jumping as though he’s daring you to shoot him down again. “Car’s in the garage, something’s up with the exhaust. I’m walking your way anyway, may as well let me keep you company.”

The truth is, you’re not sure why you are so hesitant to accept his offer.

Jack is a good guy, and he’s certainly not a stranger.

You’ve known him since you first stepped foot in the emergency room. Younger and brighter, the both of you. Back then, he was still new. Back then, you were still a student. Time passed, as it tends to do; Jack became a trusted figure of authority, you graduated right into the night shift. Brief exchanges of good morning, good night, and how are you? during the shift handovers blossomed into good job, good call, and I need you with me.

Lena likes to tease you, throwing looks over the top of her glasses every time he saunters up to the nurses’ station, raps his knuckles upon the desk and tilts his head towards whatever room he needs you in.

He likes me because I talk to the patients, is typically your explanation while Lena looks at you otherwise. Keeps them busy while he works.

He likes you because you’re a pretty young thing, Lena never fails to retort between answering the every whim of the staff, like the charge nurse she is. Gives those hazel eyes something to ogle.

“C’mon, are you really gonna run away from a disabled vet?” Jack pushes, shooting you that infamous silver-fox smirk. Damn him and those arms, muscles pulled taut as he crosses his hands over his chest, impatiently waiting for you to give in. “What if I stumble and there’s no one there to catch me? That’ll be on you, kid. Think you can handle it on your conscience?”

“Yeah, imagine you come back next week and find out gramps here split his head open on the curb,” Mateo chimes in from the sidelines, only for the amused expression to melt the moment you pin a glare on him. “What? The man made a good point!”

“Yeah, kid,” you barely have the chance to register how swiftly Jack tugs the duffel out of your grip, staking claim over your belongings and securing himself as a guardian to guide you home. “I made a good point. Now, are you gonna keep me waiting? ‘Cause I’d really like to see the tail end of this place at some point today.”

So you let him walk you home.

Steps less swayed, back more stiff, you try your best not to think about the last time you both walked this path. You, drowning in sorrows; him, swimming effortlessly with his head above the water.

The sun is rising slowly, rays of golden warmth kissing over the city. It’s not enough to fight away the bitter chill of winter, sending your hands diving into the pockets of a flimsy coat, reaching for a warmth they never quite find. Beside you, Jack is unshaken, barely bothered by the way his breath reflects back at him with each exhale.

“You did good today,” Jack says today in place of last night, the true mark of what the night shift does to a person’s perception of the world. Daybreak becomes dusk, while dusk becomes sunrise. Where others prepare to start their daily ritual of adhering to capitalism, you’re crawling into bed and giving in to the sweet relief of sleep. “Calmed that kid right down.”

You know immediately who he’s referring to.

James. A sweet baby boy, barely a day past 6 months, running a fever of a hundred and three, and sporting a nasty ear infection.

Understandably, he had been screaming up a storm.

Unfortunately, a certain patient nursing a headache was screaming even louder, profanities that pleaded for someone to Shut that fucking baby up!

Jack had offered to shut the patient up.

You had a more peaceful idea.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” god, you feel pathetic.

Praise is far from something foreign to you. Patients, colleagues, and friends alike are always firing off at you, sweet words that affirm the simple gestures and quiet good you bring into their lives. Whether it’s through fluffing a pillow, aiding in procedures, or gifting out your time freely; praise always worms its way into your ears.

But this is different.

Jack is different.

Every good job, every well done, every thanks, kid; it shoots right through you. Lightning that electrifies you, takes you from a state of near asystole to tachicardic in as little as the few seconds it takes his lips to shape the words. Your cheeks warm, your palms sweat. Words run from you, leaving you to grab at the few you can manage and stumble over half-formed sentences.

Worst of all, you think he knows.

He has to, right?

A man like him has lived through enough — lived long enough — to recognise the tell tale signs of the effect he has on people. Hardly anyone is immune or safe from his charms, from college kids that wind up in a gurney after having a little too much fun with a fake ID, to elderly women rushed in by their panicking children, afraid a bad cough or a sore back could be the sign of something far more sinister in the aging body.

“How did you know it would work?” It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realise Jack is talking again, head turned to watch as you walk alongside him rather than focusing ahead. “Flipping him over?”

Right.

James.

The crying baby.

Your peaceful idea.

That’s what you’re both talking about.

“Old wives tale,” you finally answer, mind drifting back to the memory of your quick thinking. The screaming baby, the screaming patient. Your hands, gentle as they picked James up. The questioning look from everyone in the room as you flipped the infant over, face down and hovering a few inches off the basinet. And then, silence. No more screaming baby. “My mum used to do it to me, flip me over when she couldn’t get me to stop. It just, y’know, shocks the system. It’s like flipping a switch, turning the baby off.”

“Huh,” somewhere above, a bird chirps, singing a song of good morning. “I’ll have to remember that.”

And then, before you can think any better or question the possible implications, you open your big mouth, “Why? Thinking of stepping into fatherhood?”

Jack gives you the worst possible answer he could have come up with: “No such thing as too late, right?”

“Yeah, maybe. If you’re a man,” you huff. “I, on the other hand, am running out of time on my biological clock as we speak.”

“Then you should get to work on changing that. If you ever need any help with it, I’m always here.”

He says it so casually, like each syllable doesn’t inch you closer to an imaginary ledge.

But his words aren’t what move you to silence.

It’s the imagery they conjure.

Positive tests and hospital visits.

The cold touch of gel on your belly, the warmth of a hand clasping your own.

Sweat rolling off your skin, limbs tangling with yours upon a mattress.

You have to physically shake yourself out of the… Fantasy? Nightmare? Mortifying hell-scape where you’re envisioning what it would be like to let a very handsome attending bend you over and get you pregnant?

“Oh my god,” you half whisper, half yell. “Doctor Abbot, did you just seriously offer-”

“Oh, you’re a pervert!” he has the audacity to exclaim as he swings your bag and bumps it against your thigh, the mischief in his eye the only thing that gives him away. This is Jack, after all, a notorious and shameless flirt. His words didn’t mean anything beyond making you flustered. “I was just offering up my kind and professional aid, as a healthcare provider and an avid champion behind women’s health.”

Head shaking and shoulders bouncing; you’re caught under the influence of Abbot’s charm. Completely unaware of the false sense of safety he’s lured you into, taking you by the hand and dragging you out to sea, waiting until your feet no longer reach the bottom, and then he let’s go, leaving the currents to pull you under…

In simpler words, he asks you the very thing you’ve been avoiding: “How's therapy going?”

“Good. Great. Yeah, I definitely feel a lot… Better. Thanks,” the words taste bitter on your tongue, bursting out of you with an urgency.

Maybe, you figure, if you say it fast enough, there will be no space to doubt it, no time to notice the lie.

“That’s amazing,” he nods curtly, only for that easy-going lilt on his lips to twist into something a little more sinister, a little more interrogative. “Cause when I spoke to Caleb, he said you haven’t been showing up. You wanna pretend you found someone else, or are you gonna tell me why you’re not using the help that’s there?”

You knew this conversation was bound to happen, from the moment Jack referred you to the PTMC’s trauma specialist, high-strung and hell-bent on fast-tracking your progress to mental wellness.

Jack hadn't known about the nightmares.

Or the sickening doubt.

Or the fact you remember every face you treated that day.

Even then, he knew you enough to notice the shift in your demeanour in the days following the Pittfest tragedy. He knew you enough to pull you aside and introduce you to Doctor Jefferson.

Deep inhale, slow exhale. Eyes focused on the pavement ahead, you finally answer, “I just… I don't like it.”

Jack scoffs.

“Nobody likes therapy.”

“It makes me feel… weak. Like I'm not cut out for this.”

You make it to your apartment building sooner than you expect, despite knowing the exact time it takes to trek from your door to the entry of the PTMC.

Any smarter woman would use it as an escape plan, as an excuse to duck out of a conversation that has you shifting weight from one foot onto the other and searching for anything to look at other than the whirlpools of brown that the doctor has pinned on you.

It turns out, you’re not as smart as you think you are, because your feet remain planted on the ground and there’s a feeling hollowing out your chest at the thought of parting from his side.

You will yourself to strip your bag from his grasp.

“Look, kid, I can’t force you to go. I don’t want to force you.” It would be easier to focus on what Jack is saying, if he didn’t have to sound so distracting. Soft-spoken, deep voice, on the verge of begging at an altar if it will get you to listen. “But I know what this job does to people, how it rots away at us if we don’t cure our wounds. I’ve lived it. I’ve seen it. I don’t want that for you. So just… Try, would you? If not for you, then for the poor old attending who really needs the help of his favourite nurse and her magic hands that manage to soothe even the weepiest of babies?”

Echoes of Mateo’s voice ring in your ear, his overly enthusiastic exclamation of The man made a good point! on loop.

There’s every chance you’ve been damned by some higher power, afflicted to live this life with a particular weakness to the man before you. It’s the only thing that makes sense, truthfully, when you find yourself conceding without a fight.

“Okay.”

How unfair it is, for eyes like that to light up so easily, “Okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll give it a try.” This time, there’s no bitter aftertaste to your agreement. Just the cold hard truth on your tongue: you’ll take a step down the path towards help, the path Jack put you on. “Can’t make it any worse, I guess.”

“That’s my girl.”

His words hit you like a sucker punch, straight to the gut and leaving you winded.

You stumble, both on your words and on the stairs, as you bid him goodbye and dash into your apartment building.

Safely tucked away at last, a whole week ahead without the threat of mortifying yourself in front of Jack Abbot.

The fourth time is a matter of protocol.

Jack once heard Dana ask Robby, “is it really a shift in the ED if you don’t end it wanting to quit?”

Today more than ever, he feels an itch to see resignation papers.

Not his own.

Yours.

Wrapped up in the active war zone of a multi-vehicle collision, Jack’s hands, eyes and mind were too focused on the woman actively bleeding out on the table to notice you slipping out of the OR, called upon by the charge nurse.

She needed you to check on a patient.

A favour, quick and simple. That’s all it was supposed to be.

There was never supposed to be a grapple for power. Or the clatter of metal meeting the ground. Or the crack of a skull following suit. Or the sickening sound of someone calling code Hula Hoop, when Jack’s hands are too occupied to run towards the source of violence.

It takes him twenty-eight gruelling minutes to make it free from the trauma rooms.

Jack strips himself of the PPE with haste, gloves and gown practically disintegrating under the force of his need to get out of the room and find out what happened, who it happened to.

He knows the answer is you before Mateo even gets the chance to speak.

Lena is on the phone, barking orders down the line. By the few words he manages to catch through his own deafening panic, the police no doubt sit on the receiving end of her call.

There are other patients to attend to, and other matters that are far more pressing — from an outsider’s point of view — that call for Jack’s immediate attention. He brushes them all aside, near blind to any consequence as something commands his feet across the department floor and straight for Exam Room 3, where the tiniest glimpse of you waits behind glass.

Shen is already tending to you, planted firmly by your bedside while the Pitt’s newest resident, Nazely, runs through your vitals. One of your arms is bent backwards, holding a compress to the back of your head. There’s a spatter of blood down the shoulder of your scrubs, splotches of a deep red staining the grey fabric. If Jack looks at it for too long, he’ll throw up, so his eyes shift to your face instead.

When he finds you smiling, a flood of anger finally collapses the immovable dam within him.

Jack frowns before he can even think to stop himself.

“What the hell happened?” Disgust stains each of his words, bleeding all over the room and stiffening the shoulders of those who potter around you, Nazely and the nurses alike.

Only Shen is unmoved by his outburst, turning to meet him with a deadpan stare and a mocking finger pressed to his lips, before he breathes out a gentle shh. “Watch it, old man, my precious patient’s got a nasty headache.”

There’s a likelihood Shen doesn’t get the chance to witness Jack’s eye roll, as the older man slips right through the gap between your gurney and his fellow attending. Without a word of acknowledgement tossed your way, he pries the cold compress from your fingers, commanding you to drop your arm and yield the task of holding it against your head over to him.

This time, Jack speaks a little softer, “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know, Doctor Abbot, there’s this thing called HIPPA-”

“John, I swear to-”

“It was my fault,” your voice cuts through the bickering of the two attendings, snapping the heat of Jack’s gaze off of Shen and onto you. The frown lines along his forehead ease ever so slightly, against his will, as you insist on flashing him an even bigger smile than before. “Lena, she told me- warned me the guy was in an altered state of mind. I shouldn’t have- I know better than to turn my back on a patient in that state. But it’s fine-”

Jack starts up immediately, hackles rising on the back of his neck as he takes the stance of a defensive mutt, ready to fight tooth and nail to protect its owner, “It’s not fine-”

“I’m fine, Dr Abbot,” pathetically placid, the brush of your fingertips as they graze his arm is enough to neutralise his outrage, nostrils no longer flaring with each puffed out breath of frustration. “He grabbed me, we tussled, and then I slipped on my own untied shoe lace.”

“And where is he now? This altered patient,” his grip slips slightly on the compress, apologies flooding his tongue at the slight wince the action wakes in you. Ignoring your pain, you take more notice of the hostility in his stance, quirking an eyebrow up at him in a silent question. “Don’t give me that look. I’m a doctor, I want to make sure he’s getting the standard of care he deserves.”

When you try to shrug off his interrogation, Shen finally proves he can do something other than get on Jack’s nerves this evening and unveils the truth, “He took off, slipped out the ambulance bay when they called the code.”

“Son of a-”

“CT’s back,” Nazely, quiet as a mouse, had managed to slip out the room unnoticed, and now shoulder-barges her way back in, carrying your results and cutting off Jack’s foul mouth. “Other than a nasty bump, you’re in the clear.”

It’s not that Jack doubts the intern’s ability as a doctor.

And it’s certainly not that he doesn’t trust Shen.

It just so happens that, when the young resident goes to hand-off your CT scans to one of the attendings, Ellis comes knocking on the door, demanding the input of her most trusted attending.

Jack’s never been more relieved to come in second.

Hawk eyes scan over black and whites images, and only once he’s confirmed with his own two eyes that you truly are in the clear does Jack feel that tension in his shoulders begin to unwind.

In a room that now only houses two, he lets himself stand as close to you as he needs, shifting his stance to keep watch on the doors on either side of the room — a guard dog that can never deny it's nature to protect, even as it nestles into its owner.

He doesn’t quite nestle into you, careful to obey that fine line of decorum that exists between colleagues, between a junior and a senior, between a girl your age and a man as weathered as him. No matter the itch in his palm that begs to be scratched by skin no other than your own, he resists the urge to touch you.

Until you move.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Puzzled by the sternness in his usually nonchalant voice, you gaze over your shoulder at him, now sat upright and with both legs swung over the other side of the bed, “To finish… my shift?”

And that is how his hand finds your arm, a grasp that is gentle yet firm, allowing him to guide you back into your previous position. In his other hand still sits the ice pack, as he continues pressing it to your head.

“Uh-uh,” the denial is followed by a tsk, as he slips back into Doctor Abbot mode and puffs out his chest, taking on the persona of big, bad, commanding professional who knows exactly what his patient needs. “Your shift ended the moment that head of yours hit the ground. And since that asshole-” a pointed look shoots his way, warning in your eyes. Jack corrects his previous verbiage, “altered patient who did this took off, new protocol says I can’t let you leave hospital grounds on your own. Now unless you know someone kind enough to pick you up at 4 am, I suggest you take the opportunity to get some rest. I’ll come wake you when the morning shift zombies start strolling in.”

He leaves no room for debate.

He leaves the room, drawing the curtains and switching off the light.

If Jack were even a modicum more brazen, he’d shamelessly have locked the doors, ensuring you can’t slip away to return to your duties. In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about catching you back out on the floor, as when he checks on you some time after five fifteen, Jack finds you curled into the bed, the ice pack now fully melted and discarded halfway down the foam mattress.

By the time he wakes you, the clock has long struck seven and Robby is breathing down his neck, urging him to open Exam Room 3 back up to actual patients and not just that nurse you like to ogle.

Something in your demeanour has shifted.

Quiet, slow, weighed-down. You don’t walk; you drag yourself to the lockers. Head turned to the floor, body pulled in on itself, voice soft as you bid people good morning and goodbye.

Jack follows in your footsteps, hovering in the periphery of your every move, from your locker out into the street.

You don’t acknowledge him, barely even look at him, yet you yield easily to the way he takes the weight of your bag off your shoulder, slipping it onto his own. And so he gives you your space, walks a few paces behind as you both inch along the path back home — your home.

A shiver forces him to break the silence.

It creeps down your spine, from top to bottom, and settles into your hands, a subtle shake that not even shoving them into the pockets of your coat can quell.

“Wait a second, would you, kid?”

Jack’s never fought so hard to keep his voice soft. Despite his efforts, you startle at the interrupted silence. When your feet pause on the concrete, it’s unclear if it’s because of his request or your shock.

Instead of dwelling on the thought for too long, Jack focuses on his self-assigned task, shrugging his bag off of one shoulder and manoeuvring it to lay against his chest, allowing him to observe the contents as his hand riffles through it. Digging way down past rolls of bandage, a tube of specialised moisturiser, a few odd pairs of compression socks, and various other miscellaneous wonders, his fingers finally happen upon what they’ve been seeking: hand warmers.

“Here,” he starts up, as he hastily rips a packet open and shakes the bag. “This should get the cold out your bones.”

Jack has always prided himself on his rationality. Controlled and composed, with eyes that have payed witness to more horrors than the heart can cope with, it is a rare — if not impossible — feat to catch him sporting a heart rate higher than seventy three.

Watching you envelop the warmer in both your palms, soothing out the shake brought on by early morning chills and the residue panic from your attack, he’s tachycardic.

Months of awaiting the rise of an opportunity — since that second time he walked you home and watched you attempt to hide your skin from the wind’s bite with the flimsy pockets of your coat — buying those hand warmers has at last payed off.

He’s not quite finished digging through his bag.

Untangling the ball that has become of his wired earphones, Jack awaits permission before slipping one bud into your ear, the other into his own. He plugs them into his phone, swipes along his catalogue of playlists, and hits play on the first one that catches his eye. Medicine in the form of music, doctor’s orders.

And just like that, you’re both on the move again. The silence between you now carries a soundtrack, a mixture of eighties rock and seventies funk marking the beat of each footstep. Jack no longer hovers a few paces behind, welcomed back to your side by the short string of wire dangling between you.

Halfway through The Cure’s Just Like Heaven, Jack catches himself entranced in the shape of your lips as they mouth along to each lyric, and it strikes him, then and there, that maybe a moment like this is what inspires a musician to write, to eulogise an emotion through the eternal art of music.

For a man who long ago stopped talking to any version of a god that may exist, walking along by your side, hands brushing occasionally, bodies drifting closer to each other’s orbit; it’s as close to heaven as Jack may ever get.

Jack doesn’t leave you at the entrance to your building.

He holds the heavy door open for you, follows you in. Learning quickly that you live on the third floor, he bites back a comment about how shaky the elevator is, enduring the ride up. Following as you weave through the hall, right down to the end, he keeps quiet as you pause outside a door.

For a moment, he thinks that you’re going to say goodbye. That you’re going to thank him for walking you home, again, even after he’s told you it’s no bother. That you’re going to fish out your keys and slip through the door, starting the countdown on the clock of when he’ll get to see you again, later tonight for another shift in the pitt.

What Abbot isn’t expecting is for you to turn to him, cheek already streaked by a rogue tear, with another dancing on your eyelashes and promising to follow soon.

You take a moment to find your voice, lips parting and delivering the promise of your voice, “I’ve never felt unsafe at work.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, wanting to let your words simmer.

You have other plans.

“But when he-” the crack in his heart echoes the one in your voice, lips trembling over silent vowels as you fail to speak.

Tears roll down like waves, crashing against your chin and dripping onto the neckline of your sweater. And all Jack can do is clench his fist, hold it close to his side as blunt nails tattoo their print into the flesh of his palm. He cannot risk letting his guard slip, risk acting on an impulse you might not welcome.

“I was scared.” You breathe out, like the words you utter are a grave sin, the weight of guilt at last ripped off your shoulders. “Which is stupid, I know. I was fine, it was just a- I shouldn’t of-”

“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts, daring to take a step closer, hands still glued to his sides. “You were attacked.”

Like hearing it spoken aloud clicks something into place, gravity kicks in and you finally come crashing down, waves of tears now aided by a storm of overwhelming emotions. Shoulders shaking, breath stilling, eyes landing on every inch of the hallway but the place he stands.

Jack is no stranger to stomach-churning sights.

He’s withstood the horrors of a war zone, watched bullets hit their marks and shrapnel claim countless victims — his leg, to name one. From the brutality of war to the chaos of an emergency department, he’s bit back the acrid burn of bile at the back of his throat; it comes with each life he fails to save. There are nights where he cannot count the dead on both hands, never mind one. He has reckoned with the missing piece of him, where empty space now occupies the flesh that once extended below his right knee. Perched upon a shower bench, or throbbing with a phantom ache, or soothing vaselines and creams into an angry red stump, Jack learned to endure the pain.

But this — you, breaking down before his eyes, barely a step between you both — brings on a pain like no other, something he can't quite describe.

Cracks are forming in his composure, a trait he wears like armour, threatening to spill onto the dirtied floors of the building's hallway. His fingers slip, no longer balled into fists but pressed flat against the top of his thighs, drumming a nervous rhythm into stained cargo. When Jack tries to clear his throat of the ball forming within, he nearly breaks out in a cough, choking on the comfort he longs to speak into existence.

You interrupt his collapse of self-control.

Two steps is all it takes for your forehead to kiss his shoulder. Dampness overcomes the grey fabric of his shirt, your tears staining it a darker shade. Jack freezes at first, hands unwilling to move beneath the growing fear of touching you wrong, scaring you off. Then, slowly, as the weight of you presses deeper into the crook of his neck, his arms find themselves taking full possession of you, fingers splaying up the length of your spine and pulling you tighter against him.

For a moment, the outside world holds no consequence. Jack is not an attending, you are not a nurse. There's no decade of time between the age of your bodies, nor a quiet though respectful history of admiration between you as coworkers. That acceleration of his heart is not a reason to panic but a reason to rejoice, no fear of any wicked woes from years gone by sneaking back up to remind Jack of troubles past.

No, none of that matters in this moment but you, Jack, and the syncopation of your breathing.

One of his hands finds your hair, equal parts warm as it is large when it cups the back of your head and smothers you closer into his pulse point. Suddenly he’s grateful he reached for the expensive cologne today.

Clearing his throat, Jack attempts to self soothe from the sharp pain in his chest that grows with every sniffle from you, “Fear doesn’t make you any less brave.”

Your reaction is delayed, barely acknowledging the fact he spoke at first, until you’re bursting into a fit of subdued giggles.

While laugher wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for, Jack can’t help but feel like he's succeeded at something.

“Who knew you could be so deep, Jack,” he wrestles with his body at your soft reply, willing himself to not imagine you mentioning deep and his name in a much racier setting, preferably splayed out on the navy of his bedsheets, hair a soft halo that further cements your image as an angel… An angel he wants to commit every carnal sin against.

You move too soon for Jack’s liking, who nearly clings onto your figure until logic kicks in and reminds him how pathetic of an image that would paint. There's a streak of colour down your cheeks, stains where tears have dragged away the subtlest hints of makeup, yet Jack swears he’s never seen you in a prettier light than this: beneath the cold, buzzing light of the hallway, stepping back from his arms with a look in your eyes far lighter than the one you sank into him with.

“Easy on the teasing, kid,” the nickname has never felt more like a lie, sour on the back of his tongue. The last thing Jack Abbot considers you is a kid. Younger? Of course, but nothing short of a woman, in shape and in mind. “I stole that quote from my therapist actually, I’ll have you know.”

Then, for reasons less related to muscle memory than he would dare to admit, Jack shoots a wink in your direction.

Goodbyes exchanged and apologies for wet shirts successfully curved, Jack lingers by your door until he hears you twist the lock shut behind you, a solid frame of wood bringing the abstract divide between you into the world of the tangible.

Right then, right there, still running on that same spike of adrenaline from when he first heard the horrid cries of code Hula Hoop, Jack Abbot is struck over the head with a horrific realisation.

One taste of you in his arms is not enough, and it never will be.

Jack needs more.

The fifth time is a matter of routine.

You’ve always been a fiend for structure; a creature of habit. Doctor Jefferson reckons it’s the perfect trait to balance out the chaos your field of work brings into your life — when you reiterate that explanation to Jack, him retying his laces for the third time in a row and you reshuffling the same stack of papers for a fifth time, the attending is quick to agree.

“Have you seen yourself eat a sandwich?” Jack’s defensive retort comes no sooner than a moment after your hand teasingly swats his shoulder. Unbeknownst to you, the sudden sway he gives has less to do with the force behind your hand, and everything to do with how your touch grips at his soul. “You’re the only person I know that takes the exact same order of bites, every time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” your protest is far from filtered through any seriousness, words that are soon followed by an amused snort. “No I do not!”

“Uh yes, you do,” back on his feet and standing straight, Jack’s gaze lowers to meet your own, sitting prudently at your desk and finding any measly task to occupy your hands for five more minutes, if only to continue giving your feet the break they need from running here, there, and everywhere. Force of his own habits, or perhaps a nervous tick, you watch as the attending occupies his hands with the shape of his stethoscope, two fists dangling from his neck as he curls his knuckles and tugs on the object.

With your apparent eating habit now dragged into the spotlight, Jack dismisses himself with nothing more than a cheeky lift of his lips, and a muttered Duty calls! as a set of EMTs come strolling in with a gurney.

The rest of your shift passes in a Jack-less blur, your eyes and ears too occupied as you trail next to Parker.

She had lay claim over you no more than seven minutes into your shift, face lighting up like a Christmas tree at the sight of you strolling out from the locker room, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your body familiarised itself with the shape of your scrubs. Without even so much as a hello, Ellis grasped a hand around your forearm and tugged you off towards triage, paying no mind to Jack’s questioning gaze as you both shot right past him. All she offered him was a, “Sorry, Abbot, your girl is mine for tonight.”

Abbot didn’t correct her.

Your girl.

Every part of your psyche is aware it’s a minuscule thing to get hung up on, to feel your stomach fluttering with an unknown anxiety each time you replay the scene; yet it happens all the same.

As you assist Dr Ellis, passing her a scalpel.

As you rip off dirtied gloves and replace them with a new pair.

As you stir sugar into your third coffee of the night, eyes staring blankly ahead while Ellis talks your ear off, venting about her recent misadventures in love.

“And then guess what she said!” Parker’s voice may as well be going in one ear and out the other, because you’re far from listening, eyes too busy following the shape of Abbot as he cuts down the length of a hallway, one of the younger residents glued to his side and pitching their newest case.

Has the casual dominance he wears like another layer of clothing always had this effect on you, firing off error warnings in your mind as you watch him steer his resident out the way of an oncoming gurney — a motion that reads as second nature, not even so much as a moment’s thought running through him before he’s executing the action.

Ellis snaps you out of it, fingers clicking in your face and blinking her back into focus.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Huh? What?” It’s torture not to let yourself get wrapped up in Jack again as he perches himself across from you both, elbows braced on the nurse’s station and arms straining at the seams of a navy top you swear is purposefully two sizes too small. “Yeah, of course I am.”

“Then guess what she said next,” despite the distrusting glint in her eye, Dr Ellis spares you the humiliation of telling you she caught you staring at her attending.

“Uh… That she’s not ready for a relationship, even though you met on a dating app?”

“Worse!” she exclaims, right as you notice Jack’s hazel gaze meet yours, intrigue practically dripping off his eyelashes with every involuntary blink. “I don’t date Virgos. I mean, can you believe that? The girl is navigating her love life by letting goddamn starry shapes guide her!”

“Hey,” you feign a face of offence, hand clasped your chest as though to shield your heart. “Some of us just like the comfort of fixed compatibility.”

You watch as the betrayal settles over Doctor Ellis, glazing over her already dead-pan stare with a look of pure judgement, “Et tu, brute? Go on then, shove your knife deeper, would you ever date a Virgo?”

“I don’t know. I guess? I’ve never really thought about what signs I wouldn’t date,” you pause, the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention as a strange sensation of being watched creeps over you. But as you look back over in Jack’s direction, you find him engrossed in his phone. A pitiful feeling dawns over you, baptising your heart with a hollow ache only disappointment can conjure. “Weirdly though, all my exes have been either a Pisces or Gemini. I don’t know what that says about me but-”

You finish on time, for once.

No last minute emergencies, no lingering to help Jack as he squeezes one last case into his already-finished shift, no letting your scrubs overstay their welcome; you pry them off like they are caught ablaze. And then you linger.

Hands occupy themselves with minuscule tasks, organising and rearranging the items in your locker; then unzipping your bag and going through each of your belongings. Eyes take the occasional peek towards the entries of the lockers, and ears perk up each time footsteps grow closer.

It’s only when Jack steps through the door at last, defeat written all over his face, that your mouth moves. First, stretching into a smile, and then forming a few words.

“Rough night?”

Relief ripples his features at the sound of your voice — like finding a streak of sunlight on a rainy day— bringing the tiniest spark of joy back into his sunken eyes, “Thought you’d have gone by now, kid.”

You waver, something about his question feeling accusatory, even if he delivers it in the gentlest of voices.

Why haven’t you left?

A troublesome cat, an unfinished box-set, and a bowl of leftover pasta sit in the confines of your apartment, practically begging you to race home back to them and delve yourself into comfort, that momentary pause to the chaos of the PTMC you struggle to find in the hours between shifts. A few months ago, you would already be a glass of wine deep and settling in for just one more episode of many, far from lingering like a bad scent amongst the lockers. But then again, a few months ago, the road home was a lonely one.

At what point did that seventeen minute walk become the highlight of your day?

Something warm meets your nostrils, dragging your attention across to where Jack now stands, spritzing his sweat-ridden neck with a few pumps of cologne. You don’t mean to notice the bottle has less than a quarter of its amber liquid left. You also don’t mean to reminisce on the first time you saw the bottle, clasped in Jack’s hands. The memory was one you thought would be singular, never once before having witnessed the older man groom himself after a shift.

Instead, it’s become his signature.

Clock out, hit the lockers, drown the stench of bleach with a warm musk, and then…

“Do you have any gum?”

You know this scene all too well, you almost get ahead of the script and answer before he even asks. Fortunately, you manage to play it cool, “Uh, let me check… Yes!”

Jack doesn't need to know that you didn’t really need to check.

And Jack definitely doesn’t need to know that you never used to carry gum, not until the first time he asked.

But does he need to move closer, that cloud of freshly sprayed cologne enveloping you in its arms, just to pluck the strip of gum from your outstretched hand?

Mint blankets over the notes of bergamot and black pepper, and Jack washes away the stale coating in his mouth, jaw wound tight as he crushes the white rubber beneath his molars.

He doesn’t inch away, retreat back to where he once stood. Instead, his hand finds your own, fingers bumping against yours and silently commanding you to relinquish control… Of the strap of your bag, of course, index and middle finger hooking beneath the padded fabric and slinging the bag over his own shoulder.

“You know,” you say, because you have to. If you don’t distract yourself with speech, you’ll drown in those hazel eyes, too close for comfort and, yet, nowhere near close enough. “You should really start bringing your own gum. Or a toothbrush, if you’re that scared of having a bad breath. What if I switch to day-shift, huh?”

Maybe Jack scoffs in disbelief, knowing there’s not a version of reality where you elect to work days. Or maybe the scoff is a way of downplaying his irritation at the thought, possessive over the sheer possibility of losing his girl to the likes of Robinavitch, hot-head extraordinaire with a touch of suicidal tendencies.

Whatever his reason, Jack is quick to mask the original expression on his face with an easy smile, one corner of his lips twisting upwards as he shrugs, “It’s less to do with not wanting a bad breath, more to do with the fact I like being in your debt.”

Frozen in shock, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowing, you barely register as Jack starts to make his way down the hall, snapping out your trance only as he calls your name.

Like a dog called to heel, you scurry off to join his side.

Jack stops informing you that he’s walking you home.

Without fail, every shift, he shows up, steals your gum, invades your space, and takes your baggage hostage, guiding you out of the ER with the ghost of his touch against your lowers back, steering you through the crowd of ailing folks and stopping you from diving in to help.

Conversation is no longer something the space between you demands, a comfortable silence settling in; the wind down of a hectic shift sound-tracked by the sound of a city waking up, the smack of your footsteps hitting the ground, and the occasional exchange of words.

Like today, as you pass by a unit under construction and Jack reads over the sign: a soon-to-open sushi restaurant.

“You ever been to Japan?” He asks, curiosity practically beaming from his eyes.

“Never. You?”

“Once, when I was young-” he hesitates, like he intended to add -er to the end of his word but decided against it. “Would you ever go?”

“To Japan?” He nods. “Yeah, maybe.”

His reply arrives like a confession, gentle and lacking the confidence you’ve come to associate with Jack, “I’ve been meaning to visit again.”

Silence keeps you both company the rest of the way, until your feet come to a halt outside your apartment block. Jack doesn’t intend to follow you to your door, not like the last time. Instead, he shrugs off your bag and helps you slip it over your own shoulder, using those large hands to scoop your hair up, rescuing you from the sharp sting of feeling the strap pull down on it.

Then Jack announces, just as lacking in confidence as the last time he spoke: “I’m not a Virgo.”

You stare at him, blinking slow, letting his words settle into the grooves of your brain and sink down until some part of you starts to make sense of them.

The more he speaks, the clearer it becomes what he’s attempting to say, “Or a Gemini. Not even a Pisces.”

Suddenly, those moments as you stood listening to Dr Ellis’ romantic woes, with the nurses station between you and Jack and fleeting glances snuck between nurse and attending, it all feels less innocent, less casual. More intentional.

Jack had been listening, hanging on to your every word as you entertained Parker and pretended to allow astrology to rule over the romance in your life.

“Just, thought I should let you know,” much to your dismay, Jack’s fleeing quicker than you can chase him, a sheepish smile overcoming his face and a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “In case you were ever wondering.”

Finally, there is the time where lines blur.

“Come on,” the tell-tale whine of a tipsy Trinity Santos rings out of your phone’s speaker, interrupting an intimate evening for three: you, your cat, and a cheesy horror movie, where the only thing scarier than the lacklustre VFX are the plot inconsistencies. “Even Crash- Ow! Sorry, I mean, even Vic is here!”

The last thing you want to do on your night off is to squeeze yourself into a pair of jeans and spend it in the presence of the exhausted day-shifters, four-drinks too deep for you to ever catch up, no matter how many shots you throw back.

Unfortunately for you, the only thing more convincing than Trinity’s pleading is Whitaker’s tipsy bellow of your name, followed promptly by, “I need a karaoke partner! Santos ditched me for Mel!”

It’s only with a groan that you agree, “Okay. Fine, yeah, whatever. I’ll come. But I’m having an early night! No seven am walks of drunken shame like last time!”

“Don’t worry meemaw, we’ll get you tucked into bed before three, latest,” Santos’ laugh rings down the line, the alcohol coursing through her veins amplifying the humour she already finds so easily in her own words. “Now hurry, the bar closes at eleven, then who knows where the night might take us!”

You enter the bar, already braced and ready for the impact of the Pittlings swarming you, like bees drawn to honey, a tangle of arms wrapping themselves around you. Only as Mel let’s you go — the last to do so — do you notice a figure you had not anticipated.

Dr Robby, sat in all his grumpy glory, greeting you with a tightlipped smile and a single wave of his hand. Before you can even open your mouth, ready to return the greeting, you take a step forward, heel landing in a puddle of spilled drinks, and nearly slip… only to find there’s a presence at your back.

Not touching you, but there; hovering, lingering. A buzz of energy trapped in the minimal space between the small of your back and the warmth of a hand.

“Careful, kid. There’s better ways to fall head over heels.”

Without even having to turn your head, you know it’s him.

You do so, anyway, and welcome in the sight of Jack Abbot clad in a pair of dark jeans, dark boots, and a white button up, sleeves rolled below his elbows and with the buttons undone enough to tease the way his collarbones sit dusted by freckles. Familiarity is in his scent, a cloud of his cologne settling into the atmosphere above your head, and the low lights of the bar catch on his pupils, reflecting warmth.

A million thoughts run through your head: how he’s no doubt come to keep Robby company, how the sleeves of his shirt are practically choking his biceps, how wrong it feels to see him surrounded by the Pittlings, how much of a relief it is to see him.

But all your mouth can manage is an unpleasant, “Why are you here?”

The table’s chatter comes to a pause, all eyes on you two as an exchange of chuckles, whistles, and even a soft ouch crawls its way out of Robby’s lips.

“No! Sorry, I-” hellbent on embarrassing yourself, it seems, you groan as your face dives into the safety of your palms, cheeks hot to the touch. “That’s not what I meant-”

Fingers seize your wrists in a gentle grasp, momentarily soothing over your rapid pulse point before they tug your hands away from your face, putting you back on display to the rest of the bar. All you see is Jack, in front of you, biting back laughter and fighting off a teasing grin.

“I know what you mean,” by the grace of something merciful, he lets go of you, sending your hands dropping back down to your sides. “I swapped with Shen. He needs my Sunday off.”

At the mercy of God, or the universe, Samira puts an end to your humiliation ritual and jumps out her seat, lacing her arm with yours, and drags you off in the direction of the bar, “Let’s get you a drink. Alcoholic, preferably!”

A half hour passes in the blink of an eye, clock striking ten and beginning the countdown to the bar’s closure. You down your first drink - a concoction of fruit juice, and syrup, and cheap liquor. The second is one you treat a little kinder, nursing your glass of vermouth and giving it the attention it deserves, each sip a chance to let the flavours melt into your tongue. By your third, the sweet feeling in your chest is enough to counter the bitterness of any drink, and so you move onto the cheap beer Trinity clings to like a lifeline.

Jack sits furthest from you, alternating between sophisticated sips of a bourbon and gulps from a beer bottle his hand engulfs entirely too easily. Despite the fact he sits knee-deep in conversation with Robby — who has spent most of his night complaining, no doubt, about a recent run-in with Gloria — while you lend an ear and a smile to Dennis as he pleads his case to you on why his friendship with a certain widow is perfectly innocent, the two of you orbit each other.

With eyes that wander, drawn from one side of the table to the other. At first, it’s bashful: whenever you catch him, Jack’s neck snaps his attention right back to his fellow attending. But as the drinks flow and time ticks on, it grows bolder, transitioning into a challenge; hazel eyes pinning your own into a staring contest as they watch you over the rim of his glass. You lose, conceding to whatever force draws your eyes down like magnets to the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

With fingers that toy a line between distance and friction. When you reach for the handful of nuts at the centre of the table, Jack’s fingers meet your own in the bowl. The graze is minute, barely a whisper of contact between skin, yet it shakes you to the core. Familiar fingers meet your skin as Jack makes his way around the table, excusing himself with needing a trip to the bathroom. It’s as he passes you that he strikes, a teasing drum of fingertips against your shoulder — mimicking the call of someone searching for your attention — that has your head turning to the right, only to find no one there. By the time you catch onto the fact it was Jack, he’s standing in a queue for the toilets and offering you a challenging raise of his brows. What the challenge is, you don’t quite know yet.

You’re not given the chance to dwell on the thought, not when Santos slams an empty bottle down into the centre of the table and declares, “Time to find out all your dirty secrets. Truth or Drink!”

A chorus of groans echo from the surrounding party, yourself included… Yet you all entertain her all the same, no one daring to challenge her pointed stare as she spins the bottle.

It lands on Mel, whose excitement lasts all of the seven seconds it takes Trinity to dish up a question.

Have you ever tried to break up a marriage?

Mel drinks.

Victim #2, much to Trinity’s delight, is Javadi.

Javadi, who already is nose deep in her glass before a question can even hit the table, slamming her empty cup down onto the table with a sheepish smile.

“Dammit, I was gonna tell Mel to ask about Mateo,” comes Santos’ disappointment.

The younger girl is just as quick to reply, “Why do you think I drank?”

Poor Robby ends up roped into the game next, following in the footsteps of the previous players and drinking instead of answering Javadi’s interrogation, “Do you follow me on TikTok?”

It’s when Dennis takes a swig of his colourful cocktail that Samira groans, surprising the entirety of the table as she throws her head back and exclaims, “Oh my God, you people are so boring! All too chicken to answer!”

Jack seems to take that as a challenge, for when the bottle comes to a halt, neck pointed in his direction after Dennis spun it, his arms remain firmly crossed over his chest.

“Shit. Wow, okay,” the younger boy is startled, no question burning on the tip of his tongue for a man he barely knows. So he settles with something simple, something impersonal, something with no deeper intention behind it to humiliate the man: “When was the last time you lied?”

Jack doesn’t answer immediately.

No, he makes a show out of turning his wrist up to his eyes, squinting as they read of the dials and his face settles into an emotionless expression, “Like… an hour ago?”

Quick as a whippet, Trinity dives at the first chance to investigate, “Who did you lie to?”

“That’s a different question,” Jack fires right back, reaching for the empty bottle to spin.

For some reason, his eyes are pinned on you. Even as the bottle lands on Trinity, they linger on your frame, that same unknown challenge in his stare.

The bar spits you all out at four minutes past eleven, bodies spilling out into the street. It’s chaos, voices of strangers mingling in with those of your coworkers. You’re being tugged each and every other way, a million questions fired in your direction.

C’mon, don’t you agree we should go Downtown?

No, no! We have to head to Passion!

Ew, Passion sucks. Every surface is… sticky.

Can’t we just go anywhere that offers karaoke?

Poor, unsuspecting Dennis is left flinching back in shock as a unified bark of No! comes from all the girls, disgusted eyes burning him for so much as daring to suggest such a thing.

“Wherever you kids are going, it won’t be with her,” Jack, emboldened by the booze in his veins, finally lets that hand of his fully press against your lower back. Your head turns to find him already watching you, amused by your puzzled look. “You’re working tomorrow.”

“So are they!” You exclaim, hand pointing out to the crowd of Pittlings. “They have work sooner than I do!”

“And that’s Dr Robinavitch’s cross to bear. You, on the other hand,” a finger drags down the slope of your nose, taping against the tip as Doctor Abbot leans down to your ear, like you’ll suddenly lose the ability to hear him over the noise of the city streets. “You’re my problem.”

It’s hard to breathe; the night air too cold, too thick, too drenched in Jack’s cologne.

You know his reputation; you’ve been victim to it. Jack Abbot, shameless flirt, tongue always locked and loaded with a comment capable of shaking even the most stable of heartbeats. But this is different.

This is his hands on you, this is his voice claiming some form of ownership over you, this is his stare tearing through the fabrics of your being and embedding itself inside your chest, awakening a kind of warmth that even the hottest Pittsburgh summer day would envy.

“Boo!” It’s Victoria who cries out, cutting right through the budding tension between nurse and attending, one-too-few seconds away from blossoming into something far from the professionalism of colleagues. “You’re leaving already!?”

Your mouth opens, ready to answer.

Jack steals the words right out your mouth, “Yes. I think it’s about time we leave, don’t you agree?”

Spotlight pointed at you, he puts you on the spot for the entire group to watch how you fumble over a simple, “Uh, sure.”

The hand against your lower back sticks to you like a magnet the whole way home.

A journey longer than the one you usually stumble down with Jack by your side. It would have made more sense to hail a cab, any rational adult would recognise that, yet neither of you dare to suggest it. Crowds of drunken fools spill out from bars and invade the sidewalk — the kind of stumbling messes that activate a cynical part of you, wondering just how many of them will wind up in the care of your colleagues before the end of the night — Jack answers their invasion by drawing you closer, footsteps fading to the back of yours as he guides you to walk ahead of him, the burn of his hand reminding you that he’s there, that you’re safe, that no wave of foreign faces is going to sweep you up and drag you away.

Even as you make your way up the stairs to your apartment floor, elevator out of service, Jack lingers a few paces behind, watching your every move.

It’s as your fumbling around in your purse, fingers blindly rummaging through loose change and half-empty lip gloss tubes in search of the keys to your apartment, that Jack takes it upon himself to start spewing revelations.

“It was you,” he says, pauses and, when met with your questioning eyes, glancing back at him over your shoulder, clarifies. “The last time I lied, tonight. It was to you.”

A few seconds pass in silence, and then, “Oh.”

“Shen doesn’t need Sunday off.”

“Oh.”

“I knew you were off tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he leans down, enters your orbit and invades you with the knowledge of how solid his chest feels pressed against your back, and how warm his breath feels, brushing against the shell of your ear as it mimics your repetitive exclaims of shock. “‘S that all you know how to say?” Before you can politely beg him to back up, for the sake of your sanity and your fraying willpower, hanging on by a single thread that seems more than eager to snap and unleash the burning in your loins upon the older man, Jack shuffles a few steps back and takes a deep breath — the kind that has his shirt straining against the growing width of his chest. “It’s not the first time I’ve lied to you.”

“Oh- Wait,” Cut off by your own confusion, you spin on your heel a little too quickly and stumble forward, hand inches away from rediscovering the meaning of balance against his chest. “What have you lied about?”

“There we go, finally using that pretty voice properly again,” if you had known this was what a tipsy Jack Abbot behaved like, you would have offered him a drink months ago. Especially with the way his cheeks sit blushing in red, a shy imagery to contradict the growing boldness in his words. “My car was never in the garage. I even drove it to work that day. But you wouldn’t accept Mateo’s offer for a lift, so I figured I’d need a real good excuse to walk you home.”

Clarity washes over you not in repeated waves, but in one single tsunami.

Overwhelming, a wall of emotions flooding over your being. You mentally retrace each step you’ve taken in his company. Each walk home, each careful conversation exchanged between you. Every cloud of worry that hovered overhead, convincing you of a reality where your presence and the act of accompanying you home is nothing but a burden to Jack Abbot, a simple kindness that’s gotten out of hand and now he does not know how to back out of.

But his words bend that reality, until it snaps in half and ceases to exist. Because here Jack is, telling you he orchestrated reasons to walk you home, excuses to linger in your presence after the night shift came to an end and patients are no longer a force that brings you into one another’s proximity.

Jack Abbot wants to be around you. So why on Earth would you part from him now, just because your finger had hooked itself around a keyring?

“Jack,” in the quiet of the hallway, his name echoes off your lips, uttered more intimately than ever before. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”

Your confidence is a case of easy come, easy go; dissipating before you can even wait for a proper reply from the man. Anxious thoughts dialled up and overloading, you turn back to face your front door, shakily shove the key into the door, and unlock something that feels a little more than just your apartment, a point of no return awaiting in it’s premises should Jack choose to accept your offer.

Walking in before Jack can speak, you get your answer with the gentle closing of the door behind you and the clearing of Jack’s throat, swallowing back what may just be a similar ball of emotion swelling within your own.

If you had anticipated Jack Abbot standing in your living room tonight, you would have at least attempted to tidy up.

Then again, if you had anticipated this, there’s other things you would have done differently… You would have made sure you actually had something to offer him to drink, for starters.

“Uh… I don’t have any beer,” you mutter, more to yourself than Jack, one hand holding the fridge door open and the other rummaging through the half-empty shelves, like you might somehow unveil a surprise bottle of anything-worth-drinking. “I can offer bourbon? Maybe? Or I’ve got leftover wine. Might have gone bad though. Shit, sorry, I really don’t have anything to offer.”

Closer than you anticipate, hovering by the entry to the kitchen, Jack rasps a careful, “Just you is fine. ‘S all I’m really here for.”

Like two opposing magnets drawn together by an unseen force, distance becomes null and void as eyes meet and you both inch closer, devouring the space between you with careful steps. Face to face at last with everything that has been brewing beneath the surface of your interactions, you barely squeeze out a whisper of his name before Jack claims your mouth as his prisoner.

Lips lock like shackles, trapping you in place against the older man. Hands find one another’s frames, his large palm staking claim over the back of your neck and tilting your face into the perfect angle for him to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing with a graze over your lower lip, the beginning of a chuckle bubbling in his chest as you answer his touch with a pitiful whine, before he finally licks into your mouth. Your own hands carve out a path for themselves, sliding over the expanse of his broad shoulders, curling around the tightness of his biceps, trailing down his waist to find the worn out leather of his belt, two finger hooking beneath and drawing his body closer — like any space still exists between you.

He lets you move him all the same, walking yourself backwards and dragging him along until your back hits whichever wall sits the closest. Any memory of the layout to the apartment you’ve spent the last five years living in has melted away in the heat of Jack’s mouth, kissing you like he has something to prove and this is the only chance he’ll ever get.

Squeezed flush against one another, no barrier but clothes sitting between, you feel the shape of him pressing into your hip and making you painfully aware of the fact Jack Abbot, the older attending you forced yourself to learn to observe quietly and cautiously from a safe distance, now has his semi-hard cock straining against you. That realisation must run through you too viscerally, for Jack’s soon tearing his mouth away from you.

“Shit- Sorry,” he just about gasps the apology out, lips incapable of drifting too far for too long, a smatter of kisses meeting the edge of your jaw as you feel Jack angle his hips away from you. “Been a while since I last-” He’s cut off by his own groan, reactionary to the weight of your hand landing atop the bulge of his jeans, palming at the length of him in hopes of finding out just how hard he can grow. “And I’ve just been thinking about this, ‘bout you for so long. Just-” greedy mouthed, even his desperate please for apology are interrupted by the drag of his tongue over your pulse point. “Ignore it, I’ll keep myself in check. Don’t wanna come on too strong, scare you off.”

It’s a bit late to retreat now, is what you want to say, with the way your thighs are squeezing together in search of any friction and the cotton of your panties sticks uncomfortably against your folds.

But Jack is blushing enough as it is, tips of his ears as red as you imagine his hair once was, face burning hot as he burrows it deeper in your neck. So you spare him some kindness and settle on the buckle of his belt, choosing direct action over teasing words.

A switch seems to flip at the brush of your fingers as you reach for Jack’s belt, attempt to dive beneath the waistband of his boxers. The older man stiffens against you, in more ways than one, head rising from your neck like a cobra enchanted by the notes of a flute. Thick fingers curl around your wrist, prying your hand from him gently yet accompanied by the disapproving tut only an authority figure could conjure, moments away from teaching you a lesson.

His chastisement isn’t vocal but physical, dragging your wrist up to his mouth and greeting it with the gentlest press of lips, right where your pulse recounts a soliloquy on the affect this man has on you, heart rate spiking. Jack lingers, face turning to brush the tip of his nose against your skin while his eyes slip shut, like he’s drowning himself in the fading notes of your perfume. Then, he jumps right back into action, manoeuvring both your arms above your head and pinning them against the wall.

“No one ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself, sweetheart?” No man’s condescension has ever sounded so appealing, so soft. A softness he pairs with the brush of fingers, his free hand tracing a path for itself down the length of your torso, catching on the waist of your jeans and lingering, only to continue its descent over the shape of your thigh. “‘S okay, I don’t mind being the one to teach you.”

“Doctor Abbot,” you breathe, something stirring in your bones the longer the man stares at you, eyes spilling secrets of every degenerate thought passing through his mind.

“Really?” Jack reclaims your skin with his mouth, teeth scraping over your clavicle before his tongue tastes your flesh, a slow drag of the wet muscle halfway up your neck. Your pulse, a bass drum thrumming against the restraints of your veins, brings him to a pause, luring him into peppering a series of chaste kisses over the spot. All the while, his hand is familiarising itself with the curve of your thigh, fingertips dragging over the seam of your jeans and following its journey north, inching towards your clothed core. “Still calling me that, even while I’ve got my hand between your thighs?”

Maybe the alcohol is clouding your judgement, eradicating any hint of the usual hesitation that has ruled over past encounters like these, leaving you shy and bashful, and far from the kind of person willing to rip their aching desire right out their chest and present it to it’s new owner, heart in hand and lust in eyes.

The unexpected confidence boost has your hips shamelessly rolling into the palm of Jack’s hand as he engulfs the expanse of your core. Breathing stalls as the inseam of your jeans brushes against your lace-covered clit, pulsing with anticipation of whatever the older man plans to do with you.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” It’s unfair, hearing such earnest words falling from his lips, a touch of breathlessness to further sweeten the desperation in his voice; all the while one hand tightens it’s grip on your fidgeting arms and the other, firm and steady, undoes the button of your jeans and begins drawing the zip down at an agonizing pace. “Dangerously so. Might have to file a complaint soon, tell the board how inappropriate it is of you to distract me with just a smile while we’re meant to be saving lives.”

A sigh, delicate as silk, robs you of the satisfaction of replying instantly, body too busy accustoming itself to the intrusion of his hand on your skin, explorative touches that dip beneath your waistband and drag slowly through your folds.

Stealing yourself and silencing the part of you that wants to melt into his hand and let him remould you into something new, you eventually manage an amused, “I can always change departments, Dr Abbot. They’re always looking for extra hands with the inpatients.”

“Do that, and I’ll drag you back, kicking and screaming, if I have to.”

Beneath your clothes, the tip of Jack’s middle finger has taken to dipping between the warmth of puffy lips, collecting a dollop of your liquid pleasure, and lathering it over the desperate nub of your clit in gentle circles. His movement is casual, careless, not a hair out of place or a shaking of nerves evident on the man in front of you. Just the hungry eyes of a man in control, ready to take his time tearing you apart bit by bit, in a way only he can put you back together after.

“Fucking soaked,” Jack’s comment feels aimed at his own ears, a passing acknowledgement of your state that you just so happen to hear as he brings a second finger up to lazily play with your clit, all the while the wet patch soaking into your panties grows, no doubt seeping through lace and staining denim. “‘S actually a little pathetic, kid. I’ve barely even touched her and she’s weeping for me.”

Heat burns at your cheeks, the foul nature of the words leaving his mouth bringing you to a confusing state of embarrassment mixed with the headiness of lust, clouding your better judgements and axing whatever part of your brain is in charge of overthinking, just in time to halt a spiral down into the dreaded pits of sleeping with a coworker, a man you’ll have to continue to see nearly everyday, for better or for worse — everything hinges on how tonight ends.

There’s no time to worry about the end when Jack is just beginning.

Those same fingers that teased at your clit dip lower, nestling themselves between your folds. As though shocked by your warmth, you feel more than hear the man groan into your neck, a half-bitten back string of curses parting from his pretty lips.

“Can I, sweetheart?” His plead for permission pulls you out of your body momentarily, mind drawn away as it attempts to recall the last time a man bothered himself with asking before taking. “Need to know how she feels, ‘s all. Can you let me do that, hmm? Let me fill her with my fingers? Promise I won’t ask for more, won’t push my luck. Christ, already know I’m pushing it now, thinking an old man like me has any business messing with a pretty thing like-”

“Yes, Jack!” Cutting off his rambling mouth, your hips keen into the tantalising drag of his fingers through your slit, a back-and-forth motion he’d spent his whole monologue performing idly, with an occasional torturous catch of his fingertips on your entrance, threatening to delve deep only for him to course-correct and set them back on the track up the length of your slit. “Please, God, just- Touch me.”

“Greedy girl,” he tuts, face winding it’s way out from your neck just for his hazel eyes to observe your face as he finally breaches his fingers past your entrance. “Am I not already touching you?”

Replies are lost to the kitchen air, breath knocked out your chest in one foul swoop as he burrows his fingers knuckle-deep. Your lips part, your eyes roll back, and you grind down against his hand, as if by some grace of god he’ll hit some place deeper inside, fingers already pressing against that spot inside you as Jack curls them towards himself, putting the come in come-hither.

The angle is awkward, movement hindered by the tight squeeze of your jeans around his wrist, yet Jack works through the strain, digits pulling out at a slow, agonising pace, only to slip back inside equally as slow. It’s like he’s making you savour the feeling, imbedding every ridge and wrinkle along his fingers and knuckles into your memory, so the next time you find yourself hot under the blanket and struggling to sleep at night, your own hand won’t bring you half the relief.

His fingers fall into a rhythm, a back and forth tease that sets your nerves ablaze and unravels a ball of desire you long ago tossed aside, four weeks into working at the Pitt and telling yourself that those pesky butterflies you felt every time a certain attending crossed your path were nothing but newbie nerves. Marking the tempo of his touch, the repeated squelch of your cunt being filled by his fingers rings out; the deeper he dives, the wetter you grow. Your moans follow along to his beat, a perpetual huff of half-formed whines and hitched breaths, echoes of pleasure that claw their way out your throat and shamelessly sing him a song of praise.

“Ah, ah,” Jack mimics you, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he feeds your moans right back to you in a tone so condescending, you feel your toes curl. “‘S that all you know how to say?”

Those same words and that same mocking tone from the hall have your skin crawling with need. A need to press yourself closer, until all your frayed edges tangles themselves in Jack. A need to fight against the hold of his hand, wrists squirming and fighting for release in hopes of winding your arms around his broad shoulders. A need to give in to the overwhelm, dive head first into the waves of desire that roll over you… So you do.

Jaw slack, toes curled, head thrown back. An orgasm crashes into you with the force of an ocean, sweeping you under and flooding the palm of Jack’s hand with the sticky sweet evidence of how good he’s making you feel.

His fingers fuck you through the experience, lazily curling and stroking the fire, drawing out your pleasure for as long as your body allows him, until a dry sob racks through your chest and tears dance along your lash line, head shaking as you protest the overstimulation.

The retreat of both Jack’s hands, slipping from the waistband of your jeans and relinquishing the grip on your wrists, it does not grant your poor heart respite, a chance to calm the beating it’s delivering against your chest. Instead, he doubles the speed, raising the fingers stained in your own slick and brushing the tips against your lower lip.

“Say ah,” not a question, a demand. Jack is an expert at ordering you around in a manner soft enough, confident enough to have your head reeling and will bending to his every wish.

Under the effect of his darkened gaze and the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixing with the beer on his breath, how can you do anything but let your mouth fall open?

Your first thought is disbelief, running cold down your spine at the unexpected sweetness that coats your tongue; sweetness that melts into a sharp tanginess, giving way to a thirst like no other, glands going into overdrive and wetting your palate. Drunk on yourself, you let your eyes slip shut and your lips wrap around the stretch of Jack’s fingers, a pleased hum bubbling up your throat as his digits apply the slightest of pressure against your tongue, testing the waters of your gag reflex as he slowly pushes himself deeper in your mouth, soaking himself in your spit.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Jack’s spare hand has found its way down to your waist, slipping over the slopes of your curves and perching itself atop your hip, where he delivers a firm squeeze. “Made a real mess of my hand, ‘s only right you clean it up.”

By the time Jack pulls his hand back, a string of saliva connects his fingers to your lips and a craving is reawakening between your thighs. Afraid to fracture the fragile atmosphere between you and the attending, you choose to lead with action again, one hand grappling at the buckle of his belt while the other begins to hastily drag your jeans down the swell of your ass, skin-tight fabric stubbornly refusing to give way and grant you the freedom of air against your legs.

You only make it so far, barely managing to pry apart his belt when Jack intercepts your desperate touching, hands reclaiming possession over your own and shooing them away. With a pause for consideration, the mental cogs visibly turning behind his eyes, you watch as the attending descends the path of your body, peeling down your jeans along the way. A hiss is bitten back as he bends his knees, one foot planted firmly on the ground the other — his right knee — kissing into the kitchen floor, prosthetic calf laid behind him.

It’s the brush of a breath against your thigh that has you lurching back into your body, ignoring the worried nagging voice that wants to drag him off his knees for the sake of his health and comfort… and instead focusing on the part that wants him off his knees for a far more selfish reason.

“Jack,” your attempt at protesting is pathetic, a well-intended firm call of his name fracturing midway and collapsing into a whine as the man takes to laving his tongue up the expanse of your inner thigh, inching dangerously close to where you can feel your centre throbbing, crying out for him in morse code, desperate for the simplest of touches so long as the one delivering it is the older man currently kneeling on your kitchen floor.

Fingers wind in greying curls, the faintest burn of auburn and copper tickling against your knuckles. You attempt a tug, gentle enough to do no harm yet firm enough to get the point across of what you want: Jack, up and on his feet.

The man does not take the hint, instead he inches further up your leg, nose nuzzling against your mound. Blood rushes in every direction as you witness him pull in a sharp inhale, flooding himself with the intoxicating scent of your would-be pheromones.

“I want to taste you,” he says it with a fire behind his eyes, words impassioned by an animalistic desire; any woman would be mad to not throw herself at him, plead him to take anything and everything from her, however he should please.

Which makes the confusion burning his features more than understandable as he takes in your shaking head and your gentle mutters of no, followed swiftly by, “I need you to fuck me, Jack.”

Hands seek purchase on your hips, grip squeezing a little tighter as he steadies his prosthetic back onto the floor and brings himself back to his standing height. You can see the hesitation, in his eyes and in his fingers, as he slowly continues the undoing of his belt, slow and calculated movements that drag cracked leather free and loosen the clutch his jeans have around his waist.

“Who knew the Pitt’s sweetest nurse could be so demanding?” he muses, like joking might distract you from the cloud of doubt that has so visibly rolled in and settled above you both.

You entertain him, even if only for a moment, “Only when I don’t get what I want. Are you gonna deny me, Jack?”

“So you’re a brat,” bypassing your question, Jack drags the zipper of his pants down and leans his face in, lips brushing against your own with the ghost of a kiss. “Noted.”

His kisses paint a pretty picture of distraction, peppering affection over inches of skin that had spent so long being neglected, you’d nearly forgotten they existed. Over the swells of cheeks, down the slope of a throat, onto the point of a shoulder and back up to the shells of an ear. While your heart wants to sink into the feeling, fall back and let him lather you in every mouthful of affection he can sear against your burning skin, your brain takes the reins of the situation and forces your hands onto his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” Direct and to the point, you avoid the time-waste of skirting around the subject and confront the change in his demeanour head-on, the sudden hesitancy. A sense of panic licks up your spine, filling your mind with thoughts of Jack regretting having started this, crossing over the safe lines of coworker and marching across into trickier territory. “If you don’t want- I’d understand, okay? If you say it was just the heat of the moment, and the beer, and that you no longer want-”

“What? Baby, I promise this is anything but- Fuck,” Jack practically collapses into the groan that tears out of him, hand falling over his face and pressing into the corners of his eyes as he struggles to get the words out fast enough, a soul-crushing need to put an end to the rejected twinkle in your eyes as you offer him a gentle smile, the kind offered by politeness instead of happiness. Jack hates it on you. “I don’t know how to explain without sounding conceited.”

“Oh-kay,” your confused exclaim melts into acceptance, though your eyes remain sceptical as they trail over the attending’s face, awaiting further explanation. When it doesn’t come, your eyebrows jump, a visual nudge that has Jack finally spilling confessions all over your kitchen floor.

“I’m… Big.”

And cue the laughing track.

Watching as the tips of his ears bleed a bright red, you bite back and swallow down a comment about how his height is a little over average at best. Because when a puppy-eyed Jack Abbot warns you of his size in a manner that implies real danger, the last thing you should do is turn his panic into a joke.

“How big?”

“I don’t know-” Then he cuts himself off, like reality has struck him over the head and he remembers he is, in fact, a medical professional and, though he may never have measured his own endowment, surely he can guesstimate. “Maybe like eight. Inches, I mean. And, um…” what a thrill to see Jack reduced to a mumbling mess, a man so usually consumed by his flirty nature, a charm so potent that it pours off him in rivers, soaking all who wind up in his vicinity. Yet here he stands, barely enough space for a deep breath between you, shyly detailing the heat he’s packing beneath the waistband of his trousers. “I’m- I mean it’s pretty thick, too.”

Silence haunts the space between you.

A sick satisfaction pools in your loins, knowledge renewed on the fact you’re bare from the waist down yet all the power seems to sit in the palm of your hand in this moment, Jack’s fate hanging in the balance of however you choose to react to his assumed shameful confession.

So when all you offer is cocked head and a tongue poking against the inside of your cheek, Jack just about falters into insecurity, seeking validation before you even have time to utter a word.

“I’m not bragging. Or, you know, talking myself up. It’s just- I don’t want to hurt you, or to-”

“Take it out.”

His neck practically snaps as his gaze flies from the floor to your eyes, hazel rings that grown thinner under the enlarging of his pupils, lust bleeding into his stare as he managed a careful, “What?”

“This big dick of yours,” emphasis to your words, you finally let yourself look down and catch sight of him, firm and heavy beneath the confines of dark blue denim. The view of his bulge alone is enough to have your mouth watering, but you can’t let it slip, not when your grip on the reins is finally secured. “Let me see it, Doctor Abbot.”

The switch is instant.

Bashfulness melts away and the cloud of doubt is blown away as a cockiness overcomes Jack’s features, face splitting into a shit-eating grin. Fingers work fast this time, dipping beneath the elastic of his boxers and granting his cock freedom at long last.

No trace of a lie in his words; Jack is big. Uncut, with a rosie red tip that’s already made itself known, glistening with the rogue drops of precum that smear the mushroomed head. At the base sits a bush of hair, groomed enough to show you he cares enough to trim it yet overgrown enough to tell you it’s been a few weeks, silver locks threaded through a valley of dark auburn. Freckles dust his skin in subtle specs, while a vein draws a colourful line up the length of him.

You can practically feel yourself throbbing, calling out for him with each moment that passes, your eyes glued to the phallic shape. Jack, evil incarnate, has the gall to lick a stripe up his palm, hand wrapping around himself and daring to give a slow pump.

“I’m gonna need you to stop looking at me like that,” Jack cuts himself off with a hiss, teeth taking his bottom lip hostage as a chuckle rustles out from the depth of his chest. In that moment, you swear nothing has ever been more attractive than the gentle disapproving shake of his head as he rakes his stare down the shape of you, eyes clinging to where your thighs sit squeezed together, stealing any amount of friction you can find. “‘Else I might cum all over myself like some desperate college kid.”

You reach your hand out, searching for traction and finding it in the belt loop of his trousers, still clinging to his tree-trunk thighs. And thank god for that, for it allows you to tug the man closer, chest to chest, knuckles brushing over the hood of your clit as he works his hand over his cock one last time.

“Then give me a reason to stop looking, Doctor Abbot,” swallowing back any lingering shame or shyness a less hornier version of yourself possesses, you curl a hand over the top of his and stare into pools of hazel as you speak, “Don’t you want to make my eyes roll back?”

Never has a man looked so eager to part your legs, the skin of his knuckles burning white as he takes a hand to the back of one of your knees and hooks it over his waist. Left with no choice but to keep your thighs spread, you indulge yourself by glancing down at the view. Visual sin, erotica live in emotion, Jack guides the blushing tip of his cock up the length of your cunt, soaking himself in your arousal. A mutual gasp echoes out into the kitchen on his second swipe, head catching on your entrance only to be denied easy access, hips rolling only to watch himself press against your clit.

“Don’t care if it hurts,” bordering on lost in lust, you barely register the words as your mouth moves. Jack, on the other hand, clings to every syllable, awaiting whatever salvation they promise to bring him. “Just wanna feel you, Jack. All of you, please.”

“Shh, shh,” his hushing is full of mockery, like the last thing he really wants is to silence the desperate plea in your voice. He does so, unintentionally, by finally lining himself up with your entrance. “Don’t need to beg, baby. I’m gonna give it to you, all of it. Just be sure to cry real pretty for me if it gets too much.”

Something animalistic comes over you as Jack feeds the first inch into your cunt.

The burn is there, the stretch of long-unused walls remoulding themselves around the shape of Jack. But any pain is sweet, the kind that tickles at your nerves and has your heart speeding up, adrenaline activated and intoxicating your bloodstream.

Jack, conscious of the crease between your brows, is tentative, careful. He gives a barely-there thrust, letting himself inch just a little deeper into the pulsing warmth of your pussy. There’s a vein across his forehead that makes itself known, the force of his concentration paired with an accelerating heart rate drawing it to front and centre stage of his face. All it does is make you want him more, deeper, quicker.

Words cease to serve any purpose as the two of you give in to the physical, hands that grasp and pull and anchor themselves atop one another’s skin. You think you breathe some version of his name, but the letters are knocked out of you as your fingers tangle themselves in grey curls and, in the blink of an eye, Jack’s pelvis sits flush against your own, cock buried right to the deep hilt and face collapsed into your own, foreheads exchanging sweat as his temple kisses against yours.

A pitiful whine claws its way from you, suddenly painfully aware of how well Jack fills you, stuffed to the brim in a way no man before has quite achieved. You feel him in your cunt, in your guts, in your lungs with every shaky breath you pull; you are drunk on the attending and the feeling of his cock pulsing deep within your gummy walls.

“Sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” apologies are overflowing from the fountain of Jack’s mouth, brushing against your cheek in tiny puffs of breath as the older man blesses you with a whimper so pathetic you nearly come undone right then and there, cunt ready to spill all over his throbbing cock. “Didn’t mean to- shit. Wanted to take it slow, ease him in, but god… You’re just so tight. And warm, and- Ahh! And your nails, they- they scrapped against my scalp and you were tugging on my hair and I couldn’t help it, baby.”

How can you even contest or complain, when you feel like a live wire, thrumming with a deadly kind of energy that threatens to burn everything and anything that touches you and isn’t Jack Abbot?

His hips rock back slightly, only for him to fuck back into you, tip to cervix. The leg hooked around his waist tightens around him, holding Jack as close to you as possible. The scene between you plays out with an intensity one could cut with a knife.

Slow and shallow rolls of hips, punctuating each shaken breath you pull and forcing the air out of you in pitiful whines and moans, songs of praise for Jack's viewing pleasure.

Foreheads together, breaths mingling until it’s hard to tell where your exhale stops and his inhale starts. Both nurse and attending, junior and senior, woman and man; whatever title you and Jack may be addressed by, you’re equal measures of the same mess, staining one another with nails that scrape over freckled skin and five o’clock shadows that burn at cheeks.

“Look at you,” Jack marvels, one hand scooping up to cup your face and remind you of how big his hands look — hands you spent weeks wishing would reach for yours during quiet walks home. Yet now one cradles you while the other grips at your body, tilts your hips at angle that drives him just that little bit deeper. “Taking it like a good girl, no whining or complaining that it hurts.”

What really hurts is that he is still moving at an agonisingly slow pace, torturous drags of his thick length along your walls. If you weren’t speechless under effects of his ministrations, you’d maybe find the ability to tell him this.

“You’re just grateful to have something to fill this pussy, huh?” Something catches in Jack’s throat, a fractured groan that raises a sudden alarm. It feels different to previous ones, born from somewhere deeper, more painful in his chest. “If I knew you’d be do eager, I wouldn't have waited this long to come inside.”

You stomach three more measured rolls of Jack’s hips before you cave into the anxious feeling hollowing your pleasure, the wince on his face having grown deeper and more concerning.

All it take is a hand to his shoulder and a barely formed Jack, wait, for the man to tear himself off you, putting immediate distance between you despite the hand that remains on your face, holding it steady as his gaze sweeps over you in search of evidence of your well-being.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Just like that, you watch him slip back into the practised role of a caretaker, Dr Abbot taking centre stage and relegating Jack, the man keen on seeing you come undone at his touch, to the wings. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I told you- Warned you, baby.”

His rambling would be endearing, if you weren't aware of the sudden empty feeling of your cunt clenching at nothing and, worse, the bitten-back wince of pain that pronounces itself across his face as he shifts weight from one foot onto the other.

So you take matters into your own hands to silence his spiralling mind.

Literally into your hand, fingers wrapping themselves around the thick swell of his cock, standing at attention and smearing the evidence of your lust over Jack’s lower abdomen. The reaction is instant: hips bucking into your touch in a stuttered thrust, mouth falling agape and silent as you envelop him in your gentle touch.

“You didn’t hurt me,” quite the opposite, the tight fit of his dick bordering on nothing short of heaven. “But you’re hurting yourself.”

Before Jack can demand a much earned explanation, you trade his cock for one of his hands, threading yourself to him and enduring he can’t let go as you begin guiding him to your bedroom, the gentle jingle of his loose belt slapping against his thigh announcing each step he takes.

Lit only by the silver light of moon, you turn to him as you reach your humble queen size bed and try your hand at that stern yet caring look Jack has mastered — the look that’s held your heart hostage since you first witnessed it directed at you.

“Your leg. It’s hurting,” now you wish you had opted for switching on a light, because you swear you see the subtlest hint of a blush taking over Jack’s cheeks, guilty and caught when he thought he was doing such a good job to mask the dull ache of his limb. “Take it off, Jack. Or at least let yourself rest on the bed, let me do the work.”

Your silver fox puts up little fight, mouth opening and swiftly closing before any empty protest can flee. The mattress squeaks beneath his weight as Jack sits down on the edge, both legs bent at the knee and feet planted on the floor — he makes a conscious effort to keep his boots from touching the small carpet that runs along your bedside, unwilling to taint the cream coloured fur.

As he hunches over, hands peeling back the leg of his trouser to expose the sight of his faux-calf, a fragile quiet befalls you both. You watch entranced as he removes the prosthetic, a practised ritual he performs with the ease of a man who long ago came to terms with the cards that were handed to him. Freed at last, unwinding a strip of bandage from the stump, Jack takes to removing his clothes next, while you take to filing away his previous movements into a part of your mind labelled later, a future in the shape of a question mark, the possibility of some day needing to remove it for him.

There is something decidedly cruel about the sight of Jack Abbot sitting at the edge of your bed, completely undressed and pinning you beneath his stare as his hands now occupy themselves with more nefarious actions, one gripping at his cock and indulging himself in a languid stroke while the other takes claim of the bottom of your shirt, balling the fabric up in a fist as he tugs you close so abruptly, it’s only natural that you slip and tumble into his naked lap.

An awkward repositioning is punctuated by your own nervous laughter, a shy giggle making itself known as you straddle the doctor, the hand between his legs now teasing at your core, dipping into your honeypot just to soak himself in your sweetness before diverting his attention to your clit, pointer and middle finger rubbing an agonisingly slow circle over the nub.

“You’re gorgeous,” Jack whispers, honesty rolling off him in waves as his eyes ravage the newly exposed sight of your naked chest, t-shirt and bra tossed behind you in the blind chaos of falling into Jack. “You know that, right?”

There is urgency in his voice, like his worldview might just collapse if you tell him otherwise, and the desperation is enough to have you giggling all over again, a noise that quickly is intercepted by a gasp, eyes slipping shut as the man welcomes himself to the taste of your flesh, mouth swooping forward to take the right nipple between his lips, “You might have mentioned it before.”

“Then let me mention it again,” mumbled into your chest, he marks the sentence with a kiss to the opposite nipple, “And again,” the next kiss lands back on your right nipple. “And again.”

Both of you groan at the other’s ministrations, your hand threaded back in the silver locks of his hair and tugging at them just sharp enough to have Jack’s hips rutting up into you, bodies searching for the sweet release of friction yet neither of you rushing to give in as you slowly wade into the depths of lust, grinding desperately against one another like a pair of inexperienced college students.

“Jack,” you breathe his name, hand tilting his head back from your chest and granting you the freedom to plant your mouth against him, tongue dipping into the cavern of his mouth, the taste of beer and bourbon still on his lips.

“Hmm,” Jack hums, hand cradling your cheek.

Between you, tensions rise as your folds spread around his cock, rubbing up the length of him as he rocks himself against you.

“Are you going to fuck me,” is all he lets you get out before he drags you in for another kiss. “Or are we going to sit like this all night?”

“I don’t know, feels pretty good to me,” he’s teasing you, enjoying the sight of you growing more and more dishevelled by your own carnal needs, your nails digging into his freckled shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Sighing with nothing but sexual frustration, you recapture those earlier reins and slip your hand between you both, grabbing at Jack’s cock and lining it up at your entrance, thigh muscles burning as you hover, “Well I would.”

You sink down onto him slowly, eyes incapable of resisting the urge to roll to the back of your skull as you feel that sweet familiar burn of him stretching your walls.

Jack is speechless, but far from quiet, mouth open and singing you the prettiest songs of guttural praise. His hands are on your hips, gripping you in a way that threatens to bruise, all the while you are savouring the flush press of your bodies, your soaked folds kissing the base of his cock with a creamy ring.

When you finally begin to move, a careful raise of hips, you condemn both of you to a world polluted by lust, and pleasure, and the aching need to keep stimulating friction.

The rhythm comes naturally, a slow build-up of you fucking yourself down onto him, stuffing your cunt full to the brim. Jack has given in, handed himself over to you for you to use how you please, while his hands rake over every sliver of skin they can reach. Smoothing over your thighs, grabbing at your waist, pinching at your hard nipples, guiding your mouth down to meet his, a kiss that is more an exchange of breaths than a battle of lips.

A symphony composed entirely of sin, the darkness of your bedroom is set ablaze by the wet slap of skin meeting skin, a squelch punctuating each time he fills your cunt and a new wave of your arousal drips down his thighs and stains your bedsheets.

“This fucking pussy,” Jack speaks like you have personally wounded him, your forehead meeting his shoulder as you let out a squeak, the hands on your waist no longer sitting idle but now guiding you, bouncing you down to meet the upward rut of his hips. “‘S so tight, and warm, and perfect. You’re perfect, letting me stretch this little hole. Taking all of me.”

“Love it, Jack,” You’re babbling into his shoulder, mind turning to unusable mush the faster Jack slams you down on him.

“Love what, kid?”

“Your cock.”

“Yeah?” Oh, the smugness in his voice should be illegal, but you have only yourself to blame. “Who knew my pretty nurse was so good at taking dick. Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me all this time.”

A chord is winding inside you, drawing tighter and tighter as Jack continues to bounce you down on his cock, pausing every few thrusts to let you savour the full stretch, grinding up and biting back laughter as you greet him with the whites of your eyes.

“Holding- ahh! Out?” Your walls flutter around him as you feel yourself closer to the edge of an orgasm.

“Yeah, sweetheart, holding out,” a kiss lands on the side of your head, as though Jack is incapable of not showering you in as much physical affection as possible. “Ignoring all my flirting, never giving me a sign that you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Flirting?!” Head out from his shoulders, you gaze down at him in disbelief, refusing to take the blame for why it has taken so many months for the pair of your to wind up here, naked and desperate and staining your sheets together. “How was I supposed to know? You flirt with everyone- Jack!”

His name is more shriek than moan, tearing out of you as his fingers press themselves to your clit and send you head-first into an orgasm.

Jack fucks you through it, slower rolls of his hips stretching out your state of euphoria and granting him a longer view of your mouth spewing profanities and your eyes rolling back and your hips bucking atop him, both fleeing from and feeding into his touch.

A sudden bang interrupts the scene, cutting your bliss short and forcing you to swallow back a moan.

Frozen in place, fingers to your clit and cock half-way buried inside, Jack’s wide-eyed gaze watches you with a questioning glance. Silence isn’t given the chance to settle fully between you, as soon another sound — from the same direction as the bang — echoes through your bedroom.

“Hey! Keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep.”

Jack is the first to react, laughter shaking his shoulders. His head tilts back, disbelief gripping him in its clutches. Collapsing back onto your bed, he drags you down with him, sweaty chest pressing to sweaty chest. You follow him into laughter too, your own muted chuckles spilling into his neck as you shyly bury your face away, mortified by the thought of one of your neighbours hearing you and Jack.

Apparently, it has the opposite affect on him.

Because instead of crippling mortification, Jack has already begun rutting back into you, shallow thrusts that he somehow manages to deliver, despite the fact his cock already fills you to the brim. Nerves aflame from a ruined orgasm, your body is quick to submit to him, hips tilting to welcome him deeper, back arching into his body. But the moment your lips dare to part, a chastisement is quick to follow, a disapproving tut coming from the man beneath you.

“Shh,” despite his hushing, he makes no attempt to slow his thrusts, the very cause of your fracturing sanity, mouth no longer in control of the noises you let out. Neighbours be damned, you would happily dare any of them to feel the sweet release of Jack stretching them out and not turn into raving banshees. Well, not quite so happily, for you are very quickly growing not only fond but possessive of the attending. “I know, kid, I know. Feels good, right? So good you just wanna scream, don’t even care if someone hears?”

Whether you realise it or not, you nod along to his mockery, desperate please for more, please, just like that, Jack proving his point perfectly: you don’t care.

The only thing you can do is feel him, all of him.

“That’s it, let it out,” he croons, faux sympathy in his voice while he cups your face and swipes away at a tear, the overwhelm of feeling so full and so close to cumming for a third time finally getting the better of you. Tear gone, the hand on your cheek drifts down to cover your mouth, smothering you into silence, muffling the shriek you let out as his hips grow sloppy, desperate, fucking you deeper, harder, faster each time, his own orgasm creeping over the horizon. “I’ll take you to my place next time. ‘S a detached bungalow, can be as loud as you need to be. And, god, I plan on giving you reasons to be loud, put you in every possible position, make you cum so many times you lose count.”

Every moan and groan and whine of his name that leaves you is muffled by the heavy palm of his hand… Which turns out to be a blessing in disguise when a third and final orgasm collides, head first, right into you, leaving you a mess. As you writhe and wriggle, one of the muscles in your calf cramping as your toes curl and your body pulls itself taut, Jack is fighting his own personal battle, hips stilled and limiting the friction as much as possible while you fall apart atop him.

Fingers tangled in his hair, face engulfed by his heavy hand, thighs squeezing around his hips; the image of you cumming is the kind that pushes a man to pick up a paint brush, all in the hopes of memorialising the art in motion onto canvas. Jack can barely focus on you, however, eyes squeezing shut as he steadies his breathing and struggles to hold back a flood.

“‘M gonna cum, baby,” Jack strains out, pulse near visible along his jugular as his heart rate shifts into overdrive. “Need you to lift these pretty hips off me or else- ahh!”

The whimper you pull from him is damn near heartbreaking, right from the gut and full of a fractured sincerity. Unwilling to so much as let him finish any thought of pulling out, never mind his sentence, you’ve staked your claim, shook your head, and cemented yourself flush atop him, cock stuffed to the brim and left no choice but to spill into the pulsing heat of your walls.

Hot, thick ropes of Jack’s cum flood your pussy, painting a pearly white mess inside of you. Overflowing and with nowhere else to run, you feel the unmistakable stickiness of his cum, now mixed with your own orgasmic bliss, leaking out of you and staining both your skins in the act. Breathless and minds drifting far away from the physical plane, you crash down atop Jack, overstimulated and overspent, and drift into the comfort of his arms enveloping you, holding your sweaty figure against his own in an embrace that says stay without uttering a single syllable.

Frozen in time, the pair of you remain glued to one another. Your breathing falls in sync, each rise of his chest matching perfectly with your exhale, and a gentle rocking remains between your bodies, an invisible stream of desire that ebbs and flows, manipulating Jack into rocking up into you and teasing you into grinding down to meet his movements, in spite of the teeth clenching sensitivity tingling at your skin.

You are the first to move, a careful rise from his chest. Already softened within you, his cock slips out of you and you pull a breath in through a grimace. The muscles in your thighs have turned to mush, more unstable than jelly, and so it is nothing short of a miracle to feel Jack’s steady touch settle itself on your hips, hands supporting the dead-weight of your lax body and guiding you to hover over his lower abdomen. You quickly realise he has less than pure intentions, as you watch satisfaction creep back into his pupils when a string of his cum dribbles out from your cunt and drips down onto his skin.

Admiring the picture you paint over his lower stomach, Jack has the nerve to mock the tired whine he coaxes from you as fingers swipe through the white mess and slip between your folds, feeding his spend right back into your walls.

Back hitting the mattress before you can protest, you struggle over a gasp and a barely stringed together sentence while the attending slips down the length of your body, pausing only when his head reaches your thighs.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Jack, with reflexes quick enough to match his wit, intercepts your legs before they can crush his head between them, your hips bucking and your heart unsure whether you are trying to chase after or run from the teasing stripe he licks up your cunt. “You cleaned your mess, now let me clean mine.”

Your heads hit the pillow as the Sun hits the horizon.

By nine, birds chirp by the windowsill and sunlight cuts through the sliver in your curtains, forcing your half-asleep form to retreat into the safety of Jack’s chest. He answers your cry for help instantly, arms pulling tighter around your waist as he continues to venture through a land of dreams, lips parted in the softest snore.

By noon, the city is awake. Cars honk their horns, voices fill the streets, doors slam from floors above and below. But in your apartment, not a creature stirs, bodies clinging to one another and sleep with equal fervour. If you drift left, Jack soon follows. If Jack flips onto his front, your palm is quick to flatten itself over his back. Magnets connected by an unseen force, the pair of you toss and turn beneath wrinkled bedsheets.

By four, the bathroom mirror is fogged. You are a nervous wreck contained behind the nervous smile of someone who is trying their best to be supportive despite the shampoo stinging at your eyes and the grown man you are supporting against your frame. Unwilling to let you drag one of your leather dining chairs into the cubicle, Jack had insisted he would be fine to shower standing, so long as you kept him company.

By six, your apartment is empty. Clad in the familiar shapeless clothing that is sure to keep you comfortable throughout your shift, you’re struggling to find the right time to ask Jack to hand you your bag back, too used to his habit of prying it out your hands to even notice he had done so as you both departed from your front door. No choice but to throw on last nights clothing, Jack is silent at your back, one arm pulling you against him as yet another neighbour slips into the confines of the elevator — freshly fixed yet sending a shiver down your spine with each shake it gives in its descent down to the ground floor.

By some miracle, you make it out onto the street.

Which maybe, now that the fresh air hits your cheek, you are beginning to lament. Because this is it, the point of no return; where you go one way and Jack will go the other, trailing home to enjoy the rest of his night off while you no doubt will spend your entire shift dreading where the events that transpired between you — the stolen kisses, the lustful whines, the rolling hips — leave you both standing.

Taking your bag from him seems like the correct first move to make towards goodbye, but when you reach your hand out, Jack answers your silent plea with his empty one threading itself into your hold, fingers entwined in a manner so perfectly it has you reminiscing on how your bodies lay atop your mattress.

The attending has already tugged you halfway down the street before your mouth catches up with your feet, choking out a dumbfounded, “Where are you going? You’re off today.”

“So?” Jack barely offers you a bothered shrug of his shoulders, glancing back at you with a look in his eyes so warm, you worry you might just melt into the asphalt. “That doesn’t mean I can’t walk you to work.”

+ extra hyde!

· this fic was meant to be short, believe it or not... my first proper fic of 2026, yippee! · olivia, girl... never stop making albums for me to cry to. · pov: jack abbot, the biggest flirt who turns into a bumbling idiot when faced with the person he actually wants:

he looks up and catches you staring.                                      

you give him a small smile. he holds it for a beat, returns it, quiet and unreadable, and then turns back to the conversation like nothing happened.

“there you are, darling.” your mom finds you before you can register what just happened, pulling you into the huddle. “come meet jack. this is dr. jack abbot, remember? i told you about him. he’s the one who was at the gym with your father when he had that small stroke. kept him stable until the ambulance came.”

you did remember. vaguely. your mom had mentioned him a few times over the phone during those scary first few days, always with this tone like she wanted you to know he was one of the good ones. she’d also, at some point, let slip that he was quite handsome for his age which had made you curious enough to look him up.

you’d found almost nothing. a blurry photo from some hospital gala where he was younger, dark haired, barely recognizable. another from an award ceremony, grainy and poorly lit, his face half turned from the camera. you’d closed the tab and thought nothing more of it.

the man standing in front of you now had not been adequately prepared for.

you reach your hand out. his is warm, large, engulfing your palm easily. the touch moves through you faster than it should.

“nice to meet you,” you say, and you mean it more than is appropriate.

he looks at you the way men his age sometimes do when they’re trying very hard not to. “you as well.”

your dad says something about jack being a veteran, about it being a meaningful weekend for him too. jack doesn’t smile at that. just something solemn moving behind his eyes, confirming that whatever he’d seen hadn’t left him clean.

you think about that look for the rest of the evening.

---

you run into him at the farmer’s market three days later.

you’re standing at a stall debating between two bunches of peonies when you feel someone stop beside you. you glance over and there he is, in a grey henley and dark jeans, looking entirely too good for a saturday morning farmer’s market in suburban new york.

“dr. abbot,” you say, a little surprised.

“just jack,” he says, eyes moving to the flowers and then back to you. “visiting your parents for the weekend?”

“for a little longer than that,” you say. “you live around here?”

“ten minutes that way.” he nods vaguely in a direction. noncommittal. like he’s already deciding how much to give you.

you buy both bunches of peonies just to have something to do with your hands.

he walks with you for a bit, not quite on purpose, or at least that’s how he plays it. the conversation is easy in a way that feels unfair. he asks about your masters, what you studied, what you’re doing now. he listens like he’s genuinely curious about you, takes his time without interruption. you learn he’s been in suburban new york for a few years, that he left his practice in the city after his wife passed, that he has his own little clinic now because apparently that’s what you do when you’re trying to build a quieter life.

he says it nonchalantly and you don’t press for more.

when you reach the end of the market he stops and you stop with him.

“i’ll see you around,” he says. not a question exactly. more like something he’s hoping for.

“probably,” you say.

he almost smiles. almost.

---

you see him twice more before the dinner.

once at your parents’ house when he stops by to drop something off for your dad, catching you in the kitchen in an oversized tee and sleep shorts, hair still messy from bed. he looks at you for exactly one second longer than he should before fixing his expression back to neutral and asking if your father is home.

and then once at the pharmacy, where he’s picking up a prescription and you’re buying face wash, and he ends up standing in line behind you and making a quiet comment about the brand you picked that makes you laugh, and then looks almost annoyed at himself for making you laugh.

he’s trying. you can see it clearly. the deliberate neutrality of him, the way he keeps his eyes from lingering, the way he keeps things brief and polite.

it makes you want to push.

---

the dinner is your mother’s idea. a small thank you, she says, for everything jack did for your father. nothing formal, just the four of you on a friday evening.

you wear a dress that you’d packed for no real reason. silky, short, the kind that sits just high enough on your thigh to be a problem. you tell yourself it’s because you felt like it.

you know that’s not entirely true.

jack arrives at seven. you watch him from the top of the stairs as your dad lets him in, see the moment he looks up and finds you coming down, see him look away just as quickly. his jaw goes tight, a muscle flickering there briefly before he smooths it over.

dinner is pleasant. your mom talks too much, your dad laughs too loud, and jack sits across from you being perfectly polite and perfectly composed and absolutely not looking at you any more than is necessary.

which somehow makes it worse.

you excuse yourself after the main course, slipping down the hall toward the bathroom. you’re washing your hands when you hear him in the hallway.

you step out and find him already there in the narrow hall, and neither of you move. the dinner sounds feel far away. the space between you is close enough to feel the warmth of him, and his cologne reaches you before anything else, something quiet and warm, and he’s looking at you the way he’s been carefully not looking at you all evening.

your pulse does something it has no business doing.

you reach into your pocket slowly, pull out the folded slip of paper you’d put there before dinner, hold it out between two fingers. your eyes stay on his.

he looks down at it. back up at you. and for a second, just one, his gaze drops to your mouth and stays there long enough to make your breath catch.

“i’m your father’s friend,” he says. his voice comes out lower than intended.

“i know,” you say softly.

he should walk away. you can see him thinking it. the war behind his eyes.

he reaches out and takes the paper instead, fingers brushing yours, and then he steps back and clears his throat and goes back down the hall without another word.

you lean against the wall for a moment before you follow.

---

you go back to the table and finish dinner and make conversation and laugh at your dad’s jokes and do not think about the hallway.

you do not think about the way he’d looked at your mouth.

you do not think about the way his fingers had felt brushing yours when he took the paper.

jack stays another hour, polite and easy and perfectly composed, and when he leaves he shakes your dad’s hand and thanks your mom for dinner. he glances at you once on his way out, brief and unreadable, the kind of look that gives nothing and takes everything.

“lovely to meet you properly,” he says.

“you too,” you say.

the door closes and you help your mom clear the table and go to bed and do not think about it at all.

---

a week passes.

you work. that’s the honest answer for what you do with the silence of your phone. you open your laptop early and close it late and fill the hours in between with emails and decks and calls that run long, the familiar rhythm of it steadying in a way you hadn’t expected to need.

it helps, mostly. you’d taken this break to breathe and somehow you’d gone and complicated it spectacularly within the first two weeks, so throwing yourself back into spreadsheets feels like a reasonable correction.

your mom keeps finding reasons to bring him up at dinner. jack mentioned he might come to the farmers market this weekend. jack was asking after your thesis topic, isn’t that sweet. you nod and eat your food and say nothing.

your phone stays quiet.

you start to feel that particular kind of silly that you really hate feeling. the kind that makes you want to be annoyed at yourself more than at anyone else. you’re not a girl who waits around. you’d handed him your number because you’d wanted to, not because you were expecting anything, and it had meant nothing, and you are completely fine.

your phone buzzes on thursday morning and you pick it up embarrassingly fast.

it’s your landlord about a leaking pipe in your city apartment.

you put the phone face down and open another email.

---

you go for a walk thursday afternoon because you need air and because staring at a laptop in your childhood bedroom is making you feel sixteen in a way you don’t appreciate.

the neighborhood is quiet and warm, someone’s sprinkler ticking in a front yard, birds doing their thing in the trees. you have your earbuds in and you’re almost feeling like yourself again when you turn a corner and nearly walk into him.

he’s coming back from a run, slowing to a stop, a little breathless. grey tee, dark shorts, the outline of his prosthetic visible below the hem, silver hair slightly damp. looking entirely too good on a thursday afternoon.

you look straight ahead and keep walking.

you hear him pause then fall into step beside you.

“hey,” he tries.

nothing.

“you’re ignoring me,” he says. there’s a quiet amusement to it that makes it significantly harder to maintain your expression.

you pull one earbud out and look at him with the most neutral expression you own. “can i help you?”

“you walked right past me.”

“i didn’t see you.”

“you saw me,” he says simply.

you stop. turn to face him fully on the pavement, squinting a little in the afternoon sun. “you didn’t text.”

he holds your gaze. “i know.”

“okay,” you say pleasantly, and put your earbud back in.

he reaches out and touches your elbow, gently, and you stop again.

“it’s not right,” he says, when you look at him. his voice is low and even, like he’s explained this to himself many times already. “your father is one of my closest friends. you’re his daughter. there’s an age gap that—”

“i’m aware of my own age,” you say.

“i know that.”

“and i’m aware of yours.”

“that’s not what i—”

“jack.” you say it quietly but clearly. “i have a masters degree. i have a career. i pay my own rent in one of the most expensive cities in the country.” you hold his gaze without flinching. “i don’t need you to decide what i can and can’t handle. i don’t like being put in a box, especially not by someone who looked at me the way you did in that hallway.”

something shifts in his expression. he looks away briefly, jaw working.

“one drink,” he says finally, still not looking at you. “there’s a place on 4th avenue. friday night.”

you look at him.

“no,” you say.

he blinks. looks back at you. “no?”

“dinner,” you say. “and then a drink.”

a beat.

“you’re negotiating.”

“i’m clarifying,” you say pleasantly.

he looks at you for a long moment. you watch him try very hard not to smile and almost succeed.

“dinner,” he says. “and a drink.”

“and you’re paying,” you add.

he exhales through his nose. “obviously.”

you put your earbud back in and start walking. “friday works,” you call back.

you don’t turn around but you’re fairly certain he’s standing there watching you go and doing that almost-smile again.

good.

---

he texts friday morning.

jack: should i pick you up or are you meeting me there.

you stare at your phone for an embarrassing amount of time.

he confirmed. he actually texted to confirm, which means he’d been thinking about it, which means he hadn’t spent the week being perfectly unbothered the way you’d assumed he had. and he’d offered to pick you up. like it was a real date. like he was going to come to your parents’ front door and walk you to his car and—

you put your phone face down on the bed.

get it together, you tell yourself.

you pick it up again.

but he’d offered to pick you up. that’s a thing a gentleman does. a thoughtful person. and he’s thoughtful, you’ve noticed that about him, the way he listens, the way he remembers small things you’ve said, the way he—

and he’s so annoyingly attractive. how does that happen. how does someone get to be that age and look like that and also be like that. it should be one or the other. it’s unfair is what it is.

you realize you’ve been staring at the ceiling for five minutes.

you: i’ll meet you there.

you put the phone down and go get ready and absolutely do not smile at yourself in the mirror.

you smile at yourself in the mirror a little bit.

---

the place on 4th avenue is small and warm, the kind of bar that moonlights as a restaurant. dark wood and low lighting and a chalkboard menu above the bar. he pulls out your chair and you sit and pretend that doesn’t do anything to you.

he orders without looking at the menu. you notice that but don’t say anything.

it starts careful. he already knows the broad strokes of your masters from the farmer’s market, so he asks something different tonight. what you actually want to do next, now that it’s done. where you see yourself going. you tell him honestly, more honestly than you expected to, about the job you’re good at but aren’t sure you love, about the version of your career you’re still trying to build toward. he listens with his glass resting in his hand and his eyes on you and doesn’t once look at his phone.

“and now you’re here,” he says.

“now i’m here,” you agree. “taking a break. or trying to. i’m still working remotely so it’s not quite a break.”

“doesn’t sound like much of a rest.”

you think about it honestly. “it’s getting there.”

he nods like he understands that specific kind of tired. you get the feeling he does.

you ask about medicine, what made him choose it, whether he ever wanted something different. he thinks before he answers, which you like about him, the absence of automatic responses.

“lost a close friend when i was young,” he says simply. “couldn’t do anything. felt like i should have been able to.” he turns his glass once. “so i decided i’d learn how.”

“and the army?”

“enlisted after my first year of pre-med. served as a combat medic for two tours.” a brief pause. “finished my degree when i came back.”

he says it with the flatness of someone who has made peace with something that didn’t deserve it. you don’t push. just let it settle between you the way it needs to.

you talk about other things after that. easier things. he asks about the city, whether you miss it yet, and you tell him honestly that you miss the noise more than you expected to. he tells you he grew up in boston, that new york had always felt like someone else’s city even after years of living there. you ask what suburban new york feels like and he thinks about it for a moment.

“quieter,” he says. “in a way i needed.”

you ask him what he does with the quiet and he says he reads, mostly. medical journals, some fiction. runs in the mornings. you tell him that sounds very disciplined and he looks at you with something dry.

“you say that like it’s an insult.”

“i say it like it’s very you,” you say, and he looks at you for a moment like he’s trying to decide what to do with that.

the conversation moves like that all evening, one thing leading naturally into the next, barely any effort. you forget to check your phone. you forget to be nervous. you just talk, and he talks, and at some point you realize you’re leaning forward with your chin in your hand and he’s leaning forward too and the space between you has gotten smaller without either of you deciding it.

at some point the bar fills in around you. the dinner crowd thinning and the drinks crowd arriving, louder, livelier, music turned up a notch. someone laughs too hard at the bar. a group spills in through the door bringing the warm night air with them.

you and jack don’t notice any of it.

it’s only when he glances around and then back at you that you realize how late it’s gotten.

“i’ll just use the bathroom,” he says, pushing his chair back. “be right back.”

you watch him stop at the bar on the way back. a quiet word with the bartender, something slipped across the counter without a word to you about it.

he comes back and picks up his jacket.

“ready?” he says simply.

you smile a little without meaning to. “yeah,” you say. “let’s go.”

---

the night air is warm with a slight breeze when you step outside. you pull your jacket loosely around your shoulders and say “i had a really good time” and mean it completely and then immediately start wondering if it sounded too eager. you fall into step beside him on the pavement and the silence is comfortable but your brain is doing that thing where it replays the whole evening looking for something to be anxious about and finding too many candidates.

did it go well. it felt like it went well. he paid without making it a thing which was. god that was sweet. but he hasn’t said anything since we left and maybe that means—

“you’ve gone somewhere,” he says.

you blink. look up at him. “what?”

“just now.” he glances at you, steady. “where’d you go?”

your mouth opens. closes. “nowhere,” you say.

he looks at you for a moment in that way he has, like he can see straight through the word, and almost smiles and says nothing and you feel your face go warm.

“do you want to take a walk,” he says instead. “there’s a park just around the corner.”

“yes,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.

he definitely notices. doesn’t say anything.

---

the park is quiet, just the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the street. the trees are full and dark against the sky and the path is lit by old iron lampposts and the air smells like cut grass and something floral.

you spot the ice cream stand before he does. a small cart tucked near the park entrance, fairy lights strung around the awning.

you stop walking.

he follows your gaze. looks back at you. that almost smile already happening.

“come on,” you say, already heading over.

he shakes his head slightly and follows.

you get strawberry cheesecake in a cup. he gets dark chocolate pecan, which somehow suits him completely. you both stand under the fairy lights eating ice cream while the warm night moves around you.

“here,” you say, holding your spoon out toward him.

he looks at it. then takes the taste, and his expression does something reluctant and impressed at the same time.

“that’s actually good,” he says.

“i know,” you say smugly.

he holds his own spoon out without a word. you lean in and try it and the dark chocolate hits first and then the pecan and it’s rich and warm and very him somehow.

“okay,” you admit. “that’s also good.”

“i know,” he says, and you laugh, and this time he actually smiles. quiet and real and just for a moment.

you look at him in the lamplight and feel something settle warm in your chest and think. oh. okay. this is a problem.

---

you start walking again when the cups are empty, slower now, no particular direction. the park is mostly yours at this hour, just the occasional dog walker passing with a nod.

you’re not in your head anymore. somewhere between the ice cream and the smiling you’d stopped replaying the evening and landed back in it.

he’s walking close enough that your shoulders brush every few steps and neither of you moves away.

you stop near a lamppost where the path curves and turn to look at him and he’s already looking at you, that careful composure doing very little at this particular moment.

you lean up and kiss him.

he goes still. one second. two. then his hand comes up slow and cups your jaw and he kisses you back, deep and sure, and you forget about the warm night and the lamplight and everything else.

he pulls back first. steps back slightly. shakes his head.

you groan softly. “i’ve never had to ask for things, you know.”

that flicker at the corner of his mouth. “so you’re a spoiled brat.”

“what will it take,” you say, looking up at him. “for you to just give in.”

“i’m not—” he stops. jaw tight. “i’m not relationship material. you should know that going in.”

you hold his gaze. “i’m not looking for a relationship either. it doesn’t have to be more than what it is.” a beat. “we’re adults, jack.”

he looks at you for a long moment. the last argument behind his eyes going quiet.

then he kisses you again. different this time. his hand gripping your face, consuming, and you grip the front of his jacket and let him.

he pulls back just enough to speak, voice low.

“the townhouse is two minutes from here,” he says.

you didn’t know that. you file it away for later.

“okay,” you say.

he takes your hand and you go.

---

the door barely shuts behind you.

his hands find your waist before you’ve taken a step inside, walking you back against the entryway wall, mouth on yours, and the kiss is nothing like the one in the park. that one had been careful, him dipping his toe in. this one is hungry, open mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours slowly, like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for a long time. you make a sound against his mouth and feel him exhale hard through his nose like it costs him something.

your fingers find his shirt buttons. his hands push your jacket off your shoulders and it hits the floor somewhere. something knocks off the entryway table, neither of you flinches.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, hair slightly messed from your hands, and the composed dr. jack abbot of dinner and parks and careful measured distance is completely gone. what’s left is just him, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room he’s done being good about.

he takes your hand and walks you backward through the darkened living room and sits down on the couch, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion, hands settling on your hips.

“jack—”

“here,” he murmurs, guiding your hips forward, then back, slow. “like that.”

your breath catches. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with an intensity that makes it hard to think straight. his hands grip your hips and move them again, that same slow roll, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it.

“you have no idea,” he says, low, almost to himself. his forehead drops to your shoulder for just a moment. “how long i’ve wanted this.” his mouth finds your jaw, your neck. “wanted you.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, chest heaving, lips swollen. his eyes meet yours, dark, pupils blown.

“fuck me,” you breathe against his mouth. “please.”

a groan tears out of him.

he flips you in one smooth motion, your back meeting the couch cushions, him over you, and his hands find the zipper of your skirt, fumbling with it in a way that is deeply satisfying coming from someone so usually composed. you reach down to help and he bats your hands away gently.

“i’ve got it,” he mutters, jaw tight, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling.

he does.

---

you wake up to the smell of coffee.

for a moment you just lie there, ceiling unfamiliar, sheets softer than yours, the morning light coming in through curtains you don’t recognize. then it lands. right. jack’s townhouse. you sit up slowly and push your hair back and look around the room.

it’s neat in the way of someone who lives alone and likes order. dark furniture, minimal, a small stack of books on the nightstand. a glass of water on your side that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.

you stare at the glass of water for a moment.

you find his shirt at the foot of the bed and pull it on and pad downstairs.

he’s in the kitchen. grey tee, dark pants, barefoot. you can hear the faint clink of his prosthetic foot as he moves around the stove with that same leisured pace as always. coffee already poured, two cups. eggs in the pan. toast just popped.

he glances over when you appear in the doorway.

“morning,” he says simply. like this is normal. like you wake up in his house all the time.

“you made breakfast,” you say.

he just smiles in return.

you slide onto the stool at the kitchen island and wrap both hands around the mug he pushes toward you and watch him cook and try not to feel too much about any of this.

you mostly fail.

he plates the eggs without ceremony and sets it in front of you and sits across with his own and you eat together in the quiet morning, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. outside birds are doing their thing in the backyard. somewhere a lawnmower starts up distantly.

“did you sleep okay?” he asks at some point.

“really well actually,” you say, and mean it. the peaceful dreamless kind you’d been craving for months.

---

you leave just after nine. he walks you to the door, and just before you step out he cups the back of your head gently and presses his lips to your forehead.

your insides melt.

“i’ll see you later,” he says.

you look up at him. “yeah,” you say softly. “you will.”

you walk to your car with his shirt smell still on your skin and the ghost of his mouth on your forehead and think. oh you are in so much trouble.

---

it becomes a pattern after that.

stolen minutes, mostly. a look across the room that lasts a beat too long. his hand finding the small of your back when he passes you in the hallway at your parents’, gone before anyone could notice. a text at odd hours that starts as nothing and becomes something by the time you put your phone down.

---

it was gathering at your parents’. a few neighbors gathered in the living room, some rosé for the women, beers for the men, your mom moving between guests with a platter of something she’d spent the morning making. it fills up fast the way your parents’ house always does, loud and warm, someone’s kid running through the hallway.

you’re in a sundress, yellow, the kind that sits light on your shoulders. jack is there when you arrive, talking to one of your dad’s colleagues, and his eyes find you once across the yard, darkening just a fraction.

you go inside for ice an hour in.

the kitchen is quiet after the noise of the backyard, just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of someone laughing outside. you’re pulling the ice tray when you hear the door behind you.

you don’t turn around. you already know.

his hands find your hips from behind, turning you, and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the usual careful composed kisses. one hand slides into your hair, the other flat against the small of your back pulling you in, and he kisses you the way he does when he’s been watching you from across a yard for an hour and has run out of patience for it. open mouthed, his tongue sliding slow against yours until your fingers curl into his shirt and you forget what you came in here for.

his hand moves under the hem of your dress, palm dragging slow up the inside of your thigh, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“is my girl wet for me?” he murmurs, low, meant only for you.

your breath stutters. you don’t answer. he finds out anyway, fingers pressing against the thin fabric of your underwear, and the quiet sound he makes against your temple is deeply unfair.

“jack,” you warn softly.

“shhh,” he says, and drops to his knees.

he pushes your dress up and hooks your underwear down in one smooth motion, tucks it into his pocket, and then his mouth is on you and the world narrows to the warm press of his tongue. your hand flies to your mouth. the other grips the counter behind you hard enough to whiten your knuckles, the noise of the party bleeding through the walls while he takes you apart quietly on the kitchen floor.

he doesn’t rush. that’s the thing about jack. he never rushes.

by the time you come you’re biting down on your own fist, eyes squeezed shut, shaking.

he stands up and fixes the hem of your dress back down like nothing happened. looks at you once, the corner of his lips tilted up in a smirk, while you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.

“i’ll give those back later,” he says, patting his pocket.

“you’re unbelievable,” you manage.

he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. presses a single kiss to your cheek and walks back outside.

you stand in the kitchen for a full minute before you follow.

---

he keeps his eyes on you for the rest of the day. not obviously. just enough that you feel it every time, that quiet heat from across the yard. enough to know he hasn’t forgotten.

you don’t get the underwear back.

what you get instead, after the last guests trickle out and your parents call it a night, is his hand finding yours in the dark hallway and him walking you to the downstairs bathroom and clicking the lock behind you both.

you’re quiet about it. mostly.

---

the dinner is a few of your dad’s colleagues and their wives, jack included, the type of evening that involves good wine and stories you’ve heard versions of before. you sit at the far end of the table and catch him looking at you twice, both times immediately looking away.

you wear something simple. nothing risky. you’re behaving.

mostly.

you say your goodbyes at the door, your coat already on. “i’m heading out to meet a friend,” you tell your dad, kissing his cheek. “i’ll stay over hers. i’ll be back in the morning.”

“i can drop you off,” jack says from behind you, already reaching for his keys. “i’m heading that way.” you were going to meet him anyway.

your dad claps him on the shoulder. “perfect, save her the uber.”

you smile. “thanks, jack.”

the drive starts quiet. lights bleeding past the windows, jack’s hand loose on the wheel, the low hum of the radio filling the space between you. comfortable on the surface. charged underneath.

you watch the road for a while.

then you reach across the console.

“don’t,” he says immediately, his hand closing over yours.

you do it anyway.

he exhales hard. pulls off at the next quiet stretch, a side road that’s dark and empty. he clicks the lock and reaches for the lever at the side of his seat and lets it fall back. then his hands find you and he hauls you over the console and onto his lap before you’ve fully registered the movement.

you land against him and his mouth finds yours, urgent in a way that pulls low in your stomach. you’re both pulling at things, his shirt buttons, your top, the zip of his pants, the graceless urgency of too much want in too small a space.

when he finally pushes inside you, both of you stilling for just a moment at the stretch of it, thick and familiar and so so good, your forehead drops to his shoulder and you exhale shakily.

“okay?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, move—”

you start to roll your hips and his hands grip your waist, steadying, guiding, letting you find the rhythm. the windows fog at the edges. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with that focused intensity that makes you feel like the only thing in the room.

then his feet find the floor and he starts thrusting up to meet you, slow and hard, and your head falls back.

“jack—”

“i’ve got you, darlin’,” he says low, one hand splayed across your lower back holding you close, the other pulling your top aside, unhooking your bra, his mouth replacing it, warm against your hardened peak. you dig your fingers into his shoulders and stop thinking about anything at all.

the radio plays on softly. outside the road stays empty.

neither of you are in any hurry.

---

you end up staying the night.

you hadn’t planned to. but the radio plays on softly and neither of you move and at some point the quiet of the car becomes the quiet of his townhouse and then it’s late and he’s pulling his shirt over your head in the dark and saying stay against your temple like it’s nothing.

so you do.

---

a few days later you answer the door at your parents’ when the doorbell goes.

you’re in sleep shorts and an oversized tee, hair up, not having expected anyone. jack stands on the other side of the door in dark slacks and a polo, his glasses hanging from the collar, looking entirely too put together for a tuesday morning.

you lean against the doorframe. “where are you going dressed like that?”

he looks at you. then very deliberately looks at your shorts. “golf. your father suggested i develop a normal hobby.”

“and you listened?”

“he’s very persuasive.”

you open your mouth to say something else when your dad’s voice carries from inside. “jack! give me five minutes, i’m almost ready!”

jack raises an eyebrow at you. you raise one back.

and then he steps into the foyer, glances once over your shoulder toward the stairs, and kisses you quickly. you feel his hand caress your jaw and then it’s gone just as fast when he pulls back.

“i’ll see you later,” he murmurs.

he steps back and straightens his collar. looks completely poised.

you are not completely poised.

your dad comes thundering down the stairs two minutes later, clapping jack on the shoulder, steering him out the door. jack follows, and just before he reaches the car he glances back once.

you’re still in the doorframe.

he smiles. that small smile, only for you, and turns away.

you stay there a moment longer than you need to before going back inside.

---

the phone starts buzzing an hour later.

it’s sitting on the kitchen counter where your dad left it, lighting up with a number you recognize from his office. you grab your keys.

you find them on the sixth hole. your dad spots you first, face confused, and you hold up the phone. his expression shifts immediately into the particular look he gets when something’s gone sideways at work.

he steps away to take the call and you’re left standing on the green in your tiny shorts while jack abbot turns around and takes you in with a slow once over.

“my dad forgot his phone,” you say innocently.

“i can see that,” he says.

“interesting shorts,” he says.

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“i know,” you say, and smile.

your dad reappears, phone pressed to his chest, apology already on his face. “jack, i’m so sorry, there’s something with the mcvoy merger, i have to go. i’ll make it up to you, we’ll reschedule—”

“go,” jack says easily. “don’t worry about it.”

your dad looks between you both. “she can drive you back—”

“go sort your merger,” jack says.

your dad squeezes his shoulder gratefully and strides off toward the car park, already back on the phone. and then it’s just you and jack and the open green and the warm afternoon stretching out around you.

he looks at you.

you look back.

“get a hole in one,” you say.

he stares at you. “i’m sorry?”

“hole in one, old man,” you say. “and i’ll make it worth your while.”

a long pause. he looks out at the green. looks back at you. the corner of his mouth pulling in a way he doesn’t quite manage to hide. he shakes his head with a chuckle under his breath. 

he lines up his shot with the confidence of someone who is very good at things he pretends not to care about.

it drops clean.

he turns and looks at you over the top of his glasses.

you burst out laughing.

he’s still giving you that look, warm and steady and just slightly wolfish, and something flips over in your chest.

“hole in one,” he says simply.

---

things fall in his entryway.

his keys missing the hook. your sandals somewhere near the door. his phone clattering off the console table that neither of you stops for because he has you against the wall with his hands under your thighs before the door is fully shut, your legs wrapping around him, laughing into his mouth until you’re not laughing anymore.

“you wore those shorts on purpose,” he says against your jaw.

“i have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” you manage.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, hair messed, chest rising and falling, and shakes his head slowly, a quiet laugh in his expression.

“what am i gonna do with you,” he says, low and gravelly, shaking his head in faux disappointment.

“i have a few ideas,” you say.

he carries you upstairs with your legs still around him, mouth finding your neck, the curve of your shoulder. he sets you down on the edge of the bed and steps back, reaching behind him to pull his polo off in one smooth motion.

you take a moment to just. look at him.

toned shoulders in the way of someone who has been active his whole life, with a softness at his middle. freckles scattered across his arms and chest, concentrated at the shoulders, the kind that come from years in the sun. a slight roundness to his stomach that makes him look exactly his age in the best possible way. silver hair dusted across his chest, catching the afternoon light. you bite your lip as you take him in.

his eyes are already on you.

his hands find the waistband of your shorts and drag them down slowly, dropping them somewhere on the floor. he straightens up and looks at you for a moment.

“touch yourself for me,” he says quietly.

you hold his gaze for a beat. then you lean back on your palms and slide a hand down between your thighs, fingers tracing down your folds, finding the growing wetness there.

he stands there watching, breathing a little heavily, before his hands find his belt buckle, unhooking it slow, shoving his pants down without looking away from you. his cock is thick and already hard and his hand wraps around it, stroking, eyes tracking every movement of your fingers, and the whole thing is so intense and quiet that your breath has gone completely unsteady.

then he steps forward.

he takes your wrist and brings your hand up and closes his mouth around your fingers, sucking them clean without breaking eye contact, and your brain short circuits completely.

he pushes you back onto the bed.

he buries his face between your thighs, mouth finding your clit with no warning, and your back arches clean off the bed. he works you open, tongue fucking into you obscenely, and you’re loud about it, louder than you mean to be, one hand twisting in his silver hair while your hips roll down against his mouth chasing more.

you soak him and he doesn’t pull back. just makes a quiet satisfied sound against you and keeps going like he has nowhere else to be, like this is exactly where he wants to be, until you’re shaking and your brain has turned completely to mush and your whole body is pulling tight.

“jack— jack i need—”

he pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth slick, eyes dark, expression perfectly composed.

“hm?” he says. “can’t quite hear you. old man ears.”

you groan. “jack.”

“sorry?” the corner of his mouth twitches.

“you know what i need—”

he tuts softly. “you’re going to have to be more specific, sweet girl.”

you huff, thighs squeezing around his shoulders, and he raises an eyebrow at you like he has all the time in the world and fully intends to use it.

“please,” you breathe. “please please just fuck me, jack, please—”

you keep saying it, broken and shameless, until he pulls back, rolls a condom on with steady hands, and finally fills you in one slow push that knocks the air clean out of your lungs.

---

the bed creaks.

he has your legs pushed up, knees to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders, and you are folded so completely beneath him that the only thing you can do is hold on and take it. his hands brace either side of your head, eyes on your face, and he moves with a focus that makes it impossible to think about anything else.

the headboard finds the wall. once. twice. and then it just. stays there, a constant rhythmic clatter that fades into the background because there are other sounds now too — the slap of skin, your moans climbing higher with every stroke, the low sounds he makes when he’s trying to stay controlled and losing the battle. the room is loud with all of it and neither of you are doing anything to stop it.

“you’re doing so well for me,” he murmurs. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles over the swollen bud, and you make a sound that you feel in your whole body. “killin’ me, baby,” he grunts. your puffy lips stretched around him, taking everything he gives, and he looks down at where you’re joined and his breathing is shaky. 

his hips are losing that careful rhythm, thrusts getting shorter and more urgent, and you can feel him everywhere, the relentless drag and push of him, your whole body pulled taut around him.

“jack—”

“yeah baby,” he breathes. “yeah yeah, come for me. fuck—” his thumb keeps those merciless circles over your needy clit. “this pretty pussy’s squeezing me so good, can you feel that—”

and that’s it. you come with his name on your lips and your whole body arching up into him, thighs shaking against his shoulders. he follows right behind you, a low groan pressed into the curve of your neck, hips stuttering to a stop.

for a moment neither of you move.

---

then he carefully lowers your legs, pressing a brief kiss to the inside of your knee before he pulls back. you hear him in the bathroom, water running, and then he’s back with a warm towel and he cleans you up quietly, thorough and gentle, and you lie there and let him and try not to think too hard about what that means.

he tosses the towel aside and settles on the edge of the bed. reaches down and unstraps his prosthetic, setting it carefully against the nightstand. the room is quiet while he does it, a routine for him.

you watch him from where you’re curled on your side, still soft and sleepy.

“does it hurt?” you ask, voice still a little wrecked.

“not hurt,” he says. “just gets uncomfortable after a while.”

you reach out without thinking, fingers finding the end of his residual limb, and you massage there gently. he goes very still for a moment. then his hand comes up and squeezes your shoulder.

neither of you say anything. you don’t need to.

he settles back against the headboard and pulls you into his side, your cheek finding his chest, his hand moving through your hair in long slow strokes. he presses his lips to the top of your head and you close your eyes and breathe him in and think that this is a very dangerous thing to have gotten used to.

“i’m ordering thai,” he says after a while.

“okay,” you say, not moving.

he reaches for his phone with his free hand, the other still in your hair, and places the order without asking what you want because he already knows. you smile at that a little where he can’t see it.

the food arrives forty minutes later and you eat together in his bed, containers spread between you on the duvet, casablanca pulled up on the tv.

you groan when you see the title screen.

“you haven’t seen it,” he says, already settling back.

“i’ve seen enough of it.”

“that’s not the same thing.” he hands you a container of pad thai. “watch the movie.”

you watch the movie.

it’s good. you’re not going to tell him that.

halfway through you’re completely invested and stealing bites off his plate and he lets you, which is how you know he’s in a good mood. the lamp is on low, the room warm, the sound of old hollywood filling the quiet between you. he makes a comment about the cinematography at some point and you make a comment back and it turns into a whole thing and by the time you look up the scene has moved on entirely.

“we missed it,” you say.

“i’ve seen it forty times,” he says. “it’s fine.”

you laugh softly and settle back into his side.

you’re asleep before the ending. you don’t even realize it’s happening, just the warmth of him and the low sound of the television and then nothing at all.

you wake up to a dark room and credits rolling softly on the screen.

jack is asleep beside you, breathing slow and even, one arm still loosely around you. you lie there for a moment in the quiet of his townhouse, the distant sound of a car outside, the low hum of the television.

then you slip carefully out from under his arm.

you find your clothes in the low light, dress quietly, check your phone. 12:43am.

you lean over him. “jack,” you whisper.

he stirs. opens one eye.

“i’m heading home,” you say softly.

he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, still half asleep. “text me when you’re in.”

“okay,” you say.

you let yourself out.

---

the house is quiet when you slip through the front door, just the lamp on low in the living room. you’re halfway up the stairs when your dad’s voice comes from the kitchen.

“that you?”

you pause. “yeah, it’s me.”

he appears in the doorway in his robe, mug in hand, looking more tired than suspicious. “where were you?”

“out,” you say.

“with?”

you open your mouth. close it. look somewhere past his shoulder.

your dad watches you for a moment, something shifting in his expression, gentle rather than pressing.

“hey,” he says quietly. “i’m not going to push. you’re an adult, i know that.” he sets his mug down and comes to the foot of the stairs, looking up at you with that look he’s had your whole life. “i just worry about you, kiddo. that’s all. just want you to be careful.”

you feel it in your chest, that particular warmth that only he can put there.

“i know,” you say softly. “i am.”

he reaches up and presses a kiss to your forehead. “get some sleep.”

you watch him shuffle back toward the kitchen. then you go upstairs.

---

you’re in bed, lamp off, staring at the ceiling when you pick up your phone.

you’re in bed, lamp off, staring at the ceiling when you pick up your phone.

you: i think dad knows

jack: how?

you type out the whole interaction. 

jack: okay. let’s lay low for a bit.

you stare at the screen.

you: :(

jack: be good and i’ll reward you.

you smile at your phone in the dark.

you: tie me up?

jack: i just said be good.

you laugh to yourself, quietly. 

you: fine. deal.

you put your phone face down and close your eyes and fall asleep smiling like an idiot.

---

it’s been a few days since the golf course.

you text. not constantly, not in the way that would mean something you’ve both agreed not to name. just enough. a voice memo here, a late night exchange there, him sending you a dry one liner about a patient that makes you laugh out loud at your laptop and your mom asking what’s so funny from the other room.

you missed him. more than made sense for something that wasn’t supposed to be more than what it was.

you wondered if he missed you just as much. you didn’t ask.

---

it was game day. a few of the neighbors had gathered in your parents’ living room, beers cracked, the big tv loud with commentary. it fills up fast the way your parents’ house always does, loud and warm, someone’s kid running through the hallway, the smell of something good coming from the kitchen.

you’re on the back porch when you hear your name.

“no way.”

you turn. marcus is standing at the sliding door grinning at you, older than you remember but the same eyes, the same easy smile. you went to high school together, lost touch the way people do.

“marcus,” you say, and he pulls you into a hug that lifts you slightly off the ground.

you spend the next hour catching up in the corner of the living room, half watching the game, laughing at old memories and terrible teachers and that one party junior year that neither of you should probably talk about. he’s easy to be around. always was.

you don’t notice jack until you feel it.

that particular awareness. like a change in the room’s temperature. you glance over marcus’s shoulder mid laugh and find jack across the living room, standing with your dad and two other men, drink in hand, eyes on you.

he looks away the second you catch him.

but you felt it. the weight of it. a different kind of watching than his usual.

you let it go and laugh at something marcus says and don’t look over again.

your phone buzzes at 9:43 pm, twenty minutes after the last guests have trickled out.

come over.

two words. no context.

you say goodnight to your parents, grab your keys, and go.

---

he opens the door before you’ve knocked.

he’s still in what he wore to the game, shirt untucked now, sleeves rolled to the elbow. you can see the definition in his forearms, a vein running through the muscle there, fit in the way of someone who keeps at it without making a show of it. he steps aside to let you in and you cross the threshold and turn to look at him and know. something is sitting differently about him tonight.

“jack,” you start.

“bedroom,” he says. “strip and get on the bed.”

you hold his gaze for a moment. he holds yours back, jaw set, unblinking.

you go upstairs.

you hear him follow a minute later. you’re sitting on the edge of the bed when he comes in, jaw set, eyes darker than usual.

“i said strip,” he says quietly.

“i know what you said,” you say. “i’m trying to figure out what’s going on with you first.”

a beat.

“nothing’s going on,” he says.

“jack.”

he looks at you for a long moment. then he crosses the room, tips your chin up with two fingers, and looks down at you.

“who was he,” he says. low and even, not quite a question.

oh.

you feel the smile start before you can stop it. “marcus?”

his jaw tightens. “is that his name.”

“he’s an old friend,” you say. “we went to high school together.”

his face stays still. but his eyes shift.

“strip,” he says again. “and get on the bed.”

this time you do.

---

the lamp on the nightstand casts the room in dark golden hues. he stands at the foot of the bed and watches you undress, unhooking your bra, sliding fabric off your shoulders, letting things fall. his eyes track every inch of you as it’s revealed, quiet and intent, taking his time with it.

you feel every second of his gaze like a physical thing.

he strips himself without looking away from you. shirt first, then his belt, his pants. the freckles scattered across his body, heavy on his arms, the slight roundness of him. you bite your lip as you take him in.

he looks at you for a long moment in the warm quiet of the room.

“did anything ever happen,” he says. “between you and marcus.”

you look up at him. “we kissed once. at a party junior year.” a pause. “that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“once,” he repeats.

“once,” you confirm. “it was nothing.”

he looks at you for another long moment. then he reaches forward and turns you, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one hand pressing firm between your shoulder blades.

you hear him behind you, the tear of a wrapper, and then his hands find your hips and he tilts your chin gently to the right.

there’s a mirror.

long, leaning against the wall, angled just enough that you can see everything. him behind you, broad shoulders, the curve of his body, hands gripping your hips. you, flushed and waiting. the two of you together.

“look,” he says quietly. “look at how good you look with me.”

you look. and then he pushes inside and your mouth falls open.

he sets a pace that’s different from his usual. not cruel, never cruel, but insistent. purposeful. his grip on your hips tighter than normal, fingers pressing into the flesh of you in a way that’ll leave marks and you both know it. every thrust driving you forward, the headboard finding the wall, that familiar clatter filling the room.

“fuck,” he groans, almost to himself, eyes on the mirror meeting yours. “such a good girl, takin me so well.”

you whimper. his hand moves from your hip to your jaw, thumb pressing at the seam of your lips, and your mouth opens for it without thinking. you suck on it lazily, eyes fluttering shut, clenching around him, and the sound he makes behind you is low and barely contained.

then he pulls back, flips you, hauling you up the bed in one smooth motion so your back meets the mattress. he hoists your leg up over his shoulder, the other hooking around the back of his thigh, and pushes back inside and the angle is different, deeper, and you make a sound that comes from somewhere embarrassingly desperate.

he looks down at you.

his eyes are darker than usual. not angry exactly. something more complicated than that. like there’s a purpose behind them, something he’s working through that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with you, and he’s groaning low with every thrust but his jaw is carrying something heavier than exertion.

he wants to imprint himself on you. you can feel it. the want of it radiating off him in waves.

and somewhere underneath all of it, buried where you can’t quite see it, he knows he needs to stop. that this isn’t — it isn’t — it isn’t supposed to be—

his thumb pressing down, rubbing tight circles against your clit, and your back arches clean off the mattress.

“jack—”

“yeah, baby,” he grits out. “come on. come for me.”

you do. hard and shaking, his name breaking apart in your mouth.

he stills. pulls out before he can get there, jaw tight, sits back on his heels. too far in his own head to follow you over the edge. he deals with the condom quietly, efficiently, like if he moves fast enough you won’t notice.

you’re too far gone to notice.

silence settles over the room.

---

he cleans you up without a word, warm towel, the same quiet efficiency as always. then he sits back against the headboard and you roll onto your side, cheek on the pillow, looking up at him.

you’re smiling. you can’t help it.

he looks down at you. reaches out and tucks a strand of hair back from your face.

“what,” he says.

“i like this side of you,” you say.

he looks at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth doing a slow losing battle.

“go to sleep,” he says.

you keep smiling.

“goodnight jack,” you hum.

---

he doesn’t sleep.

you’re curled against his side, breathing slow and even, and he lies there in the dark with the ceiling above him and his thoughts going in circles he can’t stop.

marcus. the way you’d laughed with him. easy and bright, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere comfortable, somewhere with no history of grief or war or bad decisions made in the dark.

he’s a good guy probably. your age. no baggage. no prosthetic leaning against a nightstand. no dead wife he still talks to sometimes in his head when things get quiet enough.

these past two months have been — he stops himself. doesn’t finish the thought.

it was supposed to be simple. he’d told himself that from the beginning. told you too. not a relationship. not more than what it is. just two adults who understood the terms.

but then breakfast happened. and the ice cream in the park. and you falling asleep against him during casablanca and him not moving for two hours because he didn’t want to wake you.

he’d said he wouldn’t give in. he’d said it to himself in that hallway at your parents’ house the night you slipped him your number. he’d said it on the walk when you’d called him out. he’d said it outside the restaurant.

and then he’d stopped saying it entirely.

he looks at you in the dark. the soft rise and fall of you. something clenching in his chest that he doesn’t have a name for and doesn’t want one.

he should put some space between them. before it becomes something it can’t come back from. before you wake up one day and realize you’ve wasted the best years of your life on a man who is held together with old stitches and careful habits.

he thinks about the sabbatical he’s been putting off for two years. three months. scotland, maybe. somewhere far enough that the distance does the work he can’t seem to do himself.

he makes the decision somewhere around four in the morning.

he lies there until six feeling terrible about it.

he’s careful getting up. detaches his prosthetic in the dim light, reattaches it quietly, presses a kiss so soft to your cheek you don’t stir.

then he goes to the kitchen and makes breakfast.

you appear in the doorway twenty minutes later, hair loose, wearing his shirt again, and something about the sight of you does exactly what he knew it would. you pad over and wrap your arms around him from behind, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and he goes very still.

“morning,” you say, muffled against his back.

“morning,” he says.

he keeps his voice even. keeps his hands moving. eggs in the pan. toast just popped. coffee already poured.

you don’t notice anything. you’re too warm, too soft with sleep, too happy. you steal a piece of toast and sit at the island and talk about something you’d dreamed about and he listens and nods and says the right things and thinks about scotland.

you leave after breakfast with a kiss to his jaw and a smile that does something complicated to his chest.

“i’ll see you later,” you say.

“yeah,” he says.

he watches you go.

---

you drive home giddy in a way you haven’t been in a long time.

you spend the morning working from your childhood bedroom, laptop open, but your mind keeps drifting. to the mirror. to his hands. to the way he’d looked at you in the warm lamp light like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

he likes you. he has to. people don’t look at people like that unless they mean it.

maybe next time you see him you’ll tell him. quietly. simply. just — i really like you, jack. and see what happens.

you’re smiling at your laptop when your phone lights up on the desk beside you. four consecutive buzzes.

5:04 pm.

you pick it up still smiling when you see it's from the man who won't leave your head.

the smile fades before you’ve finished reading.

jack: hey.

jack: i’ve been thinking about us. what we had these past few months has been really good. more than i anticipated, if i’m honest. but i think we both knew this wasn’t built to last.

jack: the sneaking around, your father, the gap between us. it isn’t fair to either of us to keep going. i’m taking a sabbatical i’ve been putting off for some time. leaving tomorrow. a few months away feels like the right call. i'm sorry i couldn't say goodbye.

jack: take care of yourself.

you read it twice. then a third time like the words might rearrange themselves into something different if you give them enough chances.

they don’t.

you put your phone face down on the desk and sit very still. outside the neighborhood kids laugh. a car passes. the world just keeps going.

you’d been planning to tell him you liked him. you’d been rehearsing it in your head all morning.

you think you heard it. the moment your heart shattered into a million pieces.

This isn't the first time that Jack has watched you go on a date. No, far from it. It is the first time since he knows how sweet you sound when you cum.

He's spent years watching you try out different boys for size. The college quarterback who got too handsy on the first date that Jack had to save you from. The pretty barista who lasted almost a year. Both Robby and Jack hated him. The musician...the other musician...and the Soundcloud rapper. What the fuck was a Soundcloud rapper?

And all the disastrous dates ended with you sitting on Jack's couch, bemoaning the fact that you would never find love. You had no clue that Jack was secretly praying for their downfall. He wanted you so bad for so long.

Jack has no idea that pretty barista broke up with you because you moaned Jack's name when he went down on you... Jack has no idea that after every single one of those failed dates you went home and made yourself reach your peak by imagining the filthy things your dad's best friend would do to you.

You had been circling each other for years. But you wouldn't step back, not after Jack called you a mistake!

It's only been about fifteen minutes since you left for your date but Jack is antsy. And Robby is noticing how his leg is bouncing.

"I should go home, I'm back on tomorrow night and I don't wanna completely fuck up my sleep schedule," Jack tells Robby. Any excuse to get out of his best friend's hair when all he can think about is bending his daughter over and making her cream over his cock.

Instead, he gets home and pulls his phone out.

He won't know how to make you feel good, baby girl, let daddy make your pussy feel good.

It's only a few seconds before Jack's phone lights up with a response.

oh daddy missed his chance and now this pussy needs to be filled by someone else x

Jack shouldn't be turned on by this. By the way you're making him suffer.

He doesn't know how you like it, baby girl. I'd be so sweet, let you ride my face all night if you want to. Play with that perfect little clit.

And Jesus, you're going to make him suffer. Because you don't respond.

It's supposed to be your third date with Brian. He's a nice guy, your age, works in finance, has just put a down payment on a house in the suburbs, wants kids, has a pension.

You say supposed to be your third date because you're sitting in a cocktail bar, all dolled up and Brian is nowhere to be seen. You check your phone over and over. But there's nothing.

After an hour, you realise that you've been stood up. You have no idea what to do. Looking at your phone you dial the number you know that will answer.

You're sitting on the curb trying not to cry as Jack's truck pulls up. He immediately jumps out, parking laws be damned.

"Baby girl, what's wrong? Did he hurt you? Make you do something you didn't wanna do?" he asks as he cups your face in his hands.

And Jack being so sweet is the final straw for you. You burst into tears as you shake your head. He cradles you in his arms.

"He stood me up," you confess, embarrassed.

Jack tuts and leads you to his truck.

"What a fuckin' idiot," he tells you as he drives you back to his house.

He guides you inside and upstairs to the bathroom where he starts to run the bath.

"Look at my sweet girl, all prettied up for some idiot. He has no idea what he's missing," Jack purrs as he massages your thighs before taking off your heels.

"Why don't you have a bath here, huh, pretty girl?" he breathes.

You nod your head trying to stop crying. But Jack doesn't care. He grabs a washcloth and cleans off your ruined makeup. Then he begins to undress you, willing his cock down when he sees the lingerie you picked out.

"Oh that fuckin' idiot," he repeats. "You picked this all out for him, huh? Thought he deserved to see you like this?"

You shake your head.

"I don't know. I just wanted to have the option but I...I don't think I was gonna sleep with him," you confess.

You haven't been able to get Jack out of your head. As much as you've tried. He kisses over the soft flesh of your thighs.

"C'mon baby, let daddy get you into the bath," he hums as he removes your underwear.

You sink into the water as you let Jack run soap over you. It's not needed but his hands feel so fuckin' good. And finally he presses his large hand between your thighs, his fingers trailing to your throbbing cunt. He teases your clit first, taking his time getting you worked up before sinking two thick fingers inside you.

"That's it, baby. Let daddy make you feel good," he groans as he pumps his fingers lazily in and out of you.

You can't help but pull him in for a kiss. You need to taste him. But Jack doesn't like how his mouth his muffling your moans so he pulls away so he can hear you get loud, louder and louder until your voice all but breaks. Your orgasm tumbles over you and you expect him to pull away.

But Jack isn't finished with you. You're so stressed, he thinks. So he continues pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you, until you're jelly in the bath.

"My pretty girl ready for bed?" he finally asks.

You nod your head, unable to form thoughts or words. He hums in appreciation. Jack picks you up, carrying you out of the bath and towels you off. He brings you to his bed, taking his time massaging moisturiser you left at his place into your body.

You settle into his bed then, tired from the overstimulation in the bath. You watch Jack through heavy lids as he undresses, shoes, then shirt, then pants, then boxers. He takes off his prosthetic leg finally before getting into bed beside you.

"Need to feel my angel around me," he breathes as he kisses you.

His lips start on yours before trailing down your neck and then to your breasts. You're a squirming mess when he finally presses the weeping head of his cock against your folds.

"So wet for daddy. You wouldn't be this wet for anyone else, huh?" he asks.

You just shake your head, his cock nudging against your clit.

"Need daddy's cock," you beg, dragging your nails down his back.

"Atta girl, use your nails on my back," he gruffs before pressing into you.

Jack isn't usually a patient man. But tonight, he takes his time with you, slowly rocking his hips into you. He wants to make this last. He wants to see you squirm under him, wants to make you cum over and over. He wants you to forget that anyone other than him exists.

"Fuck, daddy!" you cry out, tangling your fingers in his silver curls and pulling him in for a kiss.

He can feel your pussy tighten around his cock as he wrings another orgasm from you. He wants to feel this all night.

But Jack is also aware that he is a middle aged man and his own orgasm is fast approaching. The rhythm of his hips speeds up as he chases his own release.

"Fuck, daddy's gonna cum. Daddy's gonna cum in his little girl's pussy," he grunts against your neck.

You nod, letting him know it's okay. This is what you want.

As you come down from your highs together, Jack wraps you in his arms.

"You're not a mistake," he breathes into your hair. "Never a mistake."

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover @elenamoncadaibarra

“who’s pussy is this?” jack taunts, punctuating each word with a thrust of his hips.

“my fianc–”

he tsks softly, his free hand removing briefly from your hip to slap your ass. “try again.”

“yo-fuck-you do,” you moan out, hands scrambling the sheets for purchase as he reaches around to rub your clit.

“got to be quiet for me, kiddo. don’t you worry that flashy guy of yours might learn his fiancee is a whore for her dad’s friend?”

as soon as the words leave his lips, a whimper is pulled out of you, and jack raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “or maybe you want that, huh?” jack mocks. “maybe you want him to walk in on us fucking. oh, baby, then you’ll be mine forever, huh?”

he chuckles at the weak nod you try to give him, head turned slightly so he can see your face – jaw slack as drool collects on the corner of your mouth, eyes glassed over as you try to look at him.

prettiest bride-to-be he’s ever seen.

“are you going to cum for the camera?” he zooms the camera in on the sight of your face contorting in pleasure. “smile for the camera, baby. you’re going to hollywood.”

jack fucks you hard and rough through your release, his thrusts not relenting as he braces a hand on the headboard as his cock hits your g-spot over and over again. you looked so pretty below – squirming on his cock, fighting the urge to run away, and just accepted what he was giving you over and over again.

he cums inside you with a grunt, hips stuttering as he momentarily loses balance. when he pulls out with a groan, he grabs your wrist as you try to reach for the tissues on the nightstand.

“no, no leave it in,” he rasps, leaning back slightly. his eyes glint as he sees the trail of cum pool on the bed. “i look the same to him anyways.”

“seriously?” you croak out, body going limp in his hold. he hums in return, gently releasing your wrist.

when you finally face him, a faint smirk plays on his lips as he tosses his phone onto the nightstand. a beat passes as he watches with faint amusement as your eyes keep darting between him and the phone.

“don’t worry, darling; that’s for my eyes only.” he leans in to give a kiss on your forehead, hands brushing your damp hair behind your ear. “all you've got to do is look pretty on your big day, hm?”

taglist: @shawtsy @tempestfawn @iramagnus @artsymaddie @esmeraldalopez0 @rabbotism @supernovaandthestars

“sure, robby wanted to know how his girl was doing, he was very worried about you, sweetheart” jack comes to sit beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, pulling robby’s phone from your hand.

robby follows suit, sitting on your other side, nodding to what jack had said.

“really?” you ask, your eyebrows turned up in the middle, your eyes all big and wide, you didn’t want robby to be worried about you now, did you?

“yeah, very worried about my sweet girl, wanted to know jack was treating you good” robby nods, his hand creeping up your thigh.

“and did you…uh–did you like the pictures?”

robby smirks, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth, “very much”

“hey” jack taps your other thigh, making you turn your head towards him, his other hand already working his cock over his pants.

“why don’t you show dad what i taught you, huh?”

you nod and tentatively reach your hand to undo the button on jacks pants but he stops you.

“no, sweetheart, on him” he corrects you and you swallow down a nervous gulp before turning to face robby again, he lets out a soft gasp as your small fingers work on undoing his pants.

“such a good girl” robby groans as you pull his cock out and wrap your lips around him, giving his tip a few licks before taking him down all the way…

“mmm, such a good girl” jack nods in agreement as his hand slips between your legs, rubbing you over your shorts as your mouth works around robby’s cock, spluttering around the size of him.

You open your apartment door, confused at the sight of your attending, your boss, standing there. Before you could ever ask what he's doing here, he makes his way in, slamming the door behind him. 

You stand still as he makes his way towards you, a concentrated look in his eyes, the same he has when you are both working on a patient in a critical state. 

“Can I kiss you?” His voice is deep, barely above a whisper; somehow, his hands have made their way around your hips. He gets closer, you can feel how the air that makes its way out of his nose makes it right into yours. 

You nod, unable to form a word, unable to even form a thought. 

His lips crash into yours, chapped like you had dreamt they would be. There’s no fight, he quickly takes control, pushing his tongue in your mouth. Your hands make their way to his head, a hand holding his neck, holding him close to you, the other one pulling his short curls. 

He pulls away, barely, only enough to be able to ask you: 

“Where’s the bedroom?”

Somehow, not letting go of each other, not stopping kissing, you make it to your bedroom. Gently, gentle in a way he hadn’t been since he walked through your door, he lays you down on the bed. 

As he breaks the kiss he starts taking off his shirt. All you can do is stare, taking your time to admire his freckles, his defined chest and thick biceps. His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen, doll. I’ve been holding back for a long while, so we’re going to make it last.” He lays on top of you again, making his way between your legs. One of his hands softly grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him; the other one is beginning to pull your t-shirt. 

“First, I’m going to get my hands on you, explore you just as I always wanted, make you come on my fingers while I see how beautiful you are when you cum.” The hand that was under your shirt makes its way to your crotch, cupping your pussy over your pants, you moan while nodding your head. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Jack,” you speak for the first time in the evening, he gives you a little peck on the lips as a reward. 

“Then, once you are relaxed and wet,” he says as he gets closer to you, but instead of going for your mouth he presses his lips to your ear, “I get my mouth on you, finally tasting your pussy, baby, finally having you right where I’ve wanted for so long.” He licks the shell of your ear, shivers make their way through your body. He then pulls away to look you in the eyes again. 

“And finally, when I finally get you impossibly wet, I’m going to fuck you. Do you understand, doll?” 

You nod quickly, the hand copping your pussy presses down quickly then pulls away. 

“I need words,” he says as he sits back, completely pulling away from you. As fast as you can, you sit up, trying to get closer to him. 

“Yes, yes, Jack, please,” you mumble, you grab him by his shoulders, pulling him down with you. “I need you so bad, Jack. Need you inside me.”

He laughs, dry, even a little mean. “You’ve gotta come twice before we get there, kid. Think you can do that for me?”

You answer in a mix of hurried yeahs and fast nods. Both of his hands are on your shirt now, talking it off. You aren’t even wearing a bra, why would you in the comfort of your own house? Your nipples harden quickly at the cold air, Jack’s eyes go from yours to your chest. 

“Fuck.” He says before giving you a quick kiss to your lips before beginning to make his way down. He kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbones; when he’s finally eye-to-eye with your boobs, his tongue makes its way out of his mouth, holding eye contact with you he licks your left nipple, tongue flat against the little bud, he licks it the same way a couple of times before sucking on it. When his lips are around it, he brings his other hand to your right boob, pointer and thumb pulling on your nipple. 

“Jack, Jack, Jack.” That’s all you can say, but he gets you, just like he always does. 

He pulls away to give you a short kiss, then says:

”I know, kid. But we’re going slow, I’m an old man, I need my time to get there.” Somehow, him saying that gets you wetter than anything he’s done so far. 

When his attention is back on your chest, he brings his mouth to your right nipple, his hand taking care of the other one. His unoccupied one is on the elastic band of your pants, pulling them down, when they are barely under your ass his hand makes its way to your cunt, lightly touching your folds over the cotton of your underwear. 

“Fucking hell, doll,” he says as he pulls away, looking down to where his right hand was, “You’re so wet, I can feel it through your panties.” He runs his thumb from your entrance to your clit, slowly and lightly circling it around the bundle of nerves. 

“Just for you, Jack,” your voice is barely above a whisper, your breaths are heavy and loaded with want. 

His eyes are back on yours, his thumb presses against your clit. 

“Of course it’s just for me, silly,” his tone is condescending but you don’t mind, you like it, his hands abandons your cunt to get your pants and underwear completely out of the way. When you are completely naked, he somehow gets your legs even further apart, giving him a view of your dripping wet pussy, a glistening mess. He brings both of his hands to it, touching just your outer lips to pull them apart and showing your needy hole, clenching around nothing. He blows straight into it before making his way up to your face. Your eyes are closed, tears burning behind your eyelids. “It’s just for me because this pussy is mine.” His thumb lightly touches your clit, then teases your entrance. “Nobody has touched you here, right sweetheart?”

You open your eyes to look at him and nod. Somehow, between graduating High School, then college, MED School, and now interning, you hadn’t had time to date, not even get laid.  

“Fucking christ, doll. You were saving this for me, weren’t you?” His thumb was pressing harder now, making its way up and down your cunt, never touching your clit long enough, never making its way into your cunt. 

“Please, Jack, please.” You beg and all he does is grin at you, finding your neediness charming. 

“I know, baby, but I’m old, remember? We gotta take it slow.” His grin turns into a smile when he feels your clit twitch at his words. “Fuck, baby, that gets you going? Knowing you’re gonna get fucked by an old man?”

Both of your hands grab his forearm, trying to get his one finger in your entrance as you push down on his hand, trying to fuck yourself on his short digit. 

“Please, please, please, Jack,” you beg between soft cries, “please, daddy, I need you inside.” The teasing was becoming too much. 

His eyes soften at the nickname, he kisses you before asking, “You want daddy to take care of you?” You nod, tears running down your cheeks already. 

“Alright, doll. Ready to give me the first one of the night?" Before you could formulate any sort of answer his thumb is joined by his middle finger, it slowly makes its way inside while the shorter digit circles your clit. “You’re so tight baby, we’ll need a while before I get my cock inside you.” You let out a needy moan at that, you haven’t seen it, but you had felt it pressed against your stomach earlier and even limp it felt big. 

He gets his ringer finger inside you, the stretch is nothing like what you’ve felt before. You’ve had fun on your own, but his fingers are thicker than yours and the one vibrator you own. 

He finds the spot inside you, and the inner pressure alongside his thumb rubbing your clit get you to that familiar feeling in your gut. 

“Fuck, I can feel you getting tighter somehow. You’re sucking me in, doll. What a fucking greedy pussy you’ve got.” His tone is condescending again, his unoccupied hand makes its way to your mouth, two of his fingers press down on your tongue, forcing their way into yout mouth. 

“That’s it, baby, suck them,” he says as he closes his eyes before taking a deep breath, “your cunt is dripping wet, you’re making a mess of my hand, of your bed. Are you close, doll?” You give me a short nod and his hand on your cunt starts moving faster, finally getting you there. 

You cum in his fingers, your moans escaping around the ones on your mouth. His fingers fuck you trhough it; once your body relaxes he pulls his fingers out of you mouth, and as he tries to get fingers out of your cunt you bring both of your hands to his wrist, stopping him from pulling out.  

“Keep them,” you say in between short breaths, “I like it, being full.”

He curses at your words and rests his forehead on your shoulder. 

“God, kid. You like being stuffed?” You nod even though he can’t see it. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You lay in comfortable silence, enjoying the afterglow and the heat of his fingers inside you. After a while, you connect your lips with his; keeping your hands on his wrist you start fucking yourself on his fingers. He pulls away from your lips to enjoy the show. 

“Fuck, you’re so greedy, baby, fucking yourself on my fingers after I’ve already given you a hell of an orgasm.” There’s a tone of teasing, but his voice is mainly tinted with warmth, with love.

“Need you, Jack, please,” you ask him, looking into his eyes, one of your hands is back on his curls, pushing him down to get him face to face with your cunt. “Please?” 

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly pulls his fingers out, then presses his tongue flat against your cunt, giving it a long lick from your entrance to your clit, then circling it. You let out a high moan and he gives you a wink before focusing on your pussy and pushing his tongue inside you as his nose presses down on your clit. 

He fucks you with his tongue, moving faster than he did before. He pulls away and says “I’m so hard for you, doll. You’re gonna give this one to your daddy faster so he can fuck, alright?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, daddy, please, please, please.”

His tongue is back circling your clit and his fingers are making their way inside again, one at the time, just like before.

The second orgasm doesn’t slowly build up like the first one, it crashes over you hard and fast. You don’t even realize it’s happening until it washes over you, your whole body tenses for a second, you close your eyes so hard you see white. You hear yourself cry Jack, Jack, daddy, Jack but you don’t seem to have control over your mouth. 

Once you gain control over your body, you feel Jack laying on top of you, leaving a trial of kisses on your neck.

“You’re back with me, baby?” He asks as he pulls away from your neck, sweat is pooling on his forehead, his lips are red due to all the kissing and licking. 

You nod, putting your hands around his neck and shoulders to bring him face-to-face to you. You kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He pulls away from the kiss to tell you:

the evening light seeped between the cracks of the blackout curtains, spilling onto the floor. the room was painted in the familiar shades of lilac and oranges; the entire space was cast in a heavenly glow.   

room 707 had become your and jack's regular hideout.  

neither of you two came in together; you always entered separately. jack would drive off the interstate, taking the less-travelled route to the seedy motel room, always paid in full in cash, never by credit. after he was settled in, you’d wander in after approximately 20 minutes, discarding the overnight bag somewhere between the empty minibar and the queen bed.  

and jack was always there on time.  

sat on the bed with a glass of something amber and cold in a plastic cup. you would always be greeted with a familiar sight – blinds closed tight over the window, the only light threatening to come in being the flickering neon light advertising the strip club across the way – a place that killed hopes before they killed dreams.   

he’d pat the bed in a silent invitation, and you would climb into his arms, the world folding on itself for a few blissful nights. the room a constant witness to stolen kisses and fantasies.  

but today was different.  

today, you’re pinned flush to jack’s front; the solid weight of his chest pressing into your back with every breath he takes.  

the room flickers with the glow of the television – static noise filling the room as a filthy loop plays in front of you. jack had brought a duffel bag full of vhs tapes – the reels marked in illegible permanent marker scrawl. last time both of you were there, he noticed the vcr hooked up to the television, which was when he brought up the idea of him showing you ‘home videos’ he watched religiously as a teenager.  

and there he was, chest heaving beneath you as the sounds of moans and grunts filled the motel room. the woman on the screen sinks to her knees, baring her throat to the masked intruder in front of her. a smile twitches at the corner of jack's mouth, as he buries his face in your hair when you squirm beneath him.  

“you know,” jack starts, clearing his throat slightly against your neck. “i used to touch myself to these when i was your age. whenever i felt so lonely.”  

“you used to–”  

“yep.” jack rasps. his hand creeps up from your shin to your inner thigh as he shifts beneath you, the denim of his pants brushing your bare ass. “you want jackie to do that to you? you want jackie to touch you, kiddo?”  

you could only whine at the question in response, your head falling back to meet his shoulder, eyes transfixed on the video playing in front of you.  

when you don’t relent to meet his gaze, he hooks two fingers underneath your chin, calloused knuckles skimming your jaw. “tell jackie what you want,” he murmurs. you tear your stare away at the sound of his voice, breath quickening as he slides his other hand between your thighs.  

“i…” you swallow hard, the bitter taste of fear staining your tongue. you couldn’t meet his eyes. there was something unusual about saying what you wanted. as if wanting was a selfish act you couldn’t bring yourself to do.

your mouth feels dry, the sudden feeling of bile creeping up the back of your throat. heat creeping up from the column of your neck as you try to meet his stare – the stuffy motel air sucking out any defiance you had building inside of you.  

“you what?” jack coaxes, hand stroking your chin – slow, reverent. his thumb swipes across your lower lip, then dips inside your mouth. “use your big girl words.”  

you look up at him – eyes flushed, lips parted around his thumb; jack’s stare focused on your mouth.

“so tight for me…” he mutters, the pad of his thumb skimming the front of your teeth. jack lets out a big exhale from his mouth when you bite down slightly, feeling your tongue swirling around the ridges on his finger. “answer me.”  

your eyes flicker down to his lips momentarily before going back to his face. “i …” you muffle around his thumb, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. “i want you to do that to me.”  

“want what? i can’t know what you want if you don’t tell me, baby girl.”  

the sound of the ipad blares between your legs – feminine cries mixing with the sound of leather hitting flesh hard and rough; the buzz of cicadas outside interweaving with the sounds of pleasure emitting from the device, drowning the room with monotonous racket.  

you hesitate for a moment, eyes searching his. faintly under your breath, you respond.  

 “i want jackie to play with me.”  

“play with what?”  

you whine, head falling into the crook of his neck to hide.   

“no, no look at me,” jack chuckles, tilting your face upward. “what do you want jackie to play with?”  

“want you to play with my princess parts,” you whisper, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.  

“attagirl,” he rumbles, letting go of your chin. he pulls his thumb out of your mouth with a wet pop before smearing the spit across your cheek.  

jack cups your jaw, tilting your face slightly upward. “see? was it that hard?”

he smiles at your insistent nod, eyes crinkling at the corners as he shuffles you so that you are lying back properly against his chest.  

your eyes go back to the tv, still playing the video, and the scene changes. this time, the woman is lying on the bed – mirroring the exact position you are in – playing with herself whilst the man sits in a corner, watching her. 

“do you think she’s beautiful?” his chin falls to the top of your head. “kinda looks like you in a way, doesn’t she? my beautiful, pretty girl.” 

jack kisses your temple, lips lingering. “she’s got your tits, you know?” his hand makes a slow descent from your abdomen. “maybe we can make a video like that someday. just you and me.”

“a video?” you gulp.

“just for jackie. you trust me, don’t you?” 

groaning, his hand settle on top of your pussy, fingers ghosting your folds – a sharp gasp leaving his lips when he realises just how wet you are.

“this all for me, baby? did jackie do this to you?” 

you whimper, hands reaching blindly for his as you writhe underneath his grip. his free hand shoots for your wrist, pinning it down to the mattress beside you. he tsks softly before languidly moving his finger up and down, his breath hot on your ear.

“it’s okay, kiddo,” he coos, biting the lobe of your ear. “jackie’s here.”

jack pulls out his body from under you, setting your body aside with a pat of your thigh. you whimper at the loss of contact – eyes tracking as he makes his way to the foot of the bed.  

“what are you doing?” you frown, sitting up on your elbows, head straining upwards to meet him. you watch with a bated breath as he looks down on you, a small smirk forming on his lips as you stare up at him, brows furrowed in confusion.

jack ignores your sounds of protest and pushes down on your shoulder, laying you flat against the mattress, arms straining under the weight of dragging you down to the edge of the bed by your thighs. 

chaste kisses are planted on your ankle, forcing a giggle out of you. jack smiles softly at the sound, lips trailing their way from the inside all the way up to your inner thigh – mouth memorising the taste of salt sweat on your skin and the smell of something strawberry mixed with a flower too far back in his mind to name. 

he exhales, hot air on your warm cunt.  

“is this okay, sweetheart?” he asks, his hand parting your thighs a fraction.

“jac–” 

he tsks, cutting you off softly. he nudges your chin, forcing your eyes back on the woman on the screen. “you trust me, don’t you, kiddo?”  

“yeah,” you whisper, words scratching your throat as you look back to the screen. “i trust you, jackie.” 

on the screen, the intruder approaches the woman – the man slicing her zip-tied bound hands free. your breath hitches for a moment. a moment passes when she takes the mask off to reveal that the man who hunted her down – stalked her like prey in a sea of targets – was the man she trusted and loved. 

just how jack picked you. 

he feels you arch your back slightly at the revelation. he instantly pins a forearm over your lower abdomen, pinning you in place. leaning his head back slightly, he gathers saliva in his mouth before flooding your pussy with the wet slick. you jolt, hips bucking towards his face. 

“you said you trusted me, didn’t you?” 

you nod. 

“then let me do my job, okay?” he pats your thigh with a smile, exhaling when your eyes return to the television in the corner. 

you gasp as he drags the flat of his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one soft, sweep motion – hands flying to card your fingers through jack’s curls.

he groans as you tug on the grey ends, his nails digging crescent shapes into your inner thigh. “baby,” jack warns, his voice muffled in between your legs.

you hum in response, breath shaking as you bite back a moan. your eyes are squeezed shut – the porn on the television is fading into background noise.

“let me hear those moans for me,” he groans into your thigh, his tongue poking at your entrance.  

“tell jackie just how much you love it. want to hear all of those beautiful sounds you make, kiddo.” 

“yo–fuck–” you let out a broken moan, legs closing in on his head as he continues his relentless licks. “fuck, jackie, you are! you’re making me feel too good.”  

jack forcefully separates your thighs without looking up – mouth licking lazily over your clit; hand disappearing briefly to his pants before grazing the back of your knees.

“she tastes so good, sweetheart,” he mumbles against you, planting a wet kiss on your clit. 

grinding your hips unconsciously against his face, jack lets out a low moan at the desperate attempt for friction, his nails digging in deeper into the side of your thighs. 

tears prick at the corner of your eyes. “‘s too much ja–” 

“no, it’s not,” jack purrs against your pussy, the vibration causing your toes to curl inwards. “you’re my big girl, remember?” 

“i’m your big girl,” you sniffle. 

“‘m going to have to keep her all to myself,” he rasps, his tongue dragging lazily over you. “scare away all the boys for her. would you like that, baby? me having this pussy all by myself?” 

you whimper and writhe weakly at his words, hands straining to card through his hair, as he moves his head deeper, his tongue relentlessly lapping your juices at your entrance. then, jack pulls back, a whine escaping your throat at the sudden loss of stimulation – the coil in your stomach that was steadily building dissipating in seconds.

you look down, a grunt escaping your lips as you shift for a better look at him. in the glow of the bedside lamp, you can make out his heaving; the light highlighting the sheen on his stubble, biting his slowing lips as his eyes rake over yours.

he runs two fingers slowly through your juices. smiling into your thigh as he feels you shudder under his touch. 

“kiddo,” jack starts, his voice hoarse. “two fingers, okay, that’s it.” he kisses the inner of your thigh before clearing his throat. “you remember the safe word?” 

jack smiles at your frantic nod, pressing another kiss to your thigh. “knew you’d be a good girl for me.”

he gently slips the fingers into your entrance, wet enough to accept it without any resistance. his eyes flicker over your face for any hints of discomfort.

you let out a moan as jack’s mouth latches to your clit again, his finger curling to find the sweet spot.

“right there, baby?” jack muffles against you, moaning with reckless abandon.

“yes! fuck jack-” you wail, hands scrambling to find purchase on the stained sheets beneath you. “yeah, jesus, right there.”

your legs shake, quivering violently as jack continues his rhythmic thrusts – hips grinding against his face as jack’s tongue keeps flicking over your clit. “that’s it, kiddo. cum for jackie.”

shattering, chest heaving, your hips buck against jack’s face; his fingers ruthlessly maintaining the pace as he keeps eating you straight through – forcing your body to ride every single wave of release. 

leaving you on the bed, still high on adrenaline, jack taps your knee before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving you alone with your thoughts; the ticking of the clock matches the beat of the sound of the blood rushing to your ears.

heavy breaths from the television pulls you out of your reverie. 

without looking, your hands glide over the mattress, hands wandering blind in the dark as you try to find the remote. when they stumble onto something hard and rough, shaking fingers plunge the room into darkness and silence.

your eyes flutter shut as you hear the tap turning on. smiling into the pillow as you hear jack string a curse, the water drowning out the rest of his voice. 

jack returns a few moments later, a soaked towel in his hands. your eyes open to a tender smile playing on his lips as he sits his body right next to you, lying down – the bed creaking softly under his familiar weight. he passes the towel slowly, reverently, over your sweat-slicked thighs before leaning down to press featherlight kisses to the fat of your stomach. 

“go to sleep, kiddo,” he whispers in the dark. “i got you.”

you curl against his body as he strokes the length of your spine – your ear pressed to his chest, your own heartbeat matching the rhythm of his. 

in room 707 of the motel that sat off the interstate, shades of blue and white scattered light throughout the room – jack's frame enveloping yours as the night pulled you both under a dreamless sleep.

jack abbot who swears he was just trying to find a new hobby. after having the world’s most unstable man — more commonly referred to as doctor robby — call him out on his not-so peaceful hobby of getting shot at, he decides to go back to the drawing board. calls his therapist, asks for an honest opinion, and is met with the worst possible answer a man like him could receive: maybe something less physically demanding and endangering would do you good. have you tried golf?

jack abbot who has tried golf, actually... he almost sent a young caddie to the pitt, golf club swinging out his grip and crashing against the golf cart. second time is never the charm, so he skips golf and goes straight to padel. old man tennis, as doctor ellis so kindly puts it. after launching the ball out of the court one too many times, he gives up, declares the game is not fast-paced enough* for him (*read as: jack is too heavy handed).

jack abbot who goes through a whole list of hobbies. he’s too skilled for paint-ball. he’s too stiff for dancing. he’s too impatient for cooking. sports are not his forte, and he’s already dedicated way too many years of his life to education to fully toy with the thought of getting another degree — even if holding another masters over robby’s head does sound like fun. but he finds something easier, something quicker. his hand, his voice, and a microphone… that’s all he really needs to become an audio pornstar.

jack abbot who swears it was an accident. all he had done was google hobbies for a middle-aged man that won’t bore me to death but won’t tweak my back… and somehow, someway, he had landed on a reddit thread. men his own age, shouting out their hobbies in the hopes of helping a fellow bored soul like his own find a new calling outside of the gruelling hours he spends covered in guts and gore. some men recommended forming bike groups. others spoke of table-top games. but only one of them really caught his eye. a single comment, no thread beneath it, with a total of eight upvotes: i record erotic audios. it’s fun, easy, and the feedback has done wonders to my self-esteem. the best part is i don’t even have to show my face, all my audience wants is to hear me.

jack abbot who soon finds out it’s lot harder than he expected. and, no, he’s not talking about his dick. recording is his first challenge. the first few attempts are a technical nightmare. this attempt too muffled, that attempt too awkward, more than a few where he loses focus and drops his phone (aka his acting microphone) as he sinks into the sweet relief of his hand working over his aching cock, completely missing out on recording the part where breathy groans divulge into full-blown, pathetic whimpers, and soon one of pittsburgh’s most respected emergency medicine doctors is painting his knuckles and lower abdomen in the sticky residue of his pleasure.

jack abbot who’s second hurdle is making an account and, worse, figuring out how to use it. asking for help is out of the question because, while jack abbot is far from shy, he doesn’t want to invite that level of gossip into his workplace. shen would give him shitty nicknames like doctor jacking-off abbot, dana wouldn’t say anything but the side-eye would be loud enough to speak for her. robby would no doubt find a way to criticise even this hobby. and god forbid the pittlings hear about it… any ounce of respect they have for him would fly right out the window. worst of all, jack thinks, ahmad would start a betting pool… how long until doctor abbot leaks his identity?

jack abbot who nearly doxxes himself immediately, accidentally attaching a picture — one of those low-angled selfies javadi is forever teasing him about — alongside the audio file. a file that captures him in a moment of pure vulnerability, head thrown back against the couch, knees bent, feet on the ground; all the while last night’s scrubs stick to his sweaty thighs, shoved far enough down for him to free his cock. he doesn’t listen to the audio fully, afraid that if he listens too long, he’ll back out and delete it once again. with barely any recollection of the things he said nor the sounds he made, he takes a deep breath and finally hits post.

jack abbot who is officially, by technicality, an audio pornstar. the attention isn’t instant. for the first few days, he tells himself to not bother checking, to not interest himself in how many silly upvotes a collective of strangers might have deemed his moans worthy of. that doesn’t stop him from pulling out his phone during bathroom breaks, swiping through the apps list until he finds a familiar orange, and checking the engagement. five upvotes. no comments. oh well, he thinks (with a little more disappointment than he’s willing to admit). maybe this hobby is just not for him, either. back to the drawing board he’ll go, right?

jack abbot who learns the hard way just how far a little praise can go. it’s another mindless check, shift over and finally standing under the rejuvenating burn of a warm shower. two days off ahead of him, a whole load of sleep to catch up on. a song comes on that he’s sick of hearing, so, despite the soap suds in his hands, he grabs for his phone and changes the track. muscle memory forces his thumb to swipe, fingerprint searching for the familiar glow of that orange app. he barely recognises what he’s done, until the post — his post — is staring at him in the face. seventeen upvotes. one comment. u/dilfhunter pretty sure this violates some sacred feminist rule with how wet it made me. dear god sir, what a voice.

jack abbot who records his second official audio right then and there, the sound of a running shower caught faintly in the background of his grunts and groans. they echo off the bathroom tiles, accompanied by the wet shlick of his hand stroking over his length. he’s still a little unsteady, a little unsure of what to do while one hand is busy touching himself and the other is gripping his phone, making sure the microphone is still recording his every move. to make matters, and his dick, harder this time, he’s caught in a trance, pupils blown wide and jaw hanging loose while he reads the comment over and over. it’s instinct, really, that has him muttering under his breath, brain too far gone to even fully register what he’s saying. d’you like my voice, yeah? is it getting you wet, baby? my dirty girl, touching herself to the sound of me. you gonna cum, hmm? think you should. go on. or d’you need me to show you how?

jack abbot who is starting to gain a following, a community of faceless individuals who are never short on praise and are quick to make him feel desired. every comment is an ego-boost, a reason to record another audio. after a month, he invests in a proper microphone, one that frees up both his hands. another month and he’s ordering toys from some lewd website. it’s for realism, he tells himself, something to make it sound a little more immersive, a little more real for his followers. the fact that the fleshlight grips around his cock in a way that has him curling his toes is just a welcomed bonus, really.

jack abbot who keeps his recordings fairly simple. straightforward, nothing more than the ramblings of a man in dire need of release. groans, moans, whimpers. there’s times where he slips a little deeper than usual into the fantasy, picturing someone sweet and vulnerable, writhing beneath him and echoing out all the wilder comments he receives. dilfhunter becomes a name he searches for, a user who’s feedback he awaits with bated breath. if he uploads and there’s no comment within the first 24 hours, his shoulders sag, his energy is off, and even the other busy-bodies in the pitt notice something off about him. then, ding! dilfhunter has commented on your post! and suddenly everything is back to sunshine and rainbows and boners for mister abbot, who more or less races home on those mornings, ready to capture another intimate moment he’ll share with an audience of thousands.

jack abbot who keeps it simple, until he doesn’t. a comment, not from dilfhunter, is all it takes. u/armpitts god what i wouldn’t pay to have you act out one of my scripts. it captures his attention. and while jack is not the best at replying to his comments — he’s sometimes afraid the things he wants to say may come off too strong… or that he’ll accidentally reveal personal details — he finds himself answering this time. no payment necessary, i’m open to anything :) he feels like an idiot sending a smiley face. fuck. he should have made it a wink. oh well, too late, his notifications are blowing up and there’s an inbox waiting for him. that very same commenter, kind and appreciative, drops the link to one of her scripts and thanks him. he feels silly the first time he reads through it, cheeks warm as he tries out the words on his lips. one would think he hasn’t spent the past few months whoring himself out vocally for a little gratification. but, can you really blame him for being so shy? there he is, a fully qualified doctor, reciting some fantasy where he’s examining a patient. one thing leads to another, an imaginary hand drifts up the expanse of a hypothetical thigh, and he’s acting out something that would get his medical license revoked… that doesn’t stop him from cumming louder than ever before, and swallowing down the name of his favourite patient: you.

jack abbot who swears you’re the sweetest sight for sore eyes. frequent fliers are rarely a celebrated thing in the pitt. unhoused, endangered, unwell; they are usually the kind who find themselves in his care on a regular basis. and then there is you. beautiful, smart, and polite. you never complain about the wait times, you never berate any of the staff for having other patients to attend to, you never show up without a smile. a med student, well into your final year and looking to secure a residency at presby. the catch? you’re a hypochondriac — more recently known as someone who suffers from illness anxiety disorder — diagnosed and all. those who study medicine are already predisposed to convince themselves they have every new illness they learn off. but throw in a disorder that’s merciless in making your brain spiral and, well, you become weekly visitor of the pitt, always showing up with enough self-awareness to recognise you’re probably fine, but still in dire need of a professional who can confirm it for you.

jack abbot who is happy to be said professional. it’s basically an unspoken rule amongst the nightcrawlers: your name is on the board, jack will be attending to you. no matter how big or small your most recent health worry might be, he’s happy to sit by your bedside and go through your vitals, listen to your heartbeat, check your breathing. as many times as you need him to. he knows how hard it can be to sleep, which is why he never berates you for wasting away your hours in the bright lights of the pitt. why would he berate you, when it means he gets to spend a few hours keeping his eye on you?

jack abbot who knows his fascination borders on unprofessional. while you may not be his student, you are still a student somewhere. your career relies on the guidance of those who have graduated before you, those who have already made a career out of caring for patients. he tries his best to make your frequent visits useful to you, talking you through what the signs would truly be for whatever your newest possible diagnosis might be and what the treatment plan would look like. it’s the only thing he can do to distract himself from the thoughts of talking you through something far more selfish.

jack abbot who swears he’s not thinking of you each time he hits record. when a script comes through, casting him the role of an older man who helps his new neighbour fix a leak under her sink, just to bend her over the counter and let his cum leak into her, there’s absolutely no way that jack is picturing you, doe-eyed and looking up at him with eyes that are practically begging him to fix you. and when he plays out the fantasy of a man coming home to find his wife naked in bed, riding out a heat wave, and spreading her thighs as she welcomes his tongue between them even in her sleep, he definitely does not nearly whine your name. and when the comments role in, begging him to add a new audio to his most popular series — the doctor will feel you now — he is doing anything but imagining you in the patient’s place, throwing your head back while you let you doctor cure you with his hands, his mouth, his cock. hey! all those times he’s had to cut the audio, edit out a little stutter of your name? those were nothing but accidents. pure and utter coincidences.

jack abbot who begins to miss you after not seeing you for more than a week. what could have happened? have you started visiting the day shift instead, relying on doctor robby to comfort your worries instead of him? it shouldn’t affect him. he shouldn’t care. he has enough on his plate to worry about, between the ER and the next audio he needs to post. he doesn’t have time to find himself lingering by the boards, willing your name to suddenly appear. what kind of doctor wants to see someone show up in the emergency ward? him, apparently, because there is no denying the way he feels his heart swell as he catches a glimpse of you from across the nurses’ station, being guided into a room by lena and told to sit while you wait for doctor abbot to see you. and see you he does, practically racing through the instructions on how to intubate a patient who’s throat is full of blood, just so he can rip of his gloves, sanitise his hands, and pull back the curtain that reveals you.

jack abbot who finds every way to make you stay a little longer, using every reason to talk to you. he asks about your exams. he asks about your future goals. he asks if you’re 100% sure that presby is the hospital for you. y’know we’re always looking for a new night shift resident in the pitt. just saying. the way you giggle at his wink is enough to sink the pathetic feeling that comes with almost begging you to join the ptmc. don’t think a trauma centre is the best place for me, doctor abbot. it’s actually cruel how effortless that sounds on your tongue. doctor abbot… would you still call him that if he had you arching your back, hips rolling to meet the thrust of his gloved fingers?

jack abbot who can barely hide the shake in his hand when you ask him to examine you. it’s just this mark i’ve got… on my upper thigh. i know it’s probably just a mosquito bite or something but- you’re worried. you don’t have to explain it to jack, he can practically feel the fear rolling off of you in waves. it shouldn’t send a shiver down his spine to know those waves meet an unmovable force when it comes to him, crashing and sinking away with every reassuring word he finds to help ease your worries. you listen to him so well, not needing to be told twice when he instructs you to bend your legs at the knee and plant your feet on the bed. just gonna give you an exam, okay? i’ll start just above the knee, then work my way up the length of your thigh, get a good feel of anything that’s going on there. that sound good to you?

jack abbot who feels himself harden at how eagerly you nod. then his hands are on you and there’s nowhere his thoughts can wander but to those damn audios. your thigh is soft, warm, full beneath his fingertips. what a shame there’s a layer of latex in the way. he tries not to linger on the way your legs fall open a little wider the further he slides his palm up your thigh. he tries not to notice the way the muscle clenches beneath his touch. he tries not to think about how you haven’t breathed properly since he started examining you. if this were one of his filthy audios, now would be the time when the doctor gives into his desires and let’s his fingers brush over the seam of his patient’s clothed cunt. he’d pretend it was an accident, an unintentional bump of his fingertips. he’d hum with a twinge of approval when he realises how wet the fabric is. he’d let his eyes meet hers as he peels her underwear to the side and watches her choke on a gasp, forefinger teasing up the length of the slit, pressing over her throbbing clit. he’d ruin her with nothing but his fingers, his spare hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her delectable moans so no ears but his own can hear them. and if she was good for him, really good, he’d reward her with the stretch of his cock plugging her full, making her stain her cheeks with tears as she bites down on his palm and let’s him whisper in her ear. ‘s this what you really needed, baby? someone to fix you? come on, there we go, breathe nice and deep for me. i know, i know, he’s so big. it’s so much but you’re taking him so well, sweetheart. my perfect little patient, letting me make us both feel better.

jack abbot who is painfully aware of the fact this is not one of his audios and that he needs to pull his hand out from between your thighs. he does so with a cough, swallowing back a mouthful of saliva only to find himself near-drooling again. god, what a relief that the scrubs he’s wearing today sit loose on him, otherwise he’d surely have an hr case on his hands. that doesn’t make the throb of his hardened dick any easier to stomach. especially not when he notices you’re in an almost equally frazzled state, chest heaving as you stare ahead in a trance, legs slowly sinking back down onto the gurney. he starts his medical spiel, but he’s not sure you’re really listening. all feels good, he says, knowing damn well you feel better than good.

jack abbot who doesn’t mean to invade your privacy. when a phone buzzes from somewhere behind him, he swears it’s his own and, with a quick check to see if it’s alright with you, he turns around to grab it. he’s just going to put it on silent, that’s all, to ensure it doesn’t interrupt him during any other patient examination. but then the screensaver is different. a pretty face, pressed right up to a dog. bright, girly, youthful. there’s notifications for apps he barely recognises, names he’s never heard. and then, the most recent one. a notification from 1 minute ago. an email. reddit.

jack abbot who feels himself freeze, right then and there, speechless for the first time in his life.

congratulations u/dilfhunter, you just hit 1,000 upvotes!

+ extra hyde!

· i'm working on a full jack abbot fic. this is a threat. consider yourself warned. · anyway don't forget to smash that like button and tell me if this made you horny. full disclosure i am more than willing to write more of these two. · i was waiting to finish a full, proper fic to post again but i've been frothing at the mouth at this thought all day and i had to get it out.

Having a best friend is totally normal. Having a best friend that's older than you--also normal. Having an opposite gender best friend that's technically old enough to be your father--perhaps a little out of the ordinary.

But that didn't stop you from befriending Jack Abbot the second you met him on your first day as an intern at PTMC. Technically, you befriended nearly every single person you met--something about that bubbly personality of yours made it impossible to resist.

Jack would know better than most. After all, he tried to resist your charms. He lasted about an hour and a half before you'd managed to pull him into your orbit on a permanent basis.

Fast forward four years and he was now your closest confidant, your staunchest supporter, and your absolute all-time favorite human being. If someone asked him what he thought of you, he'd spend 20 minutes talking about how brilliant, competent, kind, beautiful--every positive adjective under the sun--you were.

You'd been asked countless times why you'd selected a man almost 20 years your senior as your best friend and your response never changed, "He sees my flaws and doesn't run". To be fair, Jack would never acknowledge you had any flaws to begin with, but the deeper meaning remained true--he loved the darkest parts of you no matter what. That's what friends do.

As far as you were concerned, your friendship with Jack was just like any other--the only difference was his age. Neither of you gave a damn, so it was never really a topic of conversation or concern.

Other people, however, loved to comment on it. Especially when you went out together. The initial assumption was always that he was your dad, but once that was dispelled the automatic next conclusion was that he was a creepy old sugar daddy. While he did often pay when you went out, there was certainly no arrangement--caring for people was simply Jack's love language.

He'd buy you drinks without a second thought, pay for meals regardless of how expensive, and buy you gifts when he saw something that made him think of you--it was just his way.

There was obviously nothing going on romantically between the two of you, as evidenced by the number of suitors you managed to date in all the free time you definitely didn't have.

You were more likely to swipe right than left these days, as you were convinced there had to be someone for you out there. You'd told Jack you had to take a chance on some of these guys or you'd end up dying alone. He'd been hilariously offended at the implication--as if he would ever allow you to die alone. You were best friends, after all.

It wasn't uncommon for you to waltz into the Pitt still wearing whatever outfit you'd chosen for a date, but it was extremely uncommon for you to have anything positive to say about the date itself. Everyone wanted to hear the updates as if they were living vicariously through you. Even some of the day shift staff would hang around to get the latest scoop.

"He spent an hour talking about his sneaker collection. An entire hour," you whined to Trinity as you tossed your bag into your locker.

"And you wonder why I like women..."

You rolled your eyes. "Because you were born that way?"

She laughed as she tugged her backpack over her shoulders. "That and men are so weird."

"All men?" Jack joked as he appeared beside you.

"All the ones I've gone on dates with in the past month," you confirmed with a wry chuckle.

"Honey, you've got the worst taste in men I've ever seen." He shot you a playful wink. "You can do way better than those apps."

"You try meeting someone these days outside of an app," you grumbled. "It's literally the only option."

Jack laughed and leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know I'm single too right? I've gotta suffer those apps just like you do."

"Jack Abbot you're about as likely to be on a dating app as Robby is to get married."

Jack laughed even harder, shaking his head ruefully. "You've got me there. I didn't even really know how it worked until you showed me."

"Well you are 140 years old," Trinity mumbled under her breath.

"But I'm not deaf," he sassed with a wink.

"If you're gonna flirt at least do it in front of Garcia. Maybe you'll make her jealous."

They both glared at you, but the expressions held no real malice.

You grinned ear to ear and grabbed your scrubs. "I'm gonna go change, then we can revel in the brilliant chaos of the nightshift, my beloved comrade in arms."

Jack matched your grin and Trinity just shook her head. "You guys are so weird."

"That's why we're on the nightshift, kid."

"Yeah, yeah. The rest of us want some semblance of a normal life."

"Why do that when you could experience the wilds of the night?" Jack joked, stretching his arms out to gesture around him. "This is where the fun's at." He backed up towards the nurse's station, grin never faltering.

Trinity just shook her head again with a chuckle. "Weirdos."

When you came back out dressed in your scrubs, you found Jack leaning against the nurse's station chatting with Lena.

"So how bad was this one, sweetheart?" Lena asked sweetly as you approached.

"I think I said a grand total of six words the entire date. The rest was him talking about the merits of Nike versus Adidas sneakers."

Jack wrinkled his nose and Lena chuckled with a shake of her head. "How do you manage to find so many strange men?"

"Honestly, I think it's a gift," you grumbled with a shrug.

"Or a curse," Jack muttered under his breath.

You smacked his chest affectionately. "Hey!"

"Ow. Rude."

Lena rolled her eyes at your antics. "Okay, both of you get to work before Shen comes over here and regales us with his latest story."

"Aren't you in charge?" you joked, elbowing Jack in the side.

"Yeah--you can't tell me what to do."

Lena raised a brow, a small smirk on her lips.

Jack stood up straight and saluted her. "Yes, ma'am."

You shot Lena a wink and she shook her head at you, but her smile widened. God you loved the nightshift.

A few hours later, you and Ellis were chatting instead of catching up on your charting.

"Maybe we should go out on our next night off," Ellis suggested.

"To a bar?"

"Yes, a bar."

You groaned. "I hate picking up men in bars."

She shrugged. "Pick up a woman instead."

"I'm starting to think you and Trinity are trying to convert me."

Her lips spread into a grin. "I'm just saying, if you ever wanna try something new..."

You laughed loudly enough to draw Jack's attention from the other side of the room. He smiled when his gaze landed on you, affectionate evident to anyone who cared to look.

"I promise you'll be the first to know." You shot her a wink as you stood up. "And maybe we should go out. We can drag Jack with us. I'm sure he needs to get laid too."

"Ew. I so do not need to think about our boss getting laid."

"Why not? He's a human man, Parker. He's got needs." Your teasing voice didn't stop the look of disgust from crossing Ellis's face.

"And I repeat: ew."

"What're we 'ew-ing'?" Jack asked from behind you.

"Parker suggested we go out to a bar--have a little fun, pick up some guys or gals." You shrugged. "I simply said you should come too because you need to get laid."

A look of pure shock crossed Jack's face for a split second before he burst out laughing. "Jesus, sweetheart."

"What? I'm just saying. It's been ages."

"I don't think Ellis wanted to know that."

"I truly did not."

"There's nothing to be ashamed of! We all have needs," you insisted.

"I'm not ashamed."

"You're just so...old fashioned about it. We can talk about sex without it being awkward."

Jack groaned loudly and ran his hand through his hair. "Just because you're comfortable talking about your escapades doesn't mean we are."

"Escapades?" You gave a mock gasp. "You're making it sound like I'm out whoring around."

"I so did not say that!"

You grinned and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. "I'm kidding. You've heard all my failed date stories. I haven't even seen a man's penis outside of a medical context or an unsolicited dick pick in over a year."

Ellis's jaw dropped. "A year?!"

You shot her a glare. "Yes, Parker. A year. I'm a celibate monk. It's my new thing."

"Girl. You need to get properly dicked down."

"Jesus," Jack muttered, a light dusting of pink gracing his cheeks.

"You know," you leaned forward conspiratorially. "I've never even come during sex. Not once."

"Okaaaaaay," Jack muttered. "And that's my cue."

"You're no fun!" you called after him.

Laughter echoed from behind him as he walked away, a strange feeling settling in his chest. You'd talked about your dates, your exes, even sex with Jack a hundred times, but lately he's begun to feel differently about it.

He couldn't identify exactly when the shift started to happen, but the last month or two had been different for him. Two months ago, after a night out with you, he'd come home and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. Longer than he'd done in years.

He'd made a realization that night. One he hadn't been sure he'd ever reach. It had been weeks since he'd thought about his wife, months since he'd missed her so much it hurt. He would always love her, but it no longer hurt to think about her. He didn't feel lost. He didn't feel broken. He didn't fall apart on her birthday or their anniversary. Somehow, some way, his heart had healed.

He'd looked down at the wedding band on his finger--the one he'd never taken off. For the first time since she passed away, he slid the ring from his finger. He stared at his left hand in silence, processing what it meant. He'd placed the ring in a box in his safe and locked it. It felt like he was closing one chapter of his life and finally allowing himself to step into a new one.

You'd noticed the very next day.

"Jackie, where's your ring?"

He glanced down at his hand. "I took it off."

"Yes...I can see that. But why?"

"I think it's time for me to move forward with my life."

You'd wrapped him in a tight hug and pulled him close, somehow knowing he needed that hug--needed to feel the closeness of another human being. Neither of you had really discussed it since, but he finally felt like he was ready to date--to meet someone new.

Sometimes, when he laid awake unable to sleep, he'd let his mind wander. Let it explore possibilities he'd never acknowledge outside the four walls of his bedroom.

He'd imagine building a life with someone new. He'd picture meeting someone, letting himself fall in love all over again. What he would never admit, never acknowledge, was in those moments, in the darkness of his room, he always pictured you.

You were the woman he imagined building a life with. The one he wanted to fall asleep wrapped around, the one he sometimes dreamed of marrying. On his worst days, he'd even let himself picture having a family--kids--with you.

He would never tell you. Never even admit it to himself in his waking hours. You were his best friend--he couldn't break your trust by falling in love with you.

But it was getting harder and harder to ignore. Like today. When you made jokes about your love life and Jack couldn't help but think to himself that he would treat you right. Or when you joked about not getting laid and all he could think about was worshipping your body--pulling orgasm after orgasm from you until you were a satiated mess beneath him.

He hated himself for thinking those things. Each time the thought crossed his mind, he felt like he was betraying you. You were friends and that's why you shared things with him. He had no right to imagine anything with you, but he couldn't bring himself to create distance between you either. You were his best friend as much as he was yours.

He let out a groan as he sunk into a chair beside Lena.

"Leg bothering you?" she asked gently.

"Just tired."

The look on her face made it clear she didn't believe him, but she made no further comment. If he wanted to open up, he would.

"Maybe I'm just getting old," he muttered.

She chuckled dryly. "You and me both."

And there it was. The other thing he hated himself for. He was old enough to be your father, yet here he was fantasizing about you. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse that it wasn't just sex he dreamed about--but of actually being with you. It was enough to make him wanna put his head through a wall.

Being friends was perfectly acceptable. Perfectly normal. Perfectly reasonable. Wanting you, on the other hand--loving you--was not. He didn't wanna be one of those creepy men that liked younger women for whatever pervy reason their deranged brains came up with. He sure as shit didn't want you to be uncomfortable and he would rather die than lose your friendship.

The first four years had been easy. The thought of crossing a line had never occurred to him. Friendship was all he wanted from you--and it's all you wanted from him. The last two months, however, had been hell. He spent every waking moment wishing you were his, and every sleepless day dreaming of you.

So if you told him you wanted to go to a bar and find some random dude to hook up with, he'd go with you. He'd make sure whoever you went home with wasn't a total creep and he'd support you in whatever way you needed--even if it killed him.

"Jackie, can I borrow you for a second?"

He looked up, meeting your slightly nervous expression. "Sure, sweetheart. Everything okay?"

"I need your opinion on this patient, please."

He suppressed another groan as he stood up and followed after you, listening as you described the patient's symptoms. Back to work he went.

**********

"Okay, how 'bout this one?" You came out of your closet in yet another dress option you were modeling for Ellis and Santos.

"Maybe something a little sluttier?" Ellis suggested. "We are trying to attract a man here."

"What's wrong with this one?" you whined, looking down at the black dress.

"It's boring," Trinity groaned. "Let me look."

She jumped up and dove into your closet, digging through the dress options until she found one she liked. "Put this one on."

You paled slightly at the dress she held up. You'd bought it on a whim, but never wore it. It was short--like whole ass gonna hang out if you bend over short--and extremely low cut. It was a deep burgundy color that looked gorgeous on you, but it made you insanely nervous to wear it in public.

"I can't wear that."

She frowned. "Why'd you buy it then?"

"I thought it looked hot in the store!"

"It looks hot from here too," Parker commented with a grin.

You shot her a glare over your shoulder.

"Just try it on. If you hate it, you don't have to wear it," Trinity insisted.

You groaned as you grabbed it from her. "Fine."

You stepped into the closet and pulled the dress on. It was just as short as you remembered, but you'd forgotten how perfectly it hugged your curves. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, admiring how good your body looked in the dress.

"You coming out or did you get lost in there?" Parker called.

You rolled your eyes before stepping out. Both women fell completely silent as they stared at you. You chewed on your bottom lip nervously as you waited for one of them to speak.

"Fucking christ," Trinity swore under her breath.

"You're good," Parker commented, sticking out her fist for Trinity to bump.

"Damn right I am."

"So...this is the one?" you asked.

"Obviously."

"Clearly."

"It's not too much?"

"I'd argue it's too little," Parker teased.

Trinity smacked her arm. "She's self-conscious."

Parker stood up and crossed the room. "You look gorgeous, okay?" She gave you a hug. "Now let's go find you a man."

"Is Jack meeting us there?" Trinity asked.

You shook your head. "He's picking us up. He's the DD tonight."

"Bless him," she muttered.

You grabbed your phone to see if he'd texted you. Unsurprisingly, you had an alert for a text from him.

Jackie: I'll be there in 10 minutes, sweetheart.

You: See you soon! <3

The three of you were waiting in the lobby when you heard the rumble of Jack's truck as he pulled up in front of the apartment complex. You straightened your dress, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous for Jack to see you. What if he thought the dress was too slutty? Would he judge you? Say something about it?

You couldn't quite put your finger on why the thought of him hating the dress bothered you so much, but you tried to push the concern away.

"You alright?" Parker asked.

"Mhmm."

"Hey." She turned you toward her. "You look beautiful, okay? Take a deep breath."

You breathed with her, relaxing as you did.

"Excellent. Now let's go give Jack a heart attack."

You groaned, but both girls laughed. You shook your head at their antics as you followed them into the parking lot.

Unsurprisingly, Jack was standing outside his truck, waiting on the three of you. He was always such a gentleman--he never let you (or any woman for that matter) open the car door.

He opened the rear passenger door for Santos and Ellis to climb in before turning back in your direction. As soon as he did, his entire body went rigid.

You swallowed thickly as you watched him take in your appearance. His gaze traced down and back up your body, but he didn't make you feel uncomfortable. Instead you felt a surprising heat settle low in your abdomen--a heat you hadn't felt in a long time.

"You look..."

You bit your lip as you waited for him to find the adjective he wanted.

"Stunning," he breathed.

A dark blush crept into your cheeks. "Thanks, Jackie. You look handsome as always."

He rolled his eyes fondly, opened the passenger door, and helped you inside.

You hadn't been lying. He did look good. He always looked good, but you especially liked him dressed down. He was wearing dark jeans, a slightly too-tight black t-shirt, and boots. A simple outfit, but on him it might as well have been couture.

You sometimes joked about the woes of having a hot best friend. You always told him you'd have to beat the ladies back with a stick, even when he was still wearing his wedding ring.

"How much trouble are you three planning on getting into tonight?" Jack asked as he started the truck.

"That depends," Trinity answered.

"On?"

"How quickly we find (Y/N) a suitable lover for the night."

"Oh my god," you muttered under your breath.

Jack laughed loudly. "Jesus, Santos."

"What? We established that was the goal for tonight!"

"Maybe we don't word it quite like that in front of Jack," Ellis chided with a small grin.

"Thank you, Ellis. Decorum." Jack's voice was light and teasing, but you swore you heard a little undercurrent of strain.

"Decorum? Really? Sounds like we need to get you laid too."

"Fucking hell," he muttered with a laugh. "Were you pregaming, kid?"

Santos grinned wickedly. "You bet your ass I was."

"I'm so glad you're not on the nightshift." He shot you a wink and you smiled in return.

That smile stole his heart for the thousandth time. It was his all-time favorite look of yours. He'd kill to see it every day for the rest of his life.

When you arrived, the four of you immediately gathered at the bar, ready to get some liquid courage--or maybe that was just for you. You ordered a drink and dug into your small bag for your credit card to open a tab.

Before you could even get it out, Jack was sliding his card across the bar. "I've got it, sweetheart."

"I was gonna start a tab."

"And?"

"Well, I don't know how much I'm going to drink."

He gave you an odd look then turned back to the bartender. "Put all her drinks on my card for the night."

"Jack--"

"Don't complain about free drinks," Trinity muttered from your other side.

You sighed. "Fine, but I'm only having two drinks."

"Suit yourself," Ellis said with a smile. "I plan on having at least four."

Jack got himself a water and leaned back against the bar so he could look around. You were holding your small bag in front of you, hands fiddling with the strap nervously. "Gimme your bag, sweetheart. I'll hold onto it for you."

"You sure?"

He held out his hand in response and you handed him the bag. Neither Ellis or Santos had brought one, but Santos did slip off her jacket and hand it to Jack.

"Go dance and have fun, ladies. I'll be over here if you need me."

Ellis and Santos made their way to the dance floor without argument. You, however, turned to face him, concern etched on your pretty face. "Is your leg hurting?"

Jack hated how well you knew him sometimes. "It's a little sore, but I'm alright." Just one more thing he wished were different. One more reason he wasn't good enough for you.

You stepped toward him, hand coming to rest on his forearm. "Jackie..."

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he assured you softly, placing a hand on top of yours and squeezing it. "Go have fun."

"I want you to have fun too."

"I'm here with you. What could be more fun than that?"

You huffed a laugh and rolled your eyes. "Cheesy as hell."

He merely grinned and waved you off. "Go on. Santos looks like she's two seconds from stomping over here to get you."

You looked over your shoulder and both women waved at you enthusiastically. "Alright...if you're sure?"

"Very. Go."

You gave him one last look, expression soft but unreadable. Then you were walking away and it took all of his self-control to not stare at the sway of your hips as you crossed the room.

The same could not be said for most of the other men in the bar. Several were eyeing you like you were prey--and they were apex predators. Jack didn't like the way their eyes on you made him feel, but he pushed the feeling down deep.

He told himself you were a big girl and you could take care of yourself, even if all he wanted to do was take care of you himself. His protective instincts had always flared up when you were around, but lately they'd risen to a new level of intensity.

It drove him crazy watching one guy after another approach you, but you turned each one away. Some of them took it well, others looked more than a little annoyed. Ellis and Santos never strayed too far from you, and Jack felt confident they would defend you if you needed it.

About 30 minutes later, you made your way back toward the bar, assumedly to get another drink, but to Jack's surprise, you eased your way to him.

"Having fun, sweetheart?"

You shrugged. "It's not as fun without you."

He chuckled in an attempt to cover the tightening in his chest. "I'm not a very good dancer on the best of days anyway."

"Maybe not, but your presence is always a welcome one."

"You've had plenty of potential dance partners come up to you," he teased softly.

"Yeah, but none of them are--" You bit your lip, stopping yourself mid-sentence. You'd been about to say 'none of them are you' when your brain caught up with your damn mouth. You'd had one drink--what the hell had gotten into you?

Jack raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but you waved him off. "I'm gonna get another drink."

"Use my card!" he called as you stalked off toward the bartender.

Jack wondered what you'd been about to say when you cut yourself off. He knew what he wanted you to say, but odds were not in his favor. You were probably just not interested in any of the men who'd approached you thus far, and that was just fine. Hell, a big part of him hoped none of them interested you. Ever.

As the night went on, you had a couple more drinks, but you were still mostly sober. Certainly too tipsy to drive, but not too intoxicated to make decisions.

At some point, you'd lost track of Ellis, but you weren't worried. If anyone could take care of themselves, it was her. Trinity was still close by, but you could tell she was a little off.

"Trin? You okay?"

"I texted Garcia."

You groaned. "We talked about this--"

"I know! I know. I just--I miss her."

Before you could say anything, her phone lit up. You knew by her facial expression exactly who it was.

"She's asking me to come over."

"Trinity..."

"I won't go if you don't want me to leave."

Honestly, you didn't want her to go, but that was more for her own heart than any needs of yours. But you couldn't bring yourself to tell her to stay. "Do you wanna go?"

She shifted on her feet--an answer in and of itself.

"Alright, fine. Go."

"Are you sure?"

"Go before I change my mind." You gave her a tight hug. "Be safe and text me when you get there."

"I will."

You watched her make her way through the growing crowd. You still had no idea where Parker was and you could no longer see Jack sitting at the bar. You decided to start in the direction you'd last seen him when someone bumped into you from the side.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!"

You looked up at the man who'd run into you, jaw slackening slightly as you took him in. He was tall, incredibly handsome, and quite fit. You were sure your body should be responding to his attractiveness, but you felt nothing. No heat. No desire. Nada.

"That's alright," you said with a smile. "It's crowded."

He smiled back at you. "Yeah, a bit." He stuck out his hand for you to shake. "I'm Tyler."

You took it and offered your name.

"Could I buy you a drink?"

You debated it for a moment before deciding it couldn't hurt. "Sure."

His smile widened and he gestured for you to walk with him to the bar. He ordered himself a drink and then one for you. While the bartender made them, he turned his body toward you and began asking questions.

"You here with anyone?"

"Yeah, a couple of my friends." You glanced around. "They're somewhere in here."

He nodded. "Celebrating anything or just out for fun?"

"Just fun."

"It's my friend's birthday, but he's making out in a booth with some chick he met, so we've all kind of dispersed."

You chuckled, feeling slightly annoyed with yourself. The whole point of tonight was to get laid, and a perfectly attractive man was buying you a drink and chatting you up, but you felt absolutely nothing. Not even the hint of attraction.

"I saw you dancing earlier," he commented. "You've got moves."

You let out a genuine laugh. "Now you're just full of shit."

He laughed too. "I'm serious!"

You rolled your eyes with a smile. Your lips parted to make another joke, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flash of gray curls across the room. You felt your chest tighten as your head swung in that direction, instinctively drawn to him.

Your eyes landed on Jack as he was leaving the bathroom, weaving his way through the crowd back to his spot at the bar. You noted the slight limp in his step and your whole body ached for him. You hated seeing him in pain--you'd do anything to ease it. Anything.

Unbeknownst to you, your drink had arrived behind you, and Tyler was still chattering away. But from across the room, Jack's hazel eyes met yours and you felt your body awaken for the second time tonight. You inhaled sharply as his keen gaze swept over your face before he offered you a tight smile. You returned the expression, silently confirming you were okay.

"Your drink, madam."

You turned your attention back to Tyler and smiled as you took the drink from his hand. "Thank you."

You lifted the glass toward your lips, only to stop when you heard a sharp voice yell, "Don't drink that!"

A girl you didn't know appeared beside you and snatched the drink right out of your hand. You gasped in surprise. "Sorry?"

"He put something in your drink," she said with absolute certainty. "I saw him."

You looked up at Tyler and knew without a doubt the girl was correct. He looked angry, but beneath it was a shred of guilt you could just barely make out.

You took the drink back from the girl's hand and splashed it directly into Tyler's face. "Sick fuck," you snapped.

Tyler lunged at you, but a guy behind him pulled him back. The commotion got the bouncer's attention as well as Jack's, both of which moved toward your location with surprising haste.

The bouncer grabbed ahold of Tyler and pulled him away just as Jack reached your side. "Sweetheart--you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine." You looked toward the girl who'd saved you. "Thanks for that. Seriously."

She gave you a small smile. "Happy to help." She eyed Jack warily. "You know him?"

For the first time in a while, a genuine smile spread across your lips. "Yeah. I'm safe with him."

She nodded and gave you a squeeze on the arm. "Stay safe."

"Thanks. You too." You watched as she walked off to rejoin her friends.

"What the hell happened?" Jack asked, bringing your attention back to him.

"Can you take me home?"

He looked slightly startled. "Of course." He flagged down the bartender. "Let me close out and we can go. Grab the girls, okay?"

"Trin left to go meet up with Garcia. I don't know where Parker is."

"She's over there." He gestured off to the left past the dance floor. "She was making out with some girl the last I saw."

"Okay, let me see if she's still over there."

Jack nodded and watched you weave through the crowd. His adrenaline had spiked when he heard the girl yell and again when he saw you splash your drink in some guy's face. He knew you were okay--but he still couldn't quite get his heart rate to return to normal.

You saw Ellis sitting in a booth, chatting with a very pretty woman. "Hey, Parker, Jackie and I are gonna head out. Do you wanna come?"

She turned to you and offered a warm smile. "I'm alright, (Y/N/N)."

You nodded. "Text me when you get home. Trin went to Garcia's."

She groaned and shook her head. "Of course she did." She stood up and gave you a tight hug. "Love you, be safe."

"I'll be with Jack." As you said it, you realized it was true--Jack was safe. More than that, Jack was your safe space, the place you went when the world felt unbearable. He'd protect you with his life--you wouldn't even have to ask. No one had ever made you feel as protected as Jack did.

A surge of heat blossomed in your stomach and you finally acknowledged the feeling for what it was--desire. You wanted Jack Abbot. Badly.

Parker was watching your face as realization sunk into you. "If you're done being an idiot, I suggest you go and get your man."

Your jaw dropped. "What?"

"Oh please. The two of you have been running circles around each other for months. It's high time one of you makes a damn move."

"How the hell did you know I wanted him before I even knew?!" you asked incredulously.

She shrugged. "It was obvious to everyone but the two of you. Shen and I talk about it all the time. We both noticed when you two stopped being best friends and became something more--even if neither of you knew it."

You were shocked straight down to your core. Absolutely floored. How did you have no idea you wanted him when everyone else could see it? "I-I have to go."

She laughed and gave you another hug. "Yeah I know. Get moving."

You squeezed her tightly before turning and practically bolting back in Jack's direction. How could you have been so stupid? So blind? Everything you'd ever wanted had been right in front of you.

You were so in your head you didn't even notice he was physically in front of you until you ran directly into his strong chest.

"Woah, easy there sweetheart." His hands gripped your arms to steady you.

"Can we go? Please?"

"Yeah, c'mon." He edged his body ahead of you to make a pathway to the door.

You followed along behind him, thinking about how incredible this man was. All the small things he'd done for you over the years, all the ways he made you feel understood, all the times he'd been there when you needed him.

You couldn't identify the exact moment things had changed for you, but tonight had been eye-opening. You didn't even know when you'd fallen in love with him--all you knew was that you had.

"Sweetheart, are you sure you're alright?" Jack asked softly as he held the passenger door open for you.

You hadn't even realized you'd made it outside--too lost in your thoughts to register anything in the real world. "I'm good, Jackie. Really good."

He eyed you for a moment before nodding his acceptance. "C'mon pretty lady, get your behind in the truck."

You laughed, taking his outstretched hand as he helped you in. You inhaled deeply when he shut the door, taking in the scent that permeated the truck--his scent.

Jack climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. "Seatbelt," he prodded gently.

"Oh!" You fastened it quickly, and he stared at you for a long moment before pulling out of the parking spot.

"Did you have too much to drink?"

"I had four drinks."

"You sure that's all?"

You shot him an amused glare. "Yes, Jack. I'm sure."

He chuckled, throwing his hands in the air in mock surrender. "You're acting strangely, that's all."

"Well I did almost get drugged."

"What?!"

"Yeah, the dude I tossed my drink on--he put something in it."

"Jesus Christ." He ran a hand over his face. "That's why that girl told you not to drink it."

"Yeah."

"Fuck." Jack's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I shoulda been there."

"It's okay. Nothing actually happened."

"But it could've. If you'd gotten hurt--if that son of a bitch had done something to you..." he trailed off. "I-I don't know what I would've done."

Jack did know what he would have done. He knew exactly what he would have done. He would've broken his oath to do no harm, but he could guarantee that guy would've never hurt another girl again.

You reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm, trying to soothe him. "I'm alright, Jackie. Nothing happened."

He glanced over at you and his heart ached with the need to hold you. He needed to feel it for himself--to know for sure you were okay. You were unharmed. You were safe.

"I'd do anything to protect you, you know," he murmured softly.

"I know."

The rest of the short ride to your apartment was silent. When he pulled into the parking lot, you decided to take the leap.

"Will you come up?"

Jack turned to you in surprise. "It's late--you sure you don't wanna go to bed?"

You shook your head. "Please?"

"'Course, sweetheart." He pulled into a parking spot and hopped out.

You knew better than to even try to get out before he opened your door. You'd made that mistake a grand total of one time early on in your friendship and you'd gotten an earful for it.

When the door opened, you slid out and adjusted your dress. "Thanks, Jackie."

He merely grunted quietly and shut the door. He walked beside you in silence, mind running a mile a minute as he tried to figure out what was happening in that pretty head of yours. He knew something was up, he just couldn't figure out what.

The moment the two of you crossed the threshold of your apartment, you turned to face him, eyes filled with an unreadable emotion. "I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

"Do-do you wanna sit down?"

He shook his head. "Just tell me, sweetheart."

For a long moment, you said nothing. A moment so long, he began to feel real fear. Did you somehow figure out how he felt about you? Were you mad at him? Was the friendship over? Was he about to lose the only thing in his life that truly mattered to him?

You had no idea he was panicking as you tried to find the right words to say. Everything that came into your mind sounded wrong. At some point, you realized it didn't matter what you said--you needed to just say something.

"I'm in love with you," you blurted, shocking Jack to his very core.

"You-you, uh-you're what?"

Panic settled deep in your chest and you wondered if you'd just made a terrible mistake. Had Ellis been wrong? Did Jack not feel the same way you did? Did you just blow up four years of friendship?

"I, um-I--"

Jack's body moved of its own volition, taking a step toward you. His brain caught up and the most intense surge of desire he'd ever felt swept through him. "Say it again."

Your lips parted in surprise, but you complied. "I'm in love with you."

Jack took another step, leaving less than six inches between you. He reached out and placed a steady hand on your hip, tugging you closer. "Say it again, baby," he whispered, sounding absolutely wrecked.

Your heart skipped a beat as your panic subsided. You reached up and cupped his face as you leaned into his toned body. "I'm crazy, madly, deeply in love with you."

There was no fanfare. No cheering. No fireworks. Just the purest of emotions easing something inside both of you--and tying you together forever.

He was the first to move, yanking you so close your body was flush against his. His lips dropped to yours in a hungry kiss, filled with years of affection turned to love. He kissed you like his very life depended on it--like he would cease to exist without the feeling of your lips on his.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as you leaned into the kiss, allowing him to deepen it with the softest groan. His hands were hot against your hip and back as he held you--it was a feeling you'd never stop craving.

Eventually, he was forced to break the kiss to breathe, but he didn't move away. "It's wrong. It's quite possibly insane. But I don't give a damn anymore. I'm fucking crazy about you, (Y/N/N). I'm so in love with you it hurts."

You lifted one hand to brush through his curls. "Jackie..."

"I couldn't tell you, baby. I couldn't--" He exhaled heavily. "It felt so wrong to love you like this, to need you the way I do."

"There's nothing wrong with this," you whispered.

"People will talk."

"Let them."

"You're still a resident."

"I don't give a damn. I've only got four months left."

"I'm old and broken--"

"You're not broken," you insisted. "And just because you're older than me doesn't mean you're old."

He rested his forehead against yours. "Are you sure you want this?"

"I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

"Baby, I need you to be a thousand percent sure. If we do this, I'm in it for the long haul. I don't do casual. I don't do no strings. I'm all in. If you want this, you get all of me."

You lowered your right hand to rest against his chest, feeling his heart thump beneath your palm. "I want everything with you, Jack."

He exhaled a shaky breath before pressing his lips to yours a second time. He loved kissing you. He loved feeling your body against his. He loved the soft sounds you made. He loved everything about you.

His hands slipped lower, cupping your ass slightly. "Jump f'me."

"Jackie--"

"I said jump."

His tone left no room for discussion, so you did as he asked. He caught you with surprising ease and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to your bedroom, ignoring the pain pulsing from his prosthetic. He'd be damned if he couldn't at least carry his girl to bed.

When he lowered you to your bed, you pulled him in with your legs, wedging him between them as you kissed him.

He groaned lowly as his hands traveled over your soft curves. "I fucking love your body."

You whimpered softly as your hands drifted under his shirt. "Wanna see yours."

He obligingly tugged his shirt off, allowing you an unobstructed view of his toned chest.

"Fucking hell, you're hot," you whispered.

He couldn't help but laugh at the awe in your voice. "So are you."

"Shhh. This is about you." You placed your hands on his chest and slowly caressed him, feeling every ridge, muscle, and divot on his torso. "I love your freckles. They're so pretty."

He was quiet as he let you explore, but he couldn't take his eyes off yours. You were observing his body with a reverence he hadn't experienced in a very long time. He was proud of the shape he was in, but when you looked at him like that? He felt like the sexiest man alive.

Your hands brushed against his shoulders before starting down his biceps, a soft sound of need escaping your lips. "I've always liked your arms," you admitted. "You're so strong."

He felt his cheeks darken as a wave of embarrassment hit him. "Well I don't know about all that--"

"You carried me. So shush."

He couldn't help the low chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "I love you."

You looked up at his face and smiled. "I love you too."

"Any chance I could see you now, pretty girl?"

You shifted slightly, head cocking to the side as you thought about it. "No. I haven't seen enough of you yet."

Your gaze immediately dropped to his pants, eyes widening when they landed on his very hard and very large erection straining against his jeans.

"Ho-ly fuuuuck..."

He laughed softly. "See something you like, sweetheart?"

"I'm about to," you muttered as you quickly undid his jeans and tugged them down. "Off. Take it all off."

He chuckled. "Yes ma'am."

He tugged his pants off first, then his boxer briefs. The moment his cock sprung up against his abdomen, your mouth began to water. It was the only thing you saw--the only thing that mattered to you in the moment.

It wasn't until you looked up to meet his heavy gaze that you realized he was nervous. "Baby? You okay?"

He nodded, but you weren't convinced.

"What's wrong?" He shifted slightly and you realized what it was. "Your leg?"

His cheeks darkened further, the red blush spreading down his neck. "I-I know it's not exactly attractive--"

"I love every part of you, Jack Abbot. Every part."

"I can't do as much as someone with both legs," he choked out. "I can't-I can't fuck you the way I want to."

You stood up then, bringing yourself a little closer to eye level with him. "I'm a doctor, Jack. You think I don't know that you come with some restrictions? Don't you dare think for one second I give a damn. I love you. I want you. I don't need tricks or theatrics. I just need you."

He melted against you, lips pressing up against yours in a desperate kiss of love and appreciation. He hadn't been with more than a couple women since his wife's death, and all of them had been one-night-stands. He didn't really care what they thought of him, not the way he cared about your opinion.

He didn't really know how badly he needed your affirmations until he heard them. His obsession with you only deepened in that moment, and his need for you increased tenfold. "Sweetheart, we gotta get this dress off. I need to see you."

You gripped the bottom hem of your dress and pulled it off over your head in one quick motion. You were incredibly thankful you'd worn a cute lace set--you had been hoping to get laid tonight after all.

Jack's eyes swept over the black lace covering your breasts with a barely concealed hunger. His eyes drifted lower, taking in the black lace covering your core and not much else. "Spin around f'me, baby."

You blushed slightly, but you obeyed, turning away from him.

"Slower."

Your body heeded the order immediately, even before your brain processed it fully. You could feel his heated gaze on you, even if you couldn't see him, and it made your skin prickle--you felt so incredibly alive.

"Can't believe you were hiding all this," he muttered to himself. "It's a shame to hide such perfection under clothes."

You couldn't help the little giggle that escaped at his compliment, a small smile firmly planted on your face as you turned back to face him again.

"Can I take this off?" he asked softly, running a calloused hand over the lace shielding you from his gaze.

You took your bottom lip into your mouth as you nodded, feeling slightly nervous for him to see all of you--completely and utterly bare.

He brushed his thumbs over your nipples through the lace, feeling them harden for him. "Use your words, pretty girl."

"Yes, Jack."

"Good girl," he murmured as he dipped his head down to mouth your nipples through the lace. His hands slipped behind your back to unhook your bra, letting your heavy breasts spill out as he dropped the garment to the floor.

"Christ have mercy." He cupped your breasts in his large hands, groaning at the feeling of their weight in his palms.

A soft gasp met his ears as he spun you around and pulled you firmly against him. His hands settled right back on your breasts as his lips pressed wet kisses into the curve of your neck.

"Jack--"

"What is it, baby?" he murmured against your skin, fingers rolling your nipples between them in an attempt to pull more of those sweet sounds from your lips. "What'dya need?"

You wiggled your ass back against him, feeling his cock press up against you--so close to where you wanted him, yet so far away. "More."

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm gonna give you more," he promised, lips never leaving your sensitive skin. "Just gotta be patient f'me."

You whined desperately, reaching behind you to thread your fingers into his hair. "Please Jackie."

"Patience, sweet girl. Let me take my time."

Every brush of his lips against your skin, every squeeze of his hands, and every subtle shift of his hips felt incredible--but it wasn't enough. The ache between your thighs, the pulsing need, was becoming unbearable.

"Jack, need you to touch me," you pleaded.

He chuckled lowly as his teeth grazed your shoulder. "I am touching you."

You whined again and gripped his hand in yours, trying to pull it down to where your soaked core yearned for his touch.

"Didn't I just tell you to be patient, sweetheart?"

"I can't," you whimpered. "Need you, Jackie. Waited so long. Please."

"Hmm," he hummed. "You have waited a long time...and you've been so good...maybe you do deserve a reward."

"I've been so good, Jack--so good. Please."

He chuckled. "Alright sweet thing. I've got you."

He nipped at your pulse point before laving his tongue over it to soothe the bite. His hand trailed lower, sliding down over the soaked lace.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned in your ear. "You're soaked."

You shifted your hips, desperately seeking friction against his hand.

"Uh-uh, don't move. Let me do the work."

His fingers pressed down on the lace, pushing it between your folds as he deftly sought your clit. The second he brushed against it, a jolt of pleasure shot through you, pulling a moan from deep in your throat.

Jack's cock throbbed painfully when he was pressed against you, that sweet little sound you made shooting right through him. "Shit."

His fingers dipped beneath the lace, pushing it to the side so he could feel your perfect pussy. He dragged his fingers through your wetness before slowly circling your clit--the pressure was too soft, too light. You tried to grind down on his hand, but he pulled it away with a soft 'tsk'.

"I promise I'll make you feel good, baby. Just let me." He kissed your neck as he dipped two of his fingers inside of you. "Jesus, you're tight."

You gasped at the intrusion, pulsating around his fingers as he stretched you out. "Jackieeeee. More."

"You want more? Hmm?"

You nodded rapidly.

"Tell me what you want."

"Faster."

He obliged, speeding up the thrusts of his fingers as he pressed firmly against your g-spot. Your legs began to shake, but he held you upright, keeping you pressed against his chest.

Jack placed open-mouth kisses everywhere he could reach, no longer able to keep his own need under control. "You gonna come for me? Gonna come all over my fingers?"

You squirmed in his hold, breathless moans and gasps the only sounds you could manage. Your nails dug into his forearm as you held on tightly, using him as support to remain standing.

"Go on," he murmured, thumb rubbing against your clit just the way you liked. "Let go f'me."

Your jaw dropped into an 'O' as the first pulse of your orgasm hit you. Your head fell back against his shoulder as he worked you through it, whispering sweetly into your ear.

"That's it, baby. I've got you."

His fingers only slowed as you started to come down from your high. You clawed at his arm and tried to squirm out of his grip, so he relented, pulling his fingers out of you and directly into his mouth.

You turned your head so you could watch him suck them clean, a little moan of enjoyment breaking from him as he licked them.

"Oh now I need more of that," he murmured. "C'mere."

He turned you around to face him and maneuvered you to sit on the edge of the bed. He gripped your underwear and tugged them off before dropping to his knees between your legs.

"Wait, Jack--no, your leg--"

The look he gave you silenced you instantly. "I'm fine, baby. I'm right where I wanna be."

"But--"

He silenced you by licking a fat stripe from the bottom of your pussy up to your clit. A moan escaped you as you tilted your head back in pleasure.

The position was uncomfortable for him, but it wasn't painful, so he pushed it aside and got to work eating your pussy like it was the one thing on earth he lived for.

"Oh my god, Jack." Your fingers tangled in his curls as your hips surged forward to meet his mouth.

He gave your hip a swat before laying a strong arm low across your lap to keep you in place.

The room filled with the sounds of him feasting on you--slurps, sucks, and muffled moans--mixed with the sounds of pure unadulterated pleasure escaping your open mouth.

Jack wanted to hear those sweet sounds for the rest of his life--he wanted to be the only one who ever heard them again. Those were his sounds, coming from his girl, from pleasure only he could give.

"Jack, please please--don't stop."

He groaned into you as he continued his ministrations. He had no intentions of stopping, certainly not now that he knew what you tasted like.

Your nails scraped against his scalp as your moans became louder and more frantic. He knew you were close, could feel it as certainly as if it were his own.

He wanted to beg you to come for him, to let him feel you, but he didn't dare stop.

"Oh god, oh god, ohh-ohh, Jack!"

His name was the last thing he heard before you tipped over the edge, pussy gushing juices into his waiting mouth, thick thighs wrapping around his head as he continued to lap up every drop you gave him.

"'s too much--" you whined, tugging on his hair as you tried to wriggle away from his mouth. "Jackieeeee."

He moaned into you, not wanting to leave his new favorite place. He only relented when you tugged so hard on his hair he worried you'd pull some out. He lifted his head and gazed up at you, a smug smirk settled firmly on his face.

"You taste fucking amazing, baby."

You released a breathy chuckle and shook your head.

"I would like to spend a few hours trapped between these pretty legs--but that can wait for another day."

Your eyes widened. "A few hours?"

He grinned wolfishly. "Sweetheart, I'd let you smother me with those perfect fucking thighs. I don't need oxygen--I just need you."

"You're insane," you whispered incredulously.

He pulled himself up with a groan of discomfort he tried to suppress. "Maybe a bit."

The pained sound had your expression softening instantly. "Baby--come up here and relax." You patted the bed beside you, urging him to join you.

He knew you were right and he was more than a little embarrassed by how quickly he collapsed onto the bed beside you. He watched in shock as you slid off the bed and placed a soft hand to his leg just above the prosthetic.

"Honey, what're you doing?"

"Let me take this off," you murmured sweetly. "Want you to be comfortable."

He felt the familiar embarrassment creeping up and filling his chest. No, no, no--you shouldn't have to do this--you shouldn't have to see him like this.

He reached down and grabbed your hand, stilling it before you could unfasten the socket. "Let's-let's just leave it on."

You cocked your head to the side, concern evident in your gaze. You knew it was uncomfortable, perhaps even painful, and he most certainly shouldn't be wearing it during sex.

You opened your mouth to say as much, but closed it when you caught the pained emotion in his hazel eyes. You realized there might not be anything you could say to convince him you didn't care--but you could show him.

You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the hand covering yours before lifting it and giving it a firm squeeze. You held his hand in your non-dominant one and used the other to unfasten his prosthetic.

His entire body tensed and his breathing became labored as you slowly removed the prosthetic. You released his hand and took the residual limb into both of yours, leaning down to press a kiss just above the liner.

Tears filled his eyes as he watched you, unable to fully grasp what was happening.

You slowly removed the sock, followed by the liner, soft hands massaging his irritated skin as you went. You knew residual limbs could be extremely sensitive, so you were incredibly gentle. Each touch was feather light and achingly sweet.

It filled his heart with an unnamable emotion, making his chest ache with each gentle pass of your hands.

To his utter surprise, you lowered your head again and began to place the gentlest of kisses to what remained of his lower leg. You were so incredibly reverent, so gentle, it hurt to witness.

"Baby," he whispered hoarsely. "Baby, come up here."

You looked up at him, chest tightening at the sight of tears staining his cheeks. "Jackie..."

"Please," he begged. "I need to kiss you."

Your heart hammered in your chest as you ran your hands up his strong thighs, using them as leverage to stand up.

"C'mere." He pulled you into him and kissed you deeply.

This kiss was different from all the ones that had come before. He poured every ounce of love he had for you into the kiss, along with gratitude and appreciation for what you had just done.

For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot felt whole.

"I need you," he murmured against your lips.

"You have me."

He knew it was true--knew it always would be--but right now, he needed the physical manifestation of your love. Needed it like he needed air to breathe.

He pulled away from you so he could move himself back onto the bed. Once he was comfortably situated against the headboard, he beckoned you toward him.

"C'mere sweet girl. Let me make love to you."

The smile that crossed your face was painfully soft, but he could see the hunger hidden beneath it.

You crawled across the bed before climbing onto his lap, straddling his hips and leaning down to kiss him.

He moaned into the kiss when you slid your wet folds up the length of his cock, mixing with the soft needy sound you made.

He felt your hand wrap around his cock, gripping it tightly as you lined him up with your entrance. He gasped into your mouth as you began to slowly lower yourself onto him, soft whimpers escaping your lips as your body stretched to accommodate his size.

"Holy fuck, you're tight," he groaned lowly once you were fully seated.

You shifted your hips, preparing to ride him, but his grip on you tightened.

"Wait--wait. Just-just give me a second."

"Are you okay?" you asked worriedly.

"I'm about to embarrass myself by coming too fast," he admitted. He groaned when your pussy clenched around him as you stifled a laugh. "It's not funny. You just feel so goddamn incredible."

"It's kinda funny," you teased.

He smacked your ass affectionately, but with a little bit of a warning. "For that, I'm getting two more out of you."

Your eyes widened dramatically, the look almost comical. "Jack, I-I've never--"

"Come during sex? Yeah, baby I know."

"I don't really think I can," you admitted quietly.

"Bullshit. You've just never had someone willing to try."

The dark blush that crept up your cheeks solidified his resolve.

"I'll fuck this pretty pussy until I pass out if that's what it takes to make you come," he growled.

"Jack," you gasped, eyes wide once more.

"It might take me a little time, but I'm gonna learn this perfect little body inside and out--I wanna know everything you like, and I'll give you everything you need."

You bit your lip as your heart skipped a beat. "I love you."

He grinned warmly. "I love you too, pretty girl. Now why don't you move those hips, hmm? Let's see how quickly I can make my girl come."

He tapped your hip affectionately for emphasis and you started to move. You lifted yourself up and down, finding the right rhythm for both of you.

Jack's head leaned back against the headboard, but he kept his eyes locked on you. He was gauging your enjoyment, learning what made you whimper and what made you cry out. He was determined to prove to you there was nothing wrong with you.

He pulled your torso forward slightly, changing the angle his cock entered you with each downward motion. Your face changed instantly, mouth dropping open in a gasp.

Your hands grasped for purchase on his chest as the most intense wave of pleasure you'd ever felt crashed through you. "Oh, fuck--Jack!"

"Yeah? Right there?"

"There--there, there, there," you cried out. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease."

He did what he could to thrust up and meet each of your downward thrusts, gritting his teeth at how tightly your pussy squeezed him and pulsed around him.

"I've got you, baby. Just let go, okay?"

"Feels s'good, Jackie," you whimpered.

"I know. You're doing so good f'me. Just breathe. Let it happen."

Your body started to shake and you began to lose your rhythm. Jack gripped your hips tightly and helped you keep up the pace.

"Oh god-oh god-oh god--Jack!" Your head dropped back in a silent cry as your pussy spasmed around him.

He kept the pace as steady as he could, prolonging your orgasm as long as possible.

"Jack--I-I can't--"

"You're alright, baby. I've got you."

You collapsed on his chest and he wrapped his arms tightly around you to hold you in place.

"Did so well for me." He rolled his hips. "So, so good."

You breathed heavily against his chest as you placed open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat.

Jack's own orgasm was steadily approaching, but he was desperate to feel you come on his cock one more time. It very well may have been his favorite feeling in the world.

He rolled his hips up into you in a steady rhythm. He couldn't pound up into you the way he wanted, but he'd be damned if he didn't make you feel as good as he could.

"Can I try something, honey?" he whispered.

"Mhmm. Anything."

He chuckled softly, your trust in him warming something deep in his chest. He kissed the side of your head and rolled you over as best he could.

You giggled sweetly as you arranged yourself beneath him, allowing him to properly hover over you. He grabbed a pillow and wedged it under his leg, hoping to give himself some more stability.

He thrust back inside you and your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him even farther into you.

"Fuck," he groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "How're you even tighter like this?"

You blushed and tried to duck your head into his arm.

"Uh-uh, nope. Lemme see that beautiful face."

You turned back to him and he grinned, leaning in to kiss you sweetly.

"There she is."

He started to thrust into you properly, the pillow beneath his leg giving him the extra leverage he needed to keep up a proper pace.

"Tell me how it feels, baby," he begged softly.

"So good, Jack," you moaned. "You're so big."

His chest puffed out with pride, hips snapping forward with more speed and force. "Yeah? Filling up your perfect pussy better than anyone else, huh?"

"Yes!" Your back arched up into him, a desperate moan clawing its way out from deep in your chest.

"Yeah, you were made for me. Made to take my cock."

He glanced down to where your bodies met and his eyes widened slightly. He could see his cock bulging out in your lower belly with each thrust.

"Holy fuck, baby," he groaned. "You see that? My cock is so fuckin' deep."

He pressed down on your lower abdomen and you cried out as the feeling of fullness increased.

"Please, Jack!"

"Please, what baby? Tell me what you need."

"Touch me-touch me."

"Where, honey? Tell me where."

You whined, barely able to form a complete thought in your head, let alone a sentence. You grabbed his hand and shoved it between your thighs. "Please!"

Jack was so desperate to feel you come again he didn't make you say what you needed. He started to massage your clit rapidly as he continued to thrust into you.

"Don't-don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it, baby."

He was true to his word, hips never faltering, thumb moving against your clit with precision just the way you needed.

You felt the familiar tightening low in your belly, but it felt different this time--more intensity, more pressure. You suddenly weren't sure if you could have another orgasm--it felt wrong, like it was just too much.

"Jackie, I-I don't--"

"Don't what, sweetheart?"

"I-I can't."

"Come on baby, you can do it," he urged. "Just relax f'me. Let go."

"It's too-too much!"

"Shh, I've got you. Let me feel it, baby. C'mon."

Something about the way Jack coaxed you had you falling apart beneath him with a strangled cry of his name. He felt the warm gush of liquid splash against his abdomen and he realized with smug satisfaction that you'd just squirted.

"Oh fuck, yes, baby. That's it. So fucking good f'me," he praised as he chased his own high. "God, you're so fucking perfect. Gonna fill you up, baby. Make you mine."

"Yours," you whimpered breathlessly.

"Fuck," he groaned as his pace faltered and his hips began to stutter. "Gonna come--fuuuuuck."

One, two, three more thrusts was all it took for him to fall apart. Hot spurts of his cum painted your walls as he continued thrusting, desperate to keep as much of it inside you as possible.

As his high began to fade, he collapsed on top of you, whispering your name like a prayer into your bare chest.

Your brain took several minutes to fully process the intensity of the last several minutes, slowly coming back to yourself as his weight grounded you.

You felt warmer than usual between your legs--significantly wetter too. In fact, you were fairly certain you were lying in a puddle of liquid. That had certainly never happened before.

"Jackie."

"Hmmm?" he hummed against your skin.

"I--why am I so wet?"

Jack's responding chuckle reverberated through his chest and into yours. "That'd be because you squirted, my love."

"I-I what?!" Mortification slammed into you as your brain processed his words.

He could sense your embarrassment so he lifted himself up just enough to see your face. Your cheeks were burning and your head was tilted away from him. You looked like you were about ready to crawl into a hole and never come out.

"Hey. Hey, sweetheart. C'mon. Look at me."

You turned your head toward him, but your eyes didn't quite meet his.

"You went from never coming during sex, to having two orgasms and fucking squirting. Do you know how fucking proud that makes me feel? I did that. I made my girl squirt."

"Really?"

"Fuck yeah, baby. Now I've gotta make it my mission to get you to do it again."

Your blush deepened, but a little smile had softened your features. "You really think it's hot?"

"It's the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen."

"Now you're just full of shit."

"Nope. I'd chop off my other leg to see it again."

"Jack Abbot!" You smacked his chest, but the laughter that bubbled up was undeniable.

"Not even kidding. This body of yours was made for me."

Your expression softened. "The feeling's mutual, Jackie."

He brushed the hair off your forehead and offered you the sweetest smile you'd ever seen. "I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Jack."

"What'dya say we get cleaned up, hmm? Take a nice shower and maybe get a snack?"

"That sounds nice."

"I'll help you change the sheets too."

You smacked him affectionately. "I hate you."

He grinned. "No you don't."

"You're right. Not even close."

He kissed you again and you lost yourself in the feeling of his lips against yours. You still had plenty of things to discuss, but they could wait. For now, all you needed was his arms around you and the knowledge that no matter what happened, you had each other.

the ceiling fan hums in the background – the odour of the weed sticking in the air.

“yeah well,” jack starts, flopping his arm on the sheets beneath him before sitting up with a low groan. he turns his face to see yours, his hair unruly as the light catches the silver at his temples. he glances down at your lips as you take another puff of the joint. 

“you make me feel years younger, kiddo.” 

he leans over, his calloused hand falling onto your knee where your shirt meets your thigh. rubbing small, lazy circles onto your kneecap as jack looks up to you through half-lidded eyes. 

“come sit on daddy’s lap,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and heat. 

you raise an eyebrow, the joint hanging out of your lips. jack settles back on the bed, patting his thigh with a relaxed smile. 

“don’t complain when your back hurts, old man," you giggle, swinging your legs over his lap, straddling his thighs with a slow, practised movement.  

once you're settled, jack reaches up and plucks the blunt off your lip, the pad of his thumb pulling down your lower lip. he takes a puff; the cherry end burns orange when he exhales. a plume of smoke escaping his parted lips.

he looks up, taking you in.   

the shirt has ridden up – the white of his stolen boxer briefs peeking out. your chest falls and rises in short bursts, nipples hard under the thin fabric. your hips grind instinctively against his clothed bulge as he pinches them through the shirt, his index finger and thumb tugging your nipples as you watch jack swallow around a moan. 

his head hits the headboard. “oh, you’re trouble,” jack says, his hand sneaking up the hem of your shirt. his eyes search your bloodshot ones; in a silent agreement, he takes it off in one swoop, fingers deftly unclasping the bra.  

he doesn’t take his eyes off the sight. not even to throw the clothes somewhere on the floor.   

you, half-naked on his lap, wearing his boxers.   

his pretty girl.   

“you going to take those boxers off? or are you going to let jackie do everything?”   

you hum in faux thought, dragging his free hand down to the waistband, leaning back on the heels of your feet. his fingers skim over the logo before slipping in and tugging them down halfway.   

your hands make quick work of his belt, discarding it on the floor whilst he sets the joint on the glass ashtray beside him on the nightstand, hands stumbling when you palm him through his pants again. 

with a moan, jack makes quick work of the rest of his clothes. he pushes the rest of the pants with his boxers off his legs in one frantic motion until his cock springs free and his stomach.   

“look at what you did to me, kiddo,” he says, his voice hoarse and rough. 

he spits in his hand before stroking the length of his cock in long, slow strokes. you bite your lip, beads of blood breaking skin at the intrusion. 

“need you so badly, jackie,” you crawl up to his chest, hovering your cunt above him making work of his cock. you whine, your nails digging crescent shapes into his freckled shoulders. “god, jackie, please, fuck me.”

jack stops the pumps of his hand to dip two fingers in your folds, groaning at your wetness – you don’t even know whether it’s from the pot you’ve been smoking for the past ten minutes or sitting on jack’s lap, bare, laid out for him, but that doesn't matter. 

not when he's fucking you with reckless abandon. not w

the only thing that crossed your mind was him, tunnel vision and the haze of smoke fogging any rational thinking – the world minimising to jack, your jackie, relieving the coil in your stomach. 

“this all for me, kiddo?” he breathes out, bringing his fingers to his mouth. his tongue swirls over the ridges on his fingers, humming lowly under his breath. he smacks his lips, darting his tongue out to catch a stray drop. “god, she’s soaked for me. you want my cock that badly?” 

you nod frantically, pawing at his dick helplessly. jack chuckles, his voice dropping with a hint of condescension. “oh, my girl is needy. but that’s okay. that’s what she has me for, doesn’t she?” 

he rubs his cock slowly through your folds, his hand catching your body as you collapse further into him. 

“jackie, its-” 

“i know, jackie’s here,” jack hushes you, rubbing his thumb in circles against your hip bone. 

he finally pushes into your entrance with a groan; his eyes squeezing shut as he nudges into you inch by inch. you let out a cry as he bottoms out – jack's lips smash against yours, swallowing your moans as he thrusts his hip up languidly. 

you gasp as he moves beneath you, jack using this opportunity to slip his tongue past your mouth; the sticky heat and the faint tangy taste of your pussy on his mouth making your head spin. 

you pull back from his lips for a breath of fresh air, leaning your forehead on his.

“god, you feel so fucking good for me, baby,” jack says, his voice husky from desire. with another roll of your hips, he lets out a low, strangled moan as his fingers leave small indents in the flesh of your hip. 

“jackie, it feels so good,” you mewl, looking at him through glassy eyes; your jaw is slack as drool collects at the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chin. 

“i know, baby, i know.” his calloused hands grab your waist, his grip sure and firm as he stalls your hips, movement coming all down to a halt. 

reaching out blindly, jack’s hands feel out for the discarded blunt. once he’s got it, he sits up properly, his cock shifting inside you, causing you to whimper again. 

“jackie,” you plead, sniffling. “please don’t stop.” 

“shhh,” jack coos, biting your earlobe with a sharp tug; his other hand rubs your back up and down in a soothing motion. “i got you. you trust me don’t you?” 

jack takes a massive toke, his chest heaving in as he stubs out the remaining embers into the glass tray. roughly carding through the hair from the nape of your neck, jack pulls you in to meet your lips, blowing the smoke into your lips as he keeps pressing into you. 

the room quickly fills up again with moans and grunts, sounds of flesh hitting flesh as jack continues his half-hearted thrusts, chasing the pleasure as if it continues to slip out of his grasp repeatedly. 

he lets out another groan at the feeling of your cunt clenching up on him. through the thin veil of smoke, he looks up at your fucked-up gaze, bouncing up and down on your knees as you take pleasure from him.

“baby, i’m going to cum-fuck—" he manages to choke out as you fuck yourself onto him harder. “shit, i’m going to fucking cum in you.” 

you moan at his words, nothing he’s saying even registering in your brain. the only thing, at this moment, worth remembering is the feeling of his cock twitching inside you as he hits your g-spot. 

“jackie, please i fucking want it!” you babble, the unrelenting heat in your lower back pooling. 

“kiddo wants my cum?” 

so unfortunate he didn’t record this one, he could listen to that on loop for hours.

“kiddo wants jackie to cum in her?” jack groans, continuing the bucking up of his hips. “jackie will make her all nice and round with his cum, yeah? and then she’ll have to explain to her father why his best friend got her all barefoot and pregnant?”

“you want that, kiddo?”

“god, jesus, fuck my father. shut up and just fucking cum in me.”

at those words, jack hips stutter as he fucks his load into you, feeling the walls of your pussy tightening on his cock – both of you cumming at the same time. once you ride out your wave, you lean fully into him, his softening dick still inside you as he flutters his eyes shut. 

a moment passes, the room plunging into silence – the only noise coming from the faint zooming of the cars outside and the heavy inhales and exhales coming from both of you, a tangled mess of limbs, on your bed.

“jesus,” you groan, burrowing your face into his neck as jack puts his face into your hair. “you going to move?” 

“well,” he starts, his voice lilted as he takes a large exhale, “you wanted my cum in you so...now we just have to wait until your daddy comes home.” 

It was heartbreaking watching him limp to your small makeshift home, clutching his side, grunting with each step. He was slumped against his seat, taking deep breaths in as he attempted to catch his breath from his latest hunt. 

You stare from across the room, arms crossed as he hisses when he places his chest plate back onto his flight suit, just skimming over his tender wound.

He looks up from the too small common area sofa, spreading his legs and trying to find a comfortable position to relax. You were glaring and his whole body suddenly tenses, he straightens up again, leaning his forearm on his knees, the wooden coffee table Karga had gifted you not so long ago messy with discarded weapons. 

He feigns being okay, fighting the urge to not yawn or close his eyes, knowing he would fall asleep in an instant if he would allow that to happen.

Your gaze falls on his side for the last hundredth time, making you purse your lips in thought. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the cushion creaking from his weight.

You definitely need better furniture, something sturdier for when he comes back home from his jobs. For you, they might be just fine, for him though, it feels as if he were sitting in a child’s play set. You made note of it since you moved in, chiding him in the way he took over the whole couch with just his thighs after having him set up your bedframe down the hall. 

He’s working on getting enough credits to refurbish the place. Make it feel more like a home. Unless you didn’t see this place as his home. He hesitated to claim the space as his own. 

His head swirls. Your relationship has never been brought forth to discussion, and you basically live here more than he does with how he’s always scrounging around the galaxy most days of the month.

Was he a guest at your home? An absent partner? A nuisance? It only prompted him to want to leave again, providing more credits to distract himself from the thought of possibly meeting your rejection of a romantic union. 

“You need to be more careful with that thing,” you interrupt his thoughts with a soft murmur. You stood there in the small kitchenette so domestically, having turned on the small orange overhead light of the stove, hands tucked into your elbows as you watched him. He could still see the sleep on your swollen lips and eyes. Adorable. 

His head tilts in your direction, palms running up and down his thighs, preparing himself for the strain of standing. He almost scoffs at your tone. Scolding and full of worry. 

Thing. You hated the damn thing. It didn’t bring you any good memories, you’ve never even seen it be used for good in the first place.

But alas, your padawan days are still a mystery to him, his own youth was alluded to as well. He doesn’t pry into why you stare so blankly whenever he wields it, how you sigh when you hear it sing to life.

He nods, holding in a groan when he stands. You can see him struggle. You look down, avoiding thinking of the very same blade being sheathed through his stomach, like you’ve seen it be used against others. 

His side was badly injured a day before when he tried training with the darksaber, you had patched him up wordlessly the second he came in through the door, demanding him to put it away.

“I will be,” he says softly.

He strides slowly to stand in front of you, crowding you against the kitchen counter, his palm against your shoulder reassuringly. Your face softens, your hand lightly gripping his forearm and tightening when his thumb kneads the meat of your shoulder.

He can see the outline of your breasts, he had arrived when you had least expected it, only having time to pull on a shirt and shorts when your comm started beeping incessantly with the message that he had arrived.

You uncross your arm from your chest, almost immediately your nipples stiffen, pronouncing themselves against your thin shirt. He salivates, his throat constricting quickly as he swallows. It was cold, you didn’t seem to care.

You close your eyes, sighing shakily at the way his fingers press against your tense muscles. He throbs in his pants, imagining the sound coming from your lips not from the way he soothes you with his touch but from his lips enveloped over your tits, his tongue swirling at your pert and swollen nubs using his lips to suck more of your breast into his mouth.

He’d suck on them through your shirt if he has to, lift you onto the counter and make you scream his name with his thick fingers deep inside you.

He groans, just barely saving himself from full out moaning your name. Your eyes shoot open, your hands moving to his chest in concern, splaying your hand on him.

Fuck, he imagines you gripping his cock, tugging and not quite being able to wrap around it fully from how thick he was.

“You okay?”

Your hands travel downward, searching out for his just wrapped wound.  You had offered to try to heal him, but he knew you didn't really like using the force.  If anything, you avoided its use, you weren't one to rely on your "powers".

He steps back, his hands gripping your own to stop you from further inspecting him.  He sighs, looking down on you. 

“I have to go.”

Your face twists, your hands retract out of his grip and you're back to crossing your arms again. 

"I'm not helpless. You know that."

He does, frankly seeing you in action was always a pleasure. But your decisions these past few months have been anything but helpless. It seems as if your attachments made you careless at times, more willing to get into dangerous situations. Maybe the jetti were onto something with that. 

"Let me go with you."

Now he crosses his arms. He tilts his helmet about to refute but you step aside before he could.  You glance behind you, striding down the hall and to your bedroom. 

"I'll get my things."

For a few minutes he debates just leaving, but he knew that he would vex you if he did. He loathes even the thought of being subjected to your annoyance.  Your look of indifference would break him, he knew.

It was very obvious that you had just finished wrapping a breastband around your chest, you peaked from the doorway, your shoulders bare. 

"Which planet are we going to?"

He sighs, planting his hands on his hips and pointedly gazing at the floor the more you revealed yourself in the hall.

"Coruscant."

You make a noise from the back of your throat, a mix of disgust and irritation. He smiles beneath the helmet when he hears you shuffle back into the room, opening and closing drawers repeatedly, humming to yourself.

…

He loved watching you focus, as if you were in your element when you were on the hunt, like you were made to scout people out. 

Your head turned every so often as if you sniffed out the bad in people, your lips twisting in something akin to revulsion. It was menacing to say the least, especially when he had first asked you about it and you had responded vaguely.

I can tell who's a good person or not.

It was an oversimplification of things. You were gifted since your youth, one of the many reasons why you were being steered by your master into becoming a sentinel, someone who scouted the galaxy to snuff out the darkness. A guard of the temple in your downtime. 

He had nodded his head despite his confusion, wondering what category you had placed him in the moment you two met. He had assumed you were just a witch. You could always tell when things were going to go bad as if you could predict the future. You always knew what to say and how to act around anyone you came across with just by a simple shake of a hand.

Still, you always kept your composure, a seriousness that denied anyone entry into your true feelings.

He loved watching you focus, he was always left astonished by the way you planned, how you came up with ways to complete your goal the exact moment you take action.

Your reputation built, so much so that you had separated yourself from the guild so many years ago, almost as if you were too good to allow yourself to be given a couple hundred credits for your exceptional work. Some even say you worked for the resistance, senators, wealthy senators who would pay you for the job along with your silence. 

Despite himself he was also enamored with your mystery.  Especially since you were a rather niche person, only the wealthiest were able to afford your expertise, with the exception of a select few that no one had ever seemed to understand how they even made you agree for a meager hundred credits.

He later found out that most of those low credit pucks were from desperate families, some wanting their family members to be found, a lot of them trying to have their lost or taken children be brought home.

You grip his forearm, pulling him back a few steps. 

"Go back, I'll go front."

He tips his head, his body stiffening as you attempt to pull him to follow. He was already regretting bringing you with him. He feels his stomach drop at the thought of separation, his mind swirling with the endless possibilities that would result in your death, kidnapping or leaving. 

He starts to shake his head, but you grip the chin of his helmet tightly between your fingers. Goosebumps spring forth all over his body. Your fingers graze over his chin beneath the beskar, you rub your thumb over the end of his vizor.

"You'll be right there with me, don't worry."

You clear your throat at his lack of response. How he wishes he wasn't wearing his helmet at that moment. Your thumb would be running over his lips, just now he fights the urge to hunch over so that you could reach enough to cup the cheeks of his helmet.

Your hand lets go, you pat his chest and step back, embarrassed by how you most likely made him uncomfortable. He didn't even react, staying completely still as if you had cornered him against his will. 

"I'll go to the front of the building, you go back, yeah?"

He clears his throat, standing straighter and rolling his shoulders. 

"Yeah."

…

You didn't expect it to be so easy. Sure, you may have ordered a drink only to throw it on your bounty and light them on fire, but they were only glowing an illuminating blue for a couple of seconds.

The initial surprise of being lighted up was enough for you to disable him quickly.  He was on the floor, cuffed and shouting from the way the heel of your boot pressed harshly against his spine.

You didn't even have to go towards him, he just came up to you, asking to buy you a drink even if you already had one on hand. He spits curses at you now, trying to turn his head when threatening about the not so nice things he would do to you when he got out of your hold. 

"I'll kill you. You bitch!"

He's pulled to his knees, too preoccupied to notice the sound of clinking metal getting nearer. He only shuts up when the barrel of Din's blaster presses against his temple. 

He turns slowly, comically, forward, his head only reaching Din’s thighs.  He pales, his face almost turning a sickly gray. 

Some people might be a little ticked off. They might even feel offended at the way Din seemed to demand more respect out of people simply because he was a man, strapped with weapons and most of all a whole tank. 

At times it did bother you, how easier life might be if you weren't so small, if you didn't present yourself in ways that made people assume you were weak.

"Say that one more time. She doesn't need to bring you in alive," he practically growls.

The low voice travels around the now silent room, making its way towards your ears and through your body. You shiver.

A part of you, most likely the vile part of you loves the way he threatens violence for you so quickly. 

Makes life a little easier. 

Your bounty must have pissed his pants, he stood when you motioned him to, keeping his head down, avoiding bumping into the Mandalorian in front of him.

It was humid and hot at the drop off location, hidden behind an underground club, tables and chairs for each member of a gang and their members.

You take your jacket off and suddenly the room is at attention. Eyes are trained to your body, looks are thrown your way. You try to ignore the whistles and the hands reaching out in your direction. You would have put it back on, maybe you should have to make them stop but you didn't want to seem as if you were backing down for them.

Din shoves the bounty harshly, making him fall to the ground, scraping his knees and hands from how hard he was thrusted forward.

Your hand grazes his arm when you step forward, urging him to pay the unsavory words no mind. His anger was building steadily, and you knew that sooner or later his patience would run out.

The boss sways the bag of credits to your face teasingly, you stare at him, keeping yourself from scowling. His breath stings your nose, you fight back an instinctive recoil as he presses a finger to his cheek, asking for a peck. At your lack of response, he lets the credits fall from his hands, you barely caught it, smiling sarcastically as you step back. 

You have the urge to sigh in relief, walking away and making it back to the ship in one piece.

"You willing to share her, Mando?"

He stops. Your shoulders tighten. You couldn't grip his hand before he had turned around and strode over to the table. 

"What the hell did you just say?"

Things spiraled from there, one second you were inches from the door, the next everyone was starting to come at you both because he had decided shooting one of them in the chest was enough of a tradeoff for their bosses question.

"Go! Now!" Din had yelled from behind. 

You had been able to get to a hidden corner, away from blaster fire and out of sight. You curse loudly, your heart starting to beat so quickly you felt it against your ribcage. Din was surrounded, you knew he was staring into the floor, avoiding looking in your direction. 

Their blasters and weapons were pointed at him, his hands were raised in surrender.

"Take him. Look for the other one." 

Din lightly shakes his head when you start to crawl over, his helmet picking up the ruffling of your pants, crouching low behind some crates. This always happens, one of the two of you being caught or trapped, the other having to save the other. 

But your idea of resolution has changed. Plans were more erratic, you were more aggressive, actions were taken without being properly thought out. The old you would have waited, have them lead you to where they thought they were safe and lowered their guard. 

The present you wanted to pounce the second a blaster pressed against his side, when they teased how they would kill him for his armor and leave his carcass in the streets. 

It scared him, how if you were in his position now he would have followed through with the messy carnage he knows you are aching to cause. It scared him how despite the shake of his head you did it anyway. 

…

He had to drag you out of the Coruscant gang’s ship hangar. There were some stragglers left, running away from you, pleading for you to let them go.  His hand on your shoulder had made you stop mid swing. You didn’t really use your saber, he wonders what had changed. 

He saw the way your hand shook as you disabled the blade, how you tried to hide it by stomping into the ship and up to the cockpit, away from him.

You had your hands in fists when he had gotten up with a sigh. You stared forward the whole time he readied the ship for hyperspace, wanting nothing more than for the trip to be over. The shivering in your body had stopped after the glowing rays of blues and whites appeared outside the cockpits windows. 

He turns in his seat, placing his elbows on his knees and leaning towards you.

"You okay?"

You nod, avoiding his gaze. 

"Are you?" you ask.

You seemed angry with him, and that anger had made his concern turn to irritation. If anything, he should be angry at you, putting yourself at risk, being so close to getting shot and stabbed after he had directed you to leave.

He scoffs and your face falls from the hard stare, softening slightly. You stand and he flinches. Your sudden movement startled him back into sitting up straight. Your brows furrow in concern, thinking he was startled by you, wanting to get away from you.

"I shouldn't have gone that far," you whisper. 

You thought he was disappointed in the fact that you had slaughtered dozens. You were a jedi, or something like one and you weren't supposed to act like this. You let your emotions get the better of you, and that made you afraid. 

He shakes his head, standing and knowing where you were going with your thoughts. Before you could leave, he had pulled you back roughly, twisting you and pushing you onto the panels and controls.

"That's not- You could have gotten yourself killed."

He was gritting his teeth, his voice sounding dangerously low. Wanting to make you back down with the anger in his tone.

You look down, swallowing thickly and avoiding his gaze. A part of you was relieved he was just concerned for your wellbeing. The other was fighting back the urge to squeeze your thighs together from his still tight grip on your arm.

His chest heaves, he steps closer, crowding you against the control panel. He cups your face gently, his words getting softer when you instinctually lean against his touch. 

"You're so stubborn and irritating and reckless."

His other hand grips at your side, your eyes flicker from his vizor to his chest. Your ass cuts into the edge of the controls, his body blocks your vision, his upper torso curving downward to get a good look at you squirming. He wants to feel you. Present, alive, with him. 

"You always get like this."

Your brow quirks, your eyes trained on the rise and fall of his chest. He could feel your heat rise, your cheeks burning under the touch of his glove. 

"Always acting so big and tough only to get so shy when I get near you. Do I make you nervous?"

"Din‐"

You breathe out shakily, his hand travelling down to the front of your body, between your thighs and pressing in a rocking motion. You’ve thought about this so much. He was away so often you had to use your imagination to not feel as lonely.

"That why you're soaking through your trousers?"

Your runaway thoughts would evolve quickly from sharing a meal with him and Grogu as a family to suddenly being in Tatooine, the baby with Peli, and both of you finally having some time alone.  He'd bend you over, hold you up against the wall with your face against the wall as he pounds into you from behind. 

"I can't lose you. I can't let anything happen to you. I won't be able to live with myself if you're gone."

Your heart is frantic, momentarily out of the haze of pleasure his touch gives you. Fighting back a smile, your hands rise tauntingly up his arms, making him pause.

"So you leave me, alone, on a planet that I can barely call home and with people I don't know."

Greef would be offended, but he keeps his mouth shut when your eyes narrow up at him, knowing what he was about to respond with. He leans down, the cold beskar tapping against your head gently.

"I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I'm sorry," he whispers.

You nod against him, your hands gripping tightly onto his arms, his tightly wound around your waist.

"Let me show you how sorry I am."

Din follows the hitch of your breath, the thick swallow of your throat and your pinching eyes at his offer. You nod, your mouth parting enough to fog up the front of his vizor with your exhale.

He tugs your shirt up, his palm smoothing over your soft stomach, squeezing lightly. The cold panel meets your back, his hands moving up to your breasts, pushing your breastband up to pinch your nubs.

Your skin sings, finally, finally, finally. Finally, the ache in your body could be sated, the erratic thumps of your heart be reciprocated. Travel, near death experiences and general stresses have been deterring this; taking the next step once and for all.

"Love your tits, always teasing me with them."

You didn't mean to. Not really. It just felt nice to not constantly wear something so restrictive. You'd catch him staring, playing it off, when you had noticed, seemingly focused on something behind or beside you.

By the time you pulled your shirt off he had already taken his helmet in hand, falling to the ground in a hard thump. You had initially looked down, there were very few moments where he would show you his face, most of the time when he had assured the room were locked, windows closed shut and you weren't staring directly at him.

You couldn't get a good look before he leaned down, cupping the back of your head and neck and pulling you up to meet his lips. He groans loudly, he moans wantonly at your taste.

The adrenaline that had built up inside him an hour ago came back full force with the beat of his heart.

He slams you against the wall, his hands curling around your thighs and lifting. You shiver from his strength, from the cold metal of his chest and the wall behind you. 

You had more access to him this way, he had more access to you. Your mouth parts in a wispy moan, his facial hair rubbing against the thin skin of your throat as he sucks harshly. You wince when his fingers tighten over your hips, adjusting so that he could grip you tighter. 

Din lifts you higher, his face directly in front of your chest. He stares for a few moments, his eyes glassy, licking his lips from the way they bounced with the readjustment of his grip on you, now travelled up to your ass.

Tingles run up your spine when he nuzzles at the sides of your breasts, whispering praises in Mando'a, kissing tenderly at your sensitive skin.

"Mesh'la, mesh'la, gedet'ye... gedet'ye."

His mouth was hot, wet and all encompassing. He was pleading into you, drunk on your scent, sucking onto your skin and leaving swelling marks, making your skin glisten with his spit. 

He would worship you if he wasn't so pent up, lay you down, put his mouth to use all over your body until your mind drew blank slowly and surely. 

He unbuttoned the front of your pants, pushing the fabric down and thighs before pulling himself out of his flight suit quickly afterwards. You didn't think twice before nodding your head, whispering a quiet yes out into the room.

It stings, the first thrust made you whimper, your face buried over his cowl, your hands squeezing at his shoulders. His hands were on either side or your body, his fingers spread on the wall to thrust into you.

You bounce with each movement of his hips, your head repeatedly bumping against the metal panel, your body not knowing what to do with the building energy festering in your lower stomach. 

"Been dreaming of your cunt, ever since we met."

Years. It's been years since you met and the first time you did, it didn't really go all that well.  The connection was there, it was present and growing with each time you saw that damn silver helmet passing you by in Nevarro. 

You hold in your yell, burying your face against him to stifle the animalistic sounds coming from your mouth.  Din didn't like that, he wanted to hear you, he wanted all of his senses to be full of you.

A sharp thrust made you see stars, your cunt pulsing so much you swore you could feel the outline of his cock reveal itself inside you, sucking him in and keeping him there when he tried to pull back slightly.

He was filling, stuffing you so full you had no choice but to try to spread your legs farther apart on his waist.  He was just so big, a big heart, big presence and a very large body. 

At first his stature had made you cautious, he was dangerous, and despite his size he was still as swift as a viper and as strong as a bantha. He was a Mandalorian, just how the legends described them and now he was fucking a Jedi into the wall, making them scream out his name like a prayer to the maker. 

His legs start to crumble at the feel of your lips against his throat, skimming on the edge of his jaw. His thrusts quicken, the sticky slap of your slick covered skin amplifies, and he presses you harshly into the bolts and ridges of the wall behind you. 

Your groans of slight discomfort replaced and followed by louder and wispier moans barely met his ears. You could feel him pulse, his shaft twitching with the way you clench and bite into his skin. 

You raise your legs higher up his waist and he grunts, this time not in pleasure. Looking up from his chest, fighting through the pleasure coursing through your veins his jaw was clenched, his eyes closed tightly as he fought through the sting of his days old fresh wound on his side, which you knee was digging into. 

He continues to pound into you, fighting through the burning and the way his legs start to give out from beneath him. When his hands start roaming between your legs you stop him, breathing heavily through your mouth and panting when he has stopped altogether at your concerned look.

"Din slow down‐"

His head slumps against the wall, his hands grip you close to him when he leans closer. You're pressed so tightly between both walls of metal you felt as if your bones were going to crack.

"I can't‐" he huffs, "feel so good."

He was panting, heaving against you, his hands twitching to continue. You were the tightest thing he's ever felt in his life, so creamy and wet and hot.

His neck cranes down to get a taste of your lips, your hands having pushed through his hair and pulling him down. He breathes into you, trying to steady his breath as he steps back, his calves meeting the seat of his chair. 

Din sits down heavily, parting his legs and helping you adjust your legs over his waist.

You lean back on his thighs, licking your lips, pressing your hands over his chest urging him to lean back against the seat.  His eyes roam over you, his swollen lips parted, sweat building on his brow. 

Pace me, he pleads, his eyes meeting yours and his grip going to your hip to help you start. 

Your knees spread out in the open air.  All of the chairs in the cockpit didn't have any arms. The ship was mostly for luxury, old, pre‐empire but nonetheless kept intact for luxurious purposes.  The chairs had arms, so that pilots could be comfy in their travels. 

Din could barely fit in them, the arms were too close to his sides, and he felt rather restricted.  You thank that maker that he had suddenly decided he was tired of trying to maneuver around the control panel with metal bars pressing against his sides.

The chair creaks with the movement of your hips. You lean against his shoulder and his thigh to help you, your back arched and your breasts pushed to his face. 

Each push up and down his shaft gets stronger, with each slap of skin the pace quickens until your breasts are bouncing on his face and he attempts to mouth at them from where he sits.

Fire builds in your stomach, and it feels as if his touch, now getting closer to your core and your clit was only adding on to the heat.

His thumb, gods his thumb, pushes against your sensitive nerve, the hood being pulled away with each of your thrusts forward.  Then when you had finally felt yourself beginning to reach your end his thumb regressed down, feeling the edge of your pussy, tracing the stretched skin from where you were connected and rubbing in your slick to the base of his shaft and the tight rim of your hole. 

"Do you feel me?" 

His hand cups the back of your head, making you look up at him and whimper helplessly. You burn in embarrassment, from how pathetic you must look, shifting on his spearing cock, not being able to move anymore from how his arm holds you down so deep your clit was rubbing and rutting against his pelvis, the thick trail of his pubic hair from his pelvis to the base of his shaft stimulating.

"Yes," your words slur together, you were drooling, "feels so good. So deep."

Aching, he was making you ache and tremble. You swore he was puncturing you through to your womb. He tilts his head; you swallow thickly when he thrusts up into you. You clench, on the verge of being in pain.

"Full," you whine. 

He's mesmerized, fully relaxing himself into the seat, ignoring the ache in his body and holding you from your sides, his thumbs right under your breast, pushing them up and in his full view. 

He bounces you effortlessly, watching intently as your chest sways with the movement, your ass clapping from how hard and quick he was lifting and lowering you onto him. 

Din is a simple man, he has needs like everyone else, and your body is beautiful, ethereal and godlike. And now he was taking you, ruining you and making a mess of your cunt.

He guides one of your hands down, pressing your fingers to your clit, making a quick circular motion on your hood, urging you to repeat at your will. You immediately start clenching, your soft thighs starting to shake.

It was a flash, a quick passing of a thought that he didn't want to entertain in those lonely nights he had to jerk himself off. 

He imagined your smaller body swelling, growing heavy with his kid, or kids, or however many you would allow him to give you. 

His thumb flicks up and down, barely grazing your nipple. You moan, throwing your head back. They were pulled closer to his face, nipples tight and perky, begging him to put his mouth to use.  He salivates wondering how you would taste, how your milk would slide down his throat.

He doesn't think he'll ever tell you, how much he wants to breed you, how he wants you to make him a father again.

Shame fills him with the thought of you wearing your traditional robes, only to then pull it back to reveal the gravid swell of your stomach. What an honor that would be, to be able to have your child, to get the opportunity to dote and cherish you so fiercely in the process of creating another being he could love and protect. 

Din's head slumps against the chair, he closes his eyes tightly, grunting each time your pussy kisses the base of his cock. He starts to murmur again, a mix of basic and Mando'a.

"Fill you up, gedet'ye. Please, ti ner arpat. gedet'ye."  (with my seed, please.)

You understood enough of it, your stomach twitched, pulsing with electricity and making you moan out and move frantically for your climax. Your legs were squeezing his waist, your hand moving quickly, stimulating you further. 

He feels you tighten so much his breath stutters. Your back arched when he had increased his brutal pace, helping your fingers along your clit, making it throb so much it started to burn. 

You were seeing the light, he had brought you down to his lips, muffling your moans and gasping and crying out for him in his name.  He felt all of your pulses, the way your hips twitched incessantly, and your thighs shook so harshly your whole body was trembling. 

You hissed when he pulled you down, grinding and rutting up into, meeting his own end which felt as if it was minutes long. You still work on each other's orgasms, not stopping until you had both used yourselves of all you had. 

Your throat closes, you almost choke on your own spit from the sounds of his groans. Instead, you bite into his shoulder, he could barely feel the pressure of your teeth against the fabric of his cowl, too focused on the way your cunt was clamped onto him and sucking whatever he gave to you.

With the few lasts spurts of his cum, you had finally finished, now resting your head against his shoulder, feeling his thighs twitch for a few seconds afterwards. 

Your walls were so warm, his cum stuffing you full and making you feel slight discomfort at the heat of it.

Your head tilts down, gazing at the mess between your legs. A mix of white and clear slick was escaping the sides of your cunt, sliding down his softened cock and pooling to the seat and your thighs. 

You chuckle and your gaze focuses back on him, your hands cup his face lovingly and a teasing and tired smile plasters itself on your lips, his brows furrow. 

"What‐"

You moan when you kiss him, feeling your body want to shut down so badly but forcing yourself to relish in the aftermath. You bring his hand to your lower stomach.

"Gar arpat yaiyai'yc ner yai," you whisper against his lips.  His face reddens, a dark rush of blood at the fact that you had most likely understood every word he had said.  His cock twitches at your sentence, making him groan as you capture his lips once more. (Your seed satisfied/bloated my womb.)

You peck his lips, resting your forehead against his and caressing his cheek with the back of your fingers.

"One day..." you assure.  He swallows thickly, pulling you closer. You press your head against his shoulder as he nods.

"I think I'm going to faint..." you say against his throat.  He hums in agreement, feeling how your body was starting to slump against his chest.

Din takes his time cleaning you, kissing your legs, touching you lightly with a warm and damp towel, wincing at the sight of your cunt so swollen, the ghost of his tight grip that was pulsing in heat on your skin. His hands caressed over your cheek, having stripped himself of his armor, getting inside the bunk bare with you to coax you to sleep. 

Funnily enough he was knocked out after a couple of minutes, already snoring.  You were still fighting to keep your eyes open, eyeing his side and torso.

The wound was on his right side, you were laying against his chest on his left. You close your eyes tightly, your hand moving over the bandage.  It felt strange, you've only done this maybe once or twice.  It was advanced, usually reserved for those who specialized in the force and depended on it like a limb or those who were special. 

You didn't hear him shift in his sleep, feeling as if his skin were being pulled. He grumbles to you, asking what was going on. Whatever energy you had left escaped your body in that moment, you slump against him.

For a few moments he panics, sitting up and lifting your limp body with him, cupping your face, tapping your cheek repeatedly, thinking he had actually made you pass out. Then he notices that his side isn't stinging as harshly as before. He breathes in a lungful of air and feels no pain, his hands unwrap the bandage over his stomach only to reveal a patch of skin on his side, red and scabbier than the rest as if weeks had gone by.

…

Your legs were so shaky, you could barely feel them when you stood. You wince with each step, your core throbbing. Your body felt as if it was going to turn into mush and collapse, you leaned heavily against a small ledge at the side of the hull, a small kitchen where you were trying to make some rations for breakfast.

"Fuck," you mutter, starting to remember everything that had happened the night before in full detail. Your body was literally about to collapse, you had given some of your life energy, you needed to replenish yourself before even thinking of walking around like you have just now.

On top of that, you were genuinely sore from your other activity. Being pumped full of adrenaline and expelling it in such an explosive way would have left you tired even without the healing session.

Your cunt throbs as you shift on your feet, you have been stretched to your limit, your hand roams over your hips and ass and you swear you feel the beginning of harsh bruises. It was worth it, you thought, you had been thinking of his cock for months now, years, imagining how big he was even underneath all that armor. 

A shiver rolls up your spine.

His hands encircle your waist, his head leaning down to rest on your shoulder. You leaned so much into him; it was startling how drained you looked in his arms. He pulls back slightly.

"Are you okay?"

You shake your head, feeling weaker by the second. He lifts you easily, striding over to the bunk and wrapping you up in blankets and pillows, standing there for a few minutes, making sure you were breathing and shaking his head at your foolish attempt to fight through your fatigue.

…

"She was injured. Badly."

"Does she need medical attention? We have a hospital nearby."

"It's fine, I can take care of her."

They stare at each other for a few moments. Din’s vizor showed no hint of emotion except stubbornness. Greef Karga's gaze did not falter from where he stood.

"Right, you don't trust droids,” Karga quips teasingly, a hint of skepticism hidden in his words. 

Din nods, his hands at his hips, shifting on his feet as if gesturing for him to get back to his magistrate business and leave him alone. Greef claps his hands together, glancing at your door and nodding.

"I'll leave you to it. I'm only a call away, Mando, anything you need."

With a final nod from Din he makes his way over to his speeder, two small droids fighting to stay balanced as they follow behind his steps. Din makes sure the trail of dirt and soot was cleared before he entered the home, locking the door, closing the window and finally taking off his armor. 

Din hears your yawn, elongated and loud. Bringing forth a chuckle from his chest.

Your hands reach out for him when he steps inside the bedroom. You entangle your limbs with his when you tug him down on the bed, barely wide enough to fit both of you.

"Stay awhile," you murmur, tracing patterns over his side.

He rubs your back soothingly, massaging into the muscles of your shoulders and neck.

"'Course."

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

I love Din Djarin, hes so man and so beauty and so baby gurl. Bubba!

Starlight Masterlist