" he hurt me but it felt like true love "

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”

you're fifteen minutes early. you're never early.

the waiting room is empty, which is good because you don't think you could sit here making small talk with another patient right now. the white noise machine hums from somewhere behind the reception desk, a constant static that's supposed to be soothing but just makes you more aware of every sound your body makes. your breathing. the rustle of your clothes. the tap of your shoe against the floor that you can't seem to stop.

you left your hair down even though you always tie it back for sessions because it feels too vulnerable otherwise. but today you want to feel vulnerable. you want him to notice.

you check your phone. 6:47pm. his last appointment of the day is always at seven. you know this because you've been coming here every thursday at seven for six months and you've never seen anyone leave after you.

six months.

you remember the first session. how you sat on that couch and couldn't look at him while you explained why you were there. "i have a problem with sex," you'd said, and the words felt stupid coming out of your mouth. so clinical and detached.

"tell me about it," he'd said, and his voice was so calm that you actually looked up at him. he was leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, pen in hand but not writing anything yet.

so you told him about the compulsion. about the way you'd fuck someone and feel nothing and then do it again the next night hoping it would be different. the way you fixated on people... strangers, mostly, and built entire fantasies around them until the reality of actually being with them shattered everything. how you were chasing something you couldn't understand or begin to grasp.

he'd listened to all of it. didn't flinch, didn't judge, didn't try to fix it right away. just asked questions. "what do you think you're looking for?" and "how do you feel in the moment, right before?" and "what happens after?"

you'd left that first session feeling raw.

the second session, you noticed his hands. the way he held the pen, the way his fingers moved when he gestured while talking. you told yourself it didn't mean anything.

by the fourth session, you were thinking about his voice at night.

by the eighth session, you realized you were dressing differently on thursdays.

and then one night, session eleven, maybe twelve, you were fucking some guy you'd met at a party and you weren't thinking about him at all. you were thinking about dr. cameron. about what his hands would feel like instead. about whether he'd be gentle or rough, whether he'd talk to you the way he does in sessions, that calm steady voice asking you questions while he—

you'd came so hard you scared yourself. that was a rarity. you never came.

after that, it was over. every hookup became a placeholder for him. every confession in therapy became a way to see if he'd react, if you could make him break that professional mask even for a second. you started telling him more explicit details. not because you needed to for therapy, but because you wanted to see what he'd do with the information. if he'd really look at you.

you're pretty sure he does. you've caught him sometimes, when you're in the middle of a story, and there's something in his eyes that doesn't really feel like clinical interest.

or maybe you're delusional and maybe this whole thing is just another fixation.

but today feels different.

last weekend you fucked someone in a bar bathroom and the entire time you were imagining it was dr. cameron. you’d said his name so quietly, barely a whisper, but the guy heard it. asked "who's rafe?" and you'd lied, said it was your ex, but the truth sat in your chest like a bag of heavy rocks.

you can't keep doing this. you can't keep coming here every thursday and confessing everything except the one thing that actually matters.

the door to the inner office opens.

dr. cameron steps out, holding a file. he's wearing a light colored button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and you hate that you notice. the way his forearms flex, and how his long fingers grip the file. he sees you and something flickers across his face. surprise, maybe, but it's gone so fast you might have imagined it.

"hey," he says. "you're early."

"yeah." your voice sounds normal. "is that okay?"

"of course. come on in."

you follow him into the office and the familiar space feels different today, even though its all the same. the couch where you always sit with his chair angled toward it. the desk in the corner with his laptop and stacks of files. the lamp that casts everything in warm light. the door closes behind you, and you hear the lock click into place like he always does, for privacy, but today the sound makes your stomach turn.

"how was your week?" he asks, settling into his chair.

you sit on the couch, your usual spot. nothing feels normal. your skin is too tight.

"it was fine," you say. "i mean, not fine. i don't know."

he waits. he's good at that. letting silence stretch until you fill it.

"i hooked up with someone last weekend," you say, and you watch his face for a reaction, but there's nothing. just that calm, attentive expression. "met him at a bar."

"okay," he says. "tell me about it."

so you do. you tell him about meeting the guy, about how easy it was to fall into that classic pattern—drinks, flirting, the bathroom with its flickering fluorescent light and the smell of cheap soap. you tell him about fucking the guy against the sink, your jeans around your ankles, his hands on your hips, and how the entire time you were somewhere else. you were here. in this office. with dr. cameron's hands on you instead.

he's leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and he's listening the way he always does, but there's something else underneath it. the lamp casts shadows across his face and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers are pressed together.

"and after?" he asks. his voice is steady but there's something underneath it now, something that wasn't there before. "how did you feel after?"

"empty," you say. the word sits between you like a stone. "like always."

"but you did it anyway."

"yeah."

"why?"

you shrug, but the gesture feels wrong, too casual for what you're about to say. "because... because i wanted to feel something? i guess? anything." the words come out uncertain, like you're testing them as you speak.

there's a pause that stretches way too long. it makes you aware of the distant sound of traffic outside muffled by the closed window, the fact that you're alone in this room with him and the door is locked. you can hear your own breathing. his too, if you listen closely enough.

and then you say it.

"i've been thinking about you," your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "since session six. maybe earlier. i don't know."

session six is definitely a lie. you’d been thinking about him since session two. but there’s no way you could admit something like that. telling him at all was more than enough.

his face changes. it's subtle, just a flash of something raw crossing his features before he can stop it. he looks away, down at his hands where they're pressed together between his knees, and for a moment he's just a man sitting in a chair. not a therapist. not someone in control. just a man who's been caught.

when he looks back at you, his jaw is tight, and whatever argument he'd been having with himself is over. you can see it in his eyes.

"session six," he repeats, and his voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. "that's... that's a long time."

"yeah."

he's quiet for another moment. you watch him process it, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. his fingers unclasp and he runs one hand through his hair, messing it up in a way you've never seen before.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

"because i thought it would go away," you reply. the confession feels like peeling off skin. "i thought if i just... maybe if i kept coming here, kept talking about it, it would stop. but it didn't. it got worse."

he nods slowly. you can see the conflict playing out on his face, the way his mouth tightens, the way he looks at you and then away and then back again like he can't help himself.

he stands up. the movement is sudden enough that you flinch, and for a second you think he's going to ask you to leave, going to tell you this was a mistake and that you need to find another therapist. but he doesn't. he walks away from you, toward the window, and stands there with his back to you, one hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way they're drawn up tight. the way they rise and fall with his breathing. the office feels smaller suddenly, the walls much closer.

he's pacing now. not frantically or anything, just a few steps back and forth in front of the window, looking at the floor like he's trying to work something out. his hand falls from his neck and he shoves both hands in his pockets, then pulls them out again. you watch him, and you realize this is it. this is the moment where he decides whether to cross the line or send you away.

he stops so abruptly it almost looks like something catches him. his hand falls away from the back of his neck again and when he turns, he doesn't say anything right away. he just looks at you, and there's something in his eyes you've never seen before. something hungry and raw and completely unprofessional.

the way he looks at you... it's not the way a therapist looks at a patient.

"stand up," he says.

you do. your legs feel shaky, unsteady, but you stand anyway. your hands are trembling at your sides.

"come here."

he sits back down in his chair, and the distance between the couch and where he's sitting is barely a few steps, but it feels way longer now. each one gives you another chance to turn around, another chance to pretend none of this happened, to walk out and find a new therapist and never come back. you don't take it.

your shoes are silent on the carpet. you're standing in front of him now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. close enough to see the way his pupils are dilated, the way his chest is rising and falling faster than normal. there's no trace of the careful distance he'd kept for six months. it's gone completely.

"sit," he says, patting his lap.

"dr. cameron—"

"sit."

you do. you lower yourself onto his lap slowly, your back settling against his chest. his thighs are thick and solid and warm beneath you, the muscle firm under the fabric of his pants. you can feel his cock, already hard, pressing against your ass through the denim of your jeans. the knowledge of it sends heat flooding through you. you want to shift, to grind back against him, but you force yourself to stay still because part of you still can't even believe this is happening.

his hands settle on your thighs. warm and heavy, the weight of them grounding you.

"keep talking," he says, his voice low in your ear. you can feel his breath against your neck, warm and slightly uneven. "tell me about the compulsion."

"i—i don't know what you want me to say."

his hands slide higher, fingers tracing the inside of your thighs through your jeans. the touch is light, almost teasing. "tell me what it feels like. when you're with someone. what are you chasing?"

you can barely think. his fingers are moving in slow circles on your inner thighs and it's making it hard to form words. "i don't know... validation, maybe? proof that i'm wanted."

"and do you get it?"

"no. never."

his fingers pop the button on your jeans. the sound is loud in the quiet office, the snap of metal against fabric. you lift your hips slightly so he can pull the zipper down. the rasp of metal teeth separating sounds almost deafening in the silence.

"why not?" he murmurs, sliding his hand inside your jeans, over your underwear. you're already wet, soaked through the fabric, and you know he can feel it. his fingers press against you through the damp cotton and you gasp, your hips jerking forward involuntarily.

"because... because it's never enough," you whisper. "it's never—fuck—"

he presses against your clit through the fabric and your hips jerk forward again. his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek and throat, holding your head back against his shoulder. the grip is firm and feels like a gentle anchor.

"keep talking," he says. "you're doing so good."

"dr. cameron, please—"

"please what?" his thumb catches the edge of your underwear, easing it aside. his fingers find you almost absently, like he's waiting for your answer more than your reaction, but you can hear the wet sound of it when he slides through your folds. "use your words."

you can't answer. your eyes are squeezing shut and it feels like you're hardly breathing. he circles your clit once, twice, and you're already shaking. the jeans are tight around your hips, constricting, and his hand is trapped inside them, the denim pressing his knuckles against you in a way that's almost uncomfortable but also perfect.

his fingers stop circling. they just rest there, warm and still against your clit. the sudden absence of movement makes you whimper, a sound you didn't mean to make.

"the guy from last weekend," he says. not a question. his breath is against your ear, warm and steady. "tell me what he did."

"he—" your voice cracks. you can't think. his fingers are right there but not moving and it's worse than if he'd pulled away completely. the stillness is torture. "i don't—"

"you don't remember?" his fingers slide lower, just barely, teasing your entrance. you can feel the tip of one finger pressing against you, not pushing in, just resting there. "or you don't want to tell me?"

"no, i—he fucked me. in the—" you're breathing too fast. the words won't come out right. your brain can't form complete thoughts with his hand between your legs. "backseat. i was—"

his fingers push inside you. just the tips, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the intrusion. you gasp and lose the sentence completely, your mouth falling open.

"you were what?"

"on top," you manage. "i was on top."

he pushes deeper. not all the way, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the promise of more. his fingers are thick and you can feel every ridge, every knuckle as they slide into you. then he stops again and holds still inside you, buried to the second knuckle.

"did you cum?"

"no."

his fingers don't move and he’s silent for a moment. you can feel your pulse around them, can feel yourself clenching involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper. the stillness is maddening.

"why not?" he asks, and his voice is so calm, so steady, like he's asking about the weather while his fingers are inside you and you're falling apart in his lap.

"because i—" you're shaking. "i never—with them, i can't—"

"can't or don't?"

"both? neither. i don't know." the words come out frustrated, desperate.

his thumb brushes your clit. once. the lightest touch. you jerk against him and he pulls it away immediately, denying you.

"but you want to," he says.

"yes—fuck—yes."

"what do you think about?" his fingers curl inside you slightly, pressing against that spot. not enough pressure. just enough to make you aware of it. "when you're with them. when they're inside you... what's in your head?"

you don't answer. you can't. your breath is coming in short gasps and his hand is still gripping your jaw, holding you in place, and you can feel the heat of him against your back, the solid weight of his chest. the hardness of his cock pressing into you through your jeans, and you wonder if he's as desperate as you are, if this is killing him too.

"answer me," he says, and his fingers push deeper, all the way now, buried inside you to the knuckle. you cry out, the sound echoing in the small office.

"i can't—"

"yes you can." he starts moving them. slow, methodical thrusts that make you see stars. his thumb finds your clit again and circles it once, twice. the dual sensation is overwhelming. "tell me what you think about."

"i—" you're climbing already, way too fast. the pressure building low in your belly, spreading through your thighs. "i think about—"

he stops. completely stops. his fingers buried inside you but motionless, his thumb lifting off your clit.

this broken and desperate sound falls from your mouth, something you'd never even heard before.

"say it," he says.

"you," you gasp. "i... i think about—fuck—i think about you."

"me." his voice is rough now, the professional veneer cracking. "you think about me while some stranger fucks you in a parking lot."

"yes."

"what am i doing?" his fingers move again, just slightly, just enough to remind you they're there. "in your head. what am I doing to you?"

"this," you whisper. "you're—you're doing this."

"yeah?" he pushes deeper, curling his fingers inside you. you can feel every ridge, every knuckle, the stretch of it. his thumb finds your clit and he starts moving in a rhythm that has you climbing fast. too fast. your hips start to move, grinding back against his cock, and you can feel how hard he is, can hear the way his breath catches. his other hand tightens on your jaw, fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

"stay still," he says.

you try. you're shaking so fucking badly, your thighs trembling. you're right there, right on the edge, the pressure building and building and—

he stops. his fingers stay inside you but they don't move. his thumb lifts off your clit.

"no—please—"

"tell me more," he says. his voice is steady but you can hear the strain in it now. "you think about me. what do i do? in your head?"

you're gasping. you can feel tears starting to form, burning in your eyes. "i can't—"

"yes you can." his fingers move slightly, just a tiny curl, pressing against that spot inside you. "tell me what i do to you. in your fantasies."

"you—you touch me like this," you say, your voice breaking. "you make me—you don't stop. you let me cum."

"do i?" his fingers curl inside you again, harder this time, and you cry out. "what else?"

"you fuck me," you whisper. "you fuck me and you—and you tell me i'm good."

"you are doing good," he says, and his thumb presses against your clit again. you're climbing again, faster this time, the pressure building impossibly fast. "you're being so good for me right now."

"dr. ca—"

"tell me why you chase validation," he continues. meanwhile his fingers are moving inside you, pumping in and out, and you can hear the wet sound of it, obscene in the quiet office. you can feel yourself dripping, soaking his hand, soaking through your jeans. "what are you trying to prove?"

"i don't—i can't think—"

"try."

you have actual tears on your face now, hot and wet and streaming. "that i'm worth something. that someone wants me."

"and do you feel that? with the men you fuck?"

"no—never—please—"

you're right there again. your whole body is tense and shaking and his fingers are moving faster and his thumb is circling your clit and you're so close, so fucking close, the pressure building to an unbearable peak and—

he stops again.

you actually sob, the sound wrenching out of you.

"not yet," he says. "we're not done talking."

"please," you beg. "pleaseplease let me cum. i can't—"

"you can." his voice is firm. "breathe."

you try. the jeans are soaked now, the denim dark with wetness. you can smell it, the smell of sex starting to fill the office, mixing with the scent of his cologne and the faint smell of coffee from earlier.

"why do you think you fixate on people who can't give you what you need?" he asks.

"i don't know."

"yes you do."

"because—because it's safe," you gasp. "because if they can't give it to me then i can't be disappointed."

"and me?" his thumb brushes your clit, so light it's almost nothing. "am i safe?"

"no."

"why not?"

"because you could actually—fuck—you could actually hurt me."

"how?"

you're crying. "because i actually want you. not just—not just the sex. you."

his fingers start moving again. slow, and you're climbing again, faster now. you grind back against his cock and he doesn't stop you this time. you can feel him hard and thick against your ass, can hear the way his breathing has changed, rougher now.

"say it again," he says.

"i want you."

"louder."

"i want you," you say, your voice breaking. "i want you so fucking bad. please- please let me cum. i'm so close. please."

he's building you up again. his thumb on your clit, his fingers inside you, and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. his other hand is still on your jaw, holding you in place. you can feel his breath against your ear, the slight hitch in it, and you realize he's as affected as you are.

"that's it—" he whispers quietly. "take what you need."

you're right there. right fucking there. the pressure is unbearable and—

his fingers go still.

but this time he doesn't pull away. just... stops. his fingers stay buried inside you, his thumb resting against your clit. completely motionless. completely silent.

the silence is worse. you're right there, right on the edge, and he's not moving and he's not saying anything. you can feel your pulse in your clit, can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body begging for more. the stillness is psychological torture. you need it so bad you could honestly cum right then and there without him touching you anymore. your pussy is clenching around nothing, beggining for it. but god, what a waste that would be.

so you wait. five seconds. ten. fifteen. your breath coming in short gasps.

finally, he speaks.

"why do you think you're here?" he asks, and his voice is quiet. "really here. not the answer you gave me in session one. the real answer."

"i don't—"

"yes you do." his fingers curl slightly inside you, just enough to make you gasp, but then he goes still again. "why are you here?"

"because..." you whisper. "because i don't know how to want something without destroying it. because i'm afraid if i let myself actually have something real, i'll ruin it."

"and me?" his thumb presses against your clit, just barely. "what am i?"

"real," you say. you're crying again. "you're real. and i'm terrified."

"good," he says, and his fingers start moving again. slow at first, then faster, harder, and his thumb is circling your clit and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. "you should be terrified. because i'm not going to let you run from this. i'm not going to let you turn me into another fantasy you can chase and never catch. this is real."

"yes—fuck—yes—"

"knowing you go home and touch yourself and imagine it's me?" his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot, and he doesn't stop this time. his thumb is relentless, circling and pressing and you're climbing higher and higher. "knowing you're so desperate for it you'll fuck anyone just to feel something?"

"oh my... god, please—"

"you don't need them," he says. his fingers are relentless now, pumping in and out of you, the wet sounds loud and sloppy and obscene. "you need someone who knows what you need. someone who's been listening. someone who's been paying attention for six fucking months."

"i—i'm—i'm gonna—"

"then do it," he says. "cum on my fingers. right here in my office. show me what you look like when you finally get what you need."

and you do. you cum so hard you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. it hits you like a wave, starting deep in your core and radiating outward. your body convulses in his lap, every muscle tensing and releasing. your hips grinding back against his cock, and his fingers don't stop moving, drawing it out, prolonging it. the orgasm tears through you in waves, each one crashing over you harder than the last. you can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, rhythmic pulses that seem to go on forever. the wetness gushing out of you, soaking his hand, soaking your jeans, probably soaking through to his pants.

you're aware of everything and nothing—the way your thighs are shaking uncontrollably, the way your breath is coming in broken gasps, the way you can hear yourself making sounds you've never made before, desperate and raw. his fingers keep moving, keep curling, keep hitting that spot inside you, and just when you think it's over another wave hits and you're crying out again, your back arching, your head thrown back against his shoulder. it goes on and on, longer than ever before, until you're begging him to stop, until it's too much, until you can't take anymore.

when you finally come down, you're crying. actual tears streaming down your face, your breath coming in gasps. he pulls his fingers out slowly and you whimper at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. your jeans are soaked, the denim dark and wet, clinging to your thighs.

"shh," he says, wrapping his arms around you. "you're okay. you did so good."

you're trembling. you can still feel his cock hard against your ass and you want to turn around, want to touch him, want to make him feel what you just felt, but you can't move. your body won't cooperate.

"that's what you needed," he says quietly. "someone who knows you. someone who listens."

you nod, still trying to catch your breath.

"next session," he says, and his voice is back to that calm, professional tone, like he didn't just make you come apart in his lap, "we're going to talk about why you keep choosing people who can't give you what you need. i think we made some progress today on identifying the root of the compulsion."

you almost laugh. the absurdity of it.

"okay," you whisper.

"good," he says. "now go clean yourself up. there's a bathroom down the hall."

you stand on shaky legs. your jeans are dark with wetness and you have to button them with trembling fingers. when you look back at him, he's watching you, his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. the sight of it sends another jolt of heat through you.

"same time next week?" he asks.

"yeah," you say. "same time."

you walk out of his office on legs that barely work. in the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. your face is flushed, your eyes red and glassy, your lips swollen. there's a mark on your neck from where his hand gripped your jaw, dark and obvious. you reach up to touch it. the skin is tender, slightly raised. you stare at it for a long moment, and then you notice something else in the mirror's reflection: your therapy appointment card, sticking out of your back pocket. the next date is already written on it in his handwriting. thursday. same time. you pull it out and look at it.

he wrote it before today's session.

you tuck the card back into your pocket. look at yourself in the mirror one more time. the mark on your neck. your flushed face.

You pause for a moment beneath him, with your hand lingering on his side whilst he remains inside you, his chest heaving with shallow breaths from all the spent exertion.

“Oh…” you start, your voice already sweeter than honey. “It’s alright, we can stop. I know you’ve had a long day.”

The sincerity of your words tugs at Beau’s heart, plucking at each heartstring one-by-one. He shakes his head, still concealed in your neck, exhaling dutifully despite his aching muscles and the guilt eating at his conscience. “No, sweetheart. I mean, I’m gettin’ too old for this… for you. My back is killin’ me and my knee’s been playin’ up again lately. And some days, I can barely get it up. You know that.”

He pauses for a beat, and then mutters, “I just… can’t keep up anymore.”

The air is thick as Beau waits with his face still hidden. He’s silent, expecting a laugh or one of your usual smart little quips as if his words were a joke, but instead, your arms tighten their grip around his torso, squeezing his bare chest down against yours like you’re trying to fuse your bodies together. The pressure around his ribcage hits him like a blanket of comfort over his unsteady nerves.

“You’ve been feeling like this for a while, haven’t you?” you murmur against his head. “I know you’ve been off, Beau.”

Your tone makes him want to melt; you’re such a sweet little thing, even when you don’t need to be. Relief slowly floods his veins, but his jaw tenses, deliberating his next words.

After a moment, he sighs. “Yeah, long enough, sweetheart.”

“Well, we can work around it, right? I mean, I can–”

“No, babydoll, it’s not just–” he sputters into your neck, and then lets out a defeated groan. “I don’t wanna make you do all the work, or make you wait on me when I’m not… working properly. You shouldn’t be worrying about things like that. It’s killin’ me that you’re waitin’ on an old man like me.”

A scoff leaves your mouth, thick with disbelief and a smidge of amusement. Your hands remain rubbing along his tanned freckled back, soothing him. “An old man like you?”

“Yeah, like me,” he mutters, finally lifting his head from your neck. His eyes meet yours, and they’re rounded with a newfound sadness you’ve never seen before. “An old fart who can’t keep up with a young thing like you. I’m not in my twenties anymore, and it shows, darlin’. I just feel like… I can’t give you what you need.”

In the dim light of the bedroom, your eyes flicker between his, and a sigh exhales from your lungs under his weight. His solemn words fill the silent space between you both.

After a moment, you finally speak. “Beau, you trust me, right?”

He blinks in confusion, but nods. “Of course. Always.”

“So, you trust my judgement then?”

His eyes narrow, still confused, still unsure. His gaze flicks down to your lips, lingering for a moment before returning to your eyes. He exhales, “What’re you gettin’ at?”

“I’m asking if you trust me and my decision to be with you.”

A sigh leaves him. “Sweetheart, it’s not about tha–”

“It is, Beau,” you fire back gently, albeit with an undeniable firmness. “If I wasn’t happy… or satisfied, do you really think I wouldn’t say anything? Do you really think you wouldn’t know?”

His head tilts, his eyes searching your sweet little face below his. God, you’re a sweetheart. He takes in a sharp breath, filling his lungs. “I’m just… worried. What happens in five years? Ten years? What happens when I’m too old for any of this and you look at me with disgust for stealing these years from you? What happens when you hate me?”

Beau watches your face slowly contort, tightening in a combination of confusion and disgust. And it’s that, that exact look he’s been so worried about seeing.

His heart constricts in his chest, and the corners of his lips drop, curling into a frown at the sight of your face.

But before he can even get a word out, you chuckle.

A loud boisterous sound, clearing all the residual glumness hanging in the air from Beau’s words.

Your snickering dies down after a few seconds, but the grin stays strung across your lips. “Beau Arlen, I could never hate you. Not in a million years. Not even for a million dollars.”

“You don’t mean that. You can’t predict how you’re going to feel in five years. Things can change so quickly.”

You hum, still smiling, though it’s softer now as you keep your gaze up at him. “I mean it, Beau. You make me happy. The happiest I’ve ever been. We’ll work around… your age… when it comes to it. We’ve got toys. We’ve got pillows, chairs… everything. I knew what I was signing up for, old man. I’m not as clueless as I look.”

Beau’s eyes flitter between yours once again, taking in the warmth emanating from your gaze. He’s silent for several seconds, but you see the cogs turning in his brain.

Slowly, a tender smile finally curls on his lips, and he lets out a breath filled with resignation—the good kind. “I’m seriously the luckiest man in the world.” He leans down, meeting your lips with his own, kissing gently like you’d shatter if he were to touch you the wrong way. “My smart beautiful girl. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You giggle against his lips, and Beau swallows down the noise greedily. “I think you’d be pretty bored, old man,” you murmur in return. “Bored and probably unfucked.”

“Oi,” he spits out, lifting his head with a grin. “That’s not nice.”

You can’t help the smirk from growing on your face. “Can we just… keep going?” you ask, nodding down at where you’re still connected, where you can still feel him throbbing inside you.

Beau huffs, smiling. “Yeah, honey, we can.”

a/n: anon i hope you enjoyed. i love angsty age gaps so much. and i love beau too. also lol that entire conversation being had while he’s still inside you. lowkey forgot abt that while writing can you tell?

support writers by sharing the love & reblogging ♡

You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”

“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.

Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.

“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”

Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”

You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.

God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.

Handsome. Not rugged.

Competent. Doubtful.

Caring. Well, caring enough.

“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.

“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?” 

The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —

“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.

He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”

His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat. 

Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”

“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?

“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost. 

“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.

“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.

Jack huffs. “Just go.”

You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.

Well.

Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.

As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.

“Penlight. Incoming.”

You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.

You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.

The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.

Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him.

Fuck it. Too late for that. 

“So…” the man begins.

“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.

“Nick seems like a good guy.”

“Noah.”

“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”

You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.

“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”

“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”

A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.

“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.

“Yes, you just sai —”

“Only care about yours.”

That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.

Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.

You quickly regain your senses to retort.

“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.

The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”

You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.

Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”

"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."

"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.

"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.

"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."

He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”

“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after. 

“She prefers lattes, by the way.”

2

Bzzzzzzz 

“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”

Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.

Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today. 

“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.

“Yolanda, you listen to music?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”

Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second. 

“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”

Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.

“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.

“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”

Huh, Strange. 

***

The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —

Bzzzzzzzzz.

You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”

The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.

You hate loud. So much.

You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.

Look at you being fiscally responsible. 

“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you. 

Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.

“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys. 

“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.

“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks. 

In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.

You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.

Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”

“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”

Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”

“Only women?”

“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”

“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush. 

In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face. 

You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."

“Oh, I tried.” 

You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”

“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —

“Did he forget his Roblox password?”

You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.

“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.

Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”

You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.

You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.

You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.

You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.

Does he want you to hold…?

“Your phone, nurse.”

Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.

“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”

His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.

“You're not a teenager.”

“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.

Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.

Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.

“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.

He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”

With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.

Kid. 

You need a chair. 

3

“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.

“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.

Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.

You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.

“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.

Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”

“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.

Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.

“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”

You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.

“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“How much is a while?”

This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.

“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.

“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.

It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.

You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left. 

“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.

“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.

You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear. 

Is nobody watching this?

You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.

His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.

“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair. 

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.

You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.

***

You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.

“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.

“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”

“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.

Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.

“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”

“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”

“Thanks, sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”

“Hm?”

“Where he took you. Nick.”

“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.

“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”

“What?”

He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.

“I'm an anything person, really.”

Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.

“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.

Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.

“I know.”

He says your name.

Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.

Please say my name again.

“I know, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.

You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.

By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.

“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”

Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.

You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though. 

Desperation.

You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.

+1

“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.

You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.

The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”

“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.

Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.

Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.” 

For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.

No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.

You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier. 

Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.

Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?

As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.

Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”

The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.

9 missed calls from Noah.

“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.

“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”

“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.

“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”

You take a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”

That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears. 

When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.

You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”

“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.

You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.

This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.

You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”

The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.

Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.

“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.

“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”

“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”

“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.

“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.

“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.

In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.

“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”

He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.

“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.

“I know that. Do you?”

“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.

“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.

Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.

Nurse, there's people that are dying.

“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.

“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”

Sweetheart.

“You're killing me.” 

“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders. 

A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”

You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.

The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.

“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.

Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.

“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.

Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.

“I asked you something, kid.” 

You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes. 

And, oh.

His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.

He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.

“You can continue yelling at me now.”

In and out. Deep breath.

“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.

“As I said —”

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.

A pause.

“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Jac —”

“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”

His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.

“Me? What about me?”

He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”

You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip. 

He thinks that?

Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.

“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.

He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.

“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.

“What? You're my senior, you're older —”

He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.

“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."

You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.

You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.

You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.

“Why haven't you sent it?”

“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”

Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.

“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”

With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.

His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”

Deep breath. In and out.

You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow. 

Send. 

You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You did that. You.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.

He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.

But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”

“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.

“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.

“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”

You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.

Fuck.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.

Just as you try to move your lips against his —

“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle. 

“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.

His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt. 

“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.

“That's a lot.”

“What can I say? I like paying for things.”

His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.

Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later. 

“One hand, wow.” 

“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”

He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.

He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.

You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.

“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.

“Yes, doctor.”

He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his. 

“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.

“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.

“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.

“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.

“Yes, doctor”

“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.

Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.

You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.

You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R. 

You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.

“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”

Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.

Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose. 

“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”

“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”

Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”

Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.

You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.

You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.

“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”

“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him. 

He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)

“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.

“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.

Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.

“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.

You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”

The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.

Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up. 

“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.

“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time—  Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”

“I wasn’t—”

A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.

The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)

“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.

You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip. 

“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”

You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.

“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”

Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments. 

You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Oh, my god—”

“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.

“—That’s what this is about?”

“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”

His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted. 

“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.

“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”

Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out. 

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.

Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours. 

“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”

“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff. 

Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.

“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”

You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.

Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers. 

In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.

“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”

“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”

“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.

You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song. 

Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.

“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”

You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”

“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”

“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.

Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.

Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”

“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”

His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”

“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”

Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter. 

You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”

“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.

Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.

You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”

The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.

“Jack,” you echo softly.

The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out. 

“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.

The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”

“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”

“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”

Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”

“Eh. Maybe a little.”

You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.

“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”

“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”

Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?” 

“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”

“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”

“Still counts.”

“Does it?” you squint.

Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”

“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”

You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more. 

“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”

Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”

Your eyes harden in an instant.

Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.

“It’s casual,” you tell him.

Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage. 

“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”

Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne. 

For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.

Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.

Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.

You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before. 

There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.

Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.

Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.

Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.

You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.

You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.

Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”

“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head. 

“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”

You exhale a soft laugh. 

Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’  today?”

“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”

“Brutal,” he scoffs.

“You’re fault.”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”

“No,” you answer instantly.

“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”

Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”

“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”

Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”

Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.

“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”

“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.

“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.

You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.

Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.

“Am I?” you hum.

“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”

“You usually only do that at my place.”

Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”

His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can. 

Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.

“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”

“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”

“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”

You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day. 

The realization hit him like a truck.

His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.

“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”

Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.

“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.

You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”

“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”

An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”

Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.

“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”

“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.

“Because being with him made me feel good—”

“I said alright!” 

“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”

Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.

Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”

“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is what I wanted—”

The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again. 

Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.

“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.

She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence. 

“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”

The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you. 

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.

“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”

Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.

You couldn’t hide from him if you tried.

You felt like an idiot for letting your father make you feel this way. For giving him so much leverage over your outlook on life. The people around you thought you loved wholeheartedly because you’d learned it from someone else, but the reality was far more complicated than that.

You loved the way you did not because of someone you knew, but someone you wanted to. Someone who loved like the word had no limits, like the way you did.

Your father was incapable of such treatment. When you left Boston for Pittsburgh years prior, he barely bat an eye. Just wished you well and asked you come back for the holidays, but never complained when you didn’t. Never cared that you didn’t. The man hardly cared about you, period.

And so he calls sometimes. Tries to be a father. Tells you he’s thinking of you, but it always feels like you’re a check on a to-do list. An afterthought. Like talking to you is an obligation, a thing he does because he has to, not because he wants to.

He’d called you in the breakroom the minute you got the door closed. You’d forgotten about the juice you were about to indulge in before answering the phone, wondering what he wanted. The man had promptly asked for help with the bills, and you being the angel you were, unable to ignore someone in need, no matter how salty, sent it without complaints. He hadn’t even told you he loved you when he hung up. Just told you this is what your responsibility was as a daughter now. He’d taken care of you, nurtured you after your mother had left. So you should be thanking him.

Man, you thought. Your old man had a twisted sense of family.

That call had you questioning your own validity. What had you done to deserve the loneliness you’d accumulated? To have a father who used you like an ATM? Friends who knew you but didn’t see you? It felt like the world was on your shoulders, too heavy for one person to carry, especially for someone so young. 

The last place you wanted to be carrying all these feelings was the PTMC. But life didn’t stop just because you were having a go at it. So neither could you.

You all but sprinted to Trauma 2, not ready to get back to work, but at least able. Eleven in the morning was early for a fall out of a treehouse, and you’d hate to be the little girl who’d taken the damage, so you made quick work of your feet, willing them ahead until you arrived.

At the bedside were Doctors Santos and Garcia, as well as Langdon, Javadi, and your attending, Doctor Robby. Behind Santos and Garcia were the parents of the children who were in inconsolable tears, being comforted to no avail by Doctor Javadi.

“Still no consciousness,” said Santos with her lip between her teeth, her hands working quickly at the bleeding gash across the little girl’s forehead.

“How high’s this fucking treehouse?” said Garcia, ever the blunt one. You shook your head.

“Garcia,” you chided, because that was often your role. Keeping the flow of empathy in a room at any given time alive. Especially when that room contained people in dire need of it.

“Am I happy to see you,” said Robby. He excused himself from the bedside while the other doctors worked, handing you a chart. “Talk to the family before you jump on. Girl’s named Hailey, mom and dad are Janet and Carl Atkins. You know the drill, yeah?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Robby,” you said with a nod. You tapped your fingers against the cardboard of the chart as you read its contents, like that’d somehow snap you back into doctor mode.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

“You’re an angel,” Robby said.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins,” you said when you approached the parents, introducing yourself. “Why don’t we take a step outside?”

“We’re not leaving our daughter,” said Mrs. Atkins, who was still in tears.

“I understand your pain, Mrs. Atkins, but these doctors are doing everything to care for your little girl. Soon, that’ll mean lots of blood and sights you won’t want to remember of her. I promise you can come back in as soon as they’re finished.”

Mrs. Atkins, Janet, looked at her husband with teary eyes. He nodded and turned to you. You took that as your cue to lead them out of the room. Robby nodded as you made your exit with the parents.

“What happened this morning?” you asked gently, keeping any accusation out of your voice. You knew from experience that families of patients never responded well to that.

“H- Hailey wanted to play outside. It was beautiful out. We went into our backyard after breakfast, a- and Carl and I were having a bit of coffee after helping her into her treehouse. She’s a smart girl, so I thought—“ Janet stopped her sentence short to heave a sob. Carl rubbed her back.

“You thought you could trust her, like all parents do,” you finished. “She’s six. Still small, but she’s learning about the world in her own way, and you want to let her. There isn’t anything wrong with that. Then, what?”

“We didn’t even see her get out. Usually she stays inside and calls for one of us when she’s ready to come down. But this time, I guess she thought she could do it on her own,” Carl said. “She’d just hit the ground when we ran over. And we called 911.”

“I see. It’s to my understanding that Hailey’s very lucky,” you said after taking a good look at the chart. “No noticeable fractures, minimal chance of long-term brain damage. The worst she should walk away with is a concussion and a sprained ankle, but apart from that and her visible wounds, she should be back to health in no time,” you said.

“Then why is she not waking up?” said Janet.

“Her age and nature of the impact are likely to blame for her unconsciousness. Falling hard on your back is generally more dangerous, especially for teenagers and children. That doesn’t mean her injuries are severe,” you said calmly. “Hailey’s your only child?”

Janet nodded. “She’s the best little girl in the world. She was everything we prayed for.”

“Your love for her is palpable. You’re first time parents who are navigating the ups and downs of what it takes to raise a child. Mistakes don’t negate your progress. There’s no benefit in being hard on yourselves,” you said. “This wasn’t your fault. Children are naturally curious and occasionally unpredictable. That doesn’t mean you’re to blame for what happened today. The most you can do now is be there for Hailey. That’s all you can do.”

Janet sniffled, moved by your words. That was just the effect you had on people. 

Most people, anyway. 

It was your job at the PTMC to provide comfort to families in time of need, as well as finding balance in being a good doctor all the same. But it occurred to you more often than not that you had yet to acquire that same balance in your personal life. 

As per usual, that wasn’t the matter at hand right now.

The other woman took your hand in hers and squeezed. You squeezed back.

“Thank you. You’re a great doctor,” she said.

You smiled. “No, thank you. Now, why don’t you two take a seat over here? I’ll come back out with any updates on Hailey.”

After the parents sat on a bench outside Trauma 2, you braced yourself and went back in. Robby eyed you as you returned.

“Worked your magic out there, kiddo?”

You gave that same fabricated smile you’d offered Dina not too long prior and nodded, grabbing a pair of sterile gloves. “Sure did.”

He didn’t have to know that was just more of your magic.

After half an hour or so, Garcia finally threw her hands up, exhaling a sigh of relief. “My services are no longer required.”

You’d been helping keep the Hailey stabilized beside Robby, while Santos had been next to Garcia. Javadi and Langdon had since left to handle another case. You checked the monitor to view the girl’s heart rate and blood pressure and nodded your agreement.

“All set. Thanks for your help,” you saod.

“Sure thing. Call if you need the jazz hands again,” Garcia said before heading off.

“Good work, you two. Couple hours and she should be waking up,” said Robby.

“Great. I’ll give the parents the good news,” you said.

You discarded your gloves and put some hand sanitizer on before turning to face the parents who were still seated outside Trauma 2. They both stood up with urgency, looking frantic at your return.

“How is she?” said Janet.

You smiled. “Little Hailey’s going to pull through. She’s still unconscious, but we’ve completely stabilized her and she should incur no lasting brain damage from this incident. She’ll wake in a few hours.”

Janet threw her arms around you, and you responded with a little “Oh!” before reciprocating the hug.

“Thank you so much,” Janet said.

“Can we see her?” said Carl.

“Of course. Right this way.”

You led the way back into the room, where Robby was still standing opposite Santos. The latter backed away to allow the parents room to see their child.

“Thank you, Dr. Robby,” said Carl.

“You’re very welcome,” said Robby.

The two of them sat at their daughter’s bedside. Carl instantly grabbed Hailey’s hand, squeezing gently.

“We’re so sorry, honey,” Janet whispered in a quiet sob.

“Daddy loves you so much, Hailey,” Carl sniffled beside his wife. “We’ll never let anything like this happen again. I promise.”

I promise.

At the little declaration, you felt your throat tighten with a weird feeling. It felt like plain sadness at first, salt on the wound after your interaction with your own father. But it was more than that. Deeper.

It felt like fucking jealousy.

Tears filled your eyes and threatened to spill at the scene as Carl whispered all the ways he loved his daughter. The promises to take care of her. The dedication to doing better. All things you wish your father could do for you.

It was too much.

“Um, if you’ll excuse me,” you said with your fake smile, though you weren’t sure how convincing it was now that it was paired with teary eyes and a broken voice. You practically sprinted out of there and didn’t stop until you reached the breakroom.

You slammed the door closed behind you and went for the sink. Everybody was busy with their own cases—it was just one of those kinds of shifts—so there was no one around to see you break down for a second time that shift. While it didn’t necessarily feel good to be alone, you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to see you like this.

Splashing water on your face was futile for your nerves. The sobs you heaved that came from the innermost parts of you were so much more than tears. It felt like all the things your father had said to you since he created you, the words or lack thereof that you’d tried and now failed to suppress, were bubbling to the goddamn surface.

You were in the middle of pressing your thumb to your palm, a trick for anxiety you’d heard from Dr. Collins, when the sound of the break room door opening snapped you out of your thoughts. You took a large breath and didn’t immediately turn around, because you couldn’t give yourself away, couldn’t be vulnerable. Not on a day like this. Maybe not fucking ever.

You thought so, anyway, until the sound of Robby softly saying your name made your resolve crack in two.

“Y- Yeah?” you said without facing him.

“You alright? You kind of ran out of there,” he said. You could hear him coming closer.

“Oh, yeah, j- just needed a glass of water. Dehydrated,” you lied.

“Hydration is important,” he humored you. Yet his tone of voice gave way to the fact that you were a terrible liar. “But I’m not convinced that’s what this is.”

Fuck.

Tears spilled from your eyes. You still didn’t turn around, but when you felt your throat constricting again, your breath picking up speed, you realized it didn’t matter if Robby could see you or not. Your body language was going to betray you.

“I just need a m- minute,” you said, and that did him in. Your body started to shake with a familiar force, one nobody knew you dealt with on a daily basis.

A panic attack.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” Robby said as your legs started to fail you. He didn’t say anything about the mascara that was probably coming down your cheeks, or the blatant redness in your eyes when you finally turned around. Instead, he sat you down in one of the chairs in the breakroom, rubbing your back. “Head between your legs.”

You did as told. This tactic did sometimes work for you. But it wasn’t enough to stop your heaving sobs or uncontrollable breathing.

“Come on, s’okay, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” Robby said. “It’s not forever. S’all temporary, s’all temporary. Come on, kiddo, breathe with me.”

Robby’s words felt like honey. But even the sweetest of candies can’t overpower the taste of salt.

It wasn’t Robby’s fault. Robby didn’t know. He didn’t know much about your life beyond the city you’d come from or who you are now. No one did. 

But that was just the thing. Even without truly, truly knowing you, Robby still wanted to help. That was more than your own father could ever say.

“It’s going to be okay,” Robby said finally. “Breathe with me.”

Every word had your nervous system slowly regulating again, and you tried to listen to the sound of his voice. After a few minutes of crying and shaky breaths, the world started to come back into focus.

“That’s a girl, just breathe. Breathe with me,” Robby hummed. “Let me get you some water.”

You felt the aftermath of your panic attack starting to hit the moment Robby returned with a glass of water. You drank it down in one quick gulp as your breath finally slowed back to normal pace.

“I’m. . .sorry you had to see that, I—“

“Don’t apologize. It happens to the best of us,” Robby said. You’d never seen the older man look so concerned. His eyebrows were wrinkled with worry, and there was a frown pasted on his lips.

After a beat, Robby spoke up again. “Did you. . .wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged, looking away. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry.”

You shook your head and let out a bitter laugh. You’d tell anyone else the same thing, but you felt stupid for feeling the way you did about a man you’d known for a long time would never change. The stupid thing was holding out hope that he would.

“My dad called me. Just before I hopped on that case,” you said shakily. “He didn’t even ask how I was or what I was doing. He. . .he needed money f- for his bills. So I just sent it without thinking twice. He didn’t even tell me he loved me or anything before he hung up. Just told me this was my responsibility now. So that little girl. . .her father caring so much,” you sniffled. “Just felt like salt to the wound.”

You looked away from Robby completely now, turning your head to the side. “It’s dumb, right? I’m in my mid twenties and I’m still getting hurt by the man when he’s always been this way. Anyone else would have given up by now, but not me.”

“Now, that’s not entirely true,” Robby said sharply. “You need your father today as much as you did when you were born. Your age doesn’t have anything to do with it, kid. And if he can’t show up like he’s supposed to, that’s on him.”

Robby tilted your face to meet his and caught your eyes. “He has no idea what he’s missing.”

You sniffled at the sweet reassurance, leaning your cheek into his palm.

“You’re sure you’re fit to stay?” Robby asked, stroking your cheek.

You almost thought you’d misheard him. There was a loudly spoken rule about all hands on deck at this hospital. Confusedly, you returned,  “It’s been crazy in here today. Don’t you guys need me?”

Robby shrugged. “We have the staff, for once. If you’re not 100%, we’ll be okay if you need to leave. Seems like you need to relax, and this place is definitely not helping with that.”

You giggled at that. “Yeah, probably not,” you agreed. Your smile then faded. “But it’s alright. I took the bus here and with midday traffic, who knows how long I’ll be waiting, anyway,” you sniffled.

“That’s true. And you can stay if you want,” Robby said as he stood up. “Or I can bring you home.”

You looked up at him confusedly. “Bring me home? But, Robby, you—“

“—Jack wanted to come in early,” Robby said. “S’no problem.”

The offer made your heart ache. “You’re sure?”

Robby gave you a small smile. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

That’s what wound you in the passenger seat of Robby’s truck the second Jack walked into the ER. He opened the door for you and buckled you in before getting into the driver’s side, putting the keys into the ignition.

“I’m sorry I’m making you do this,” you said with a small voice, leaning your head against the window. Even after his reassurance, you still felt guilty for pulling him away from work. “You have a job to do.”

“You’re not making me do anything. And Jack’s a good doctor. He’s got it under control,” Robby said. “How far are you?”

“I’m a little far. It’s about a half hour commute,” you replied. “You really don’t have to bring me, Robby.”

“How about we go to my place instead? It’s closer. You’ll want to decompress sooner rather than later, I imagine.”

You nod. “Okay,” you replied. Robby did the same and began to drive.

Your hands were still restless from the aftermath of your attacks. You leaned your head back against the leather seat, closing your eyes while shaky breaths left your lips. Robby didn’t say anything until he heard you hiccup another sob. He’d stopped at a red light and turned to look at you.

“Sweetheart? You okay?”

You cringed at the whimper that left your lips. “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Robby said. He reached over and looped his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand to reassure you. “Don’t think about him. It’s not doing you any good. Put the window down, kiddo. That’ll help.”

You did as told, putting the window down ever so slightly. You used Robby’s hand like a lifeline while he drove, and not once did he let go.

Leaving the Pitt made you realize instantly how drastically it was affecting you. You had your anxiety under control most days, but it was easy for anybody to snap in a place like that. Now that you were here, you didn’t feel so frenzied. How Robby could run the show on a daily basis like he did, you had no idea.

The drive was mostly silent, save for the wind from your window and the low hum of the radio. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, not with Robby’s hand in your lap and intertwined with your own, grounding you throughout the trip.

He pulled up to a family home about fifteen minutes later. It was a beautiful place with flowers out front and two stories. Robby opened your door for you as you got out, and smiled when you immediately slotted your hand through his again.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you inside,” Robby said.

You followed behind him and watched him unlock the door, letting you inside before following. You took the place in, shockingly neat for your sarcastic attending, while he slipped his shoes off at the door.

“You can shower upstairs if you want. I can give you some clothes to change into,” Robby said. “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think I’m ready to eat yet. But thank you, Robby. A shower would be nice,” you said.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come on, you can have your pick of my closet.”

You followed Robby upstairs, taking in the various picture frames that lined the walls of the staircase. Most were with Jack or your other coworkers in group pictures. You were even in some of these.

Robby opened the door to his large room, his bed messy with strewn pillows and scattered books on the nightstand. There were some clothes on the floor and Robby grimaced as he retrieved them.

“Sorry about the mess. Don’t ever have company,” Robby said. “You can look through my dresser.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said as you approached it. You went through his drawers and picked out an old band tee and baggy sweatpants. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll get you a towel.”

After Robby did so, you took the shower you’d been in desperate need of, hoping the cold water would cleanse your nerves. They still felt incredibly frayed even after leaving work, and part of you was still in panic mode. 

Most of it was just plain sadness.

When you came out of the bathroom, Robby was sitting on the edge of the bed, which was now neatly made. He perked up when he saw you, standing up and pulling the covers back. “You didn’t like the sweatpants?”

You shook your head. The tee was long enough to cover the bareness underneath it, and your body temperature wasn’t regulated enough for pants yet. “No. I’m hot,” you said, folding the pants neatly back into the dresser.

“I see,” Robby said. “Feeling better?”

You shrugged, approaching the bed and settling in. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said meekly.

“I don’t. But I want to,” Robby said. He tucked you in and turned the TV in the room on, handing you the remote. “I’ve got a few streaming platforms. Watch whatever you’d like. Let me know when you’re ready to eat.”

With that, Robby turned to leave the room, evidently wanting to give you your space, but before he could, you sat back up in bed. “Robby?”

Robby turned to look at you with a foot out of the door. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“Stay? Please, don’t. . .don’t go.”

Robby looked slightly startled by the request, but his expression shifted back into a smile just as quickly. He closed the door and joined you in bed, laying down over the covers. “Whatever you need.”

You turned the TV on and pretended to be interested in the channels, but even entertainment couldn’t do its part in distracting you. You flipped a random movie on before turning to Robby, laying on your side.

Robby rubbed your forehead, then stroked your hair with such care that you thought you might cry all over again. Maybe you would. “Comfortable, kiddo?” he asked.

You nuzzled into his touch, scooting closer. “Mhm. Thank you, Robby.”

“You’re welcome,” Robby said. “You let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

That simple comment worked you right up again, tears brimming in your eyes. All this sweetness from your somewhat gruff attending, the one who’d tucked you in after taking you home and giving you his clothes, no less, had you wondering how hard it really was for your father to do the same.

“Oh, honey,” Robby said as you broke down all over again. “Come here, baby.”

You followed the instruction of Robby patting his lap, sitting up and settling into it. You buried your face into his neck while he held you, cradling you like you were a baby. The gesture made you sob harder as he soothed you, rubbing your back tenderly while he shushed away your tears.

“Your father doesn’t deserve you. You’re too sweet to feel so neglected by him,” Robby said.

“Wh- What’s wrong with me? I just want him to care and somehow I feel like an asshole, because all I do is beg for the man to love me.”

“That doesn’t make you an asshole. It’s normal to want your father. Even more normal when he’s mostly absent.”

“I just want to be enough.”

“You are enough. More than enough,” Robby reassured you.

You pulled back to look at Robby, tears swimming in your eyes. “You’d. . .you’d take care of me, right?” you said without thinking. “If I was your daughter? You wouldn’t let me go?”

Robby smoothed his thumb over your cheek. “No, baby. I wouldn't ever let you go.”

You moved impossibly closer to Robby at the reassurance, now sitting up with your thighs on either side of his legs. He had a hand on your waist, the other coming up to cradle your cheek as he watched you stare.

“What is it, kiddo?” he said softly.

“I. . .I want. . .” you whimpered, bottom lip between your teeth. You of all people knew how unprofessional this position alone was, with your attending, no less, but you were craving more. Comfort. Touch. Love. All things Robby was willing to give you. All things your father never had.

Before you could overthink it, and before your brain could even process what you were doing, for that matter, you leaned slightly forward in Robby’s lap so that your lips ghosted over his. You pressed your hands to his chest in a silent plea, hitting him with those sweet eyes he’d known and admired since you joined PTMC.

But it was different now.

“Please?” you whispered.

“Sweetheart,” Robby huffed. He held his hand on the small of your back and left it there, making no effort to pull you closer or push you away. “We shouldn’t. Hell, I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t even be holding you like this.”

“I know, Robby, but. . .please, I won’t say anything. No one will ever know, I just. . .” you trailed off. 

Too late to back out now.

“Make me forget. Forget him, forget everything,” you said. Your fingers dug into his shirt, another wordless beg for more. “Please.”

Robby stared at you for a few long seconds, the silence louder than the sobs you’d heaved earlier in the breakroom. Your head was spinning from said tears, and it occurred to you that you should go home, lay in bed, pretend this never happened—

Until Robby cupped your cheek with a gentleness you’d hardly known he possessed, and pulled you in for a kiss.

The kiss was electric despite its initial slowness. He was soft with you like he was afraid to break you, as if you needed to be handled with fragility. Except when aggression is all you know, it’s natural to exert—which is why you push your tongue past his lips and wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Robby understands instantly and settles a hand on your hip, the other finding its way to your neck. He holds but doesn’t squeeze, again, like you’re too soft to be handled in such a fashion, and works his lips against yours ravenously. You can already feel the hardness of his cock below you and it has you embarrassingly soaked.

“That what you needed, baby?” Robby said with a small smile, cupping your face as he said it. You shook your head, to which he replied, “Oh, no? Then, what?”

You let your hand drift downwards before you could think twice about it, rubbing the aching bulge in his pants with shaking fingers.

“Fuck, honey,” Robby groaned. “Big girl words.”

“I. . .I want your cock, Robby,” you whined.

“That right?”

“M- Mhm, please,” you managed through a few more rubs. Then, the cherry on top to completely seal the deal—

“Please, Daddy.”

He’d said to use your words, right?

“Shit,” was all Robby said. His pupils were completely blown at the name, but the disgust you half expected to see when you looked at him wasn’t there. No, when you looked at him, he held a different expression entirely.

And it looked a lot like lust.

“Y’want me to be your daddy, huh? Guess you really meant you wanted to forget,” Robby hummed like it was a normal Tuesday, and you hadn’t just asked your attending of all the people to play the part. Luckily, for you, Robby was happy to oblige—evidently so, as he yanked you closer by the waist, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth.

“S’okay, sweetheart. I can be his replacement.”

With that, Robby flipped you onto your back and pinned you underneath him with his body, using a hand to prop himself up. You continued to rub at the bulge in his scrubs, only now, you’d begun to tug them down, already ready for more.

Robby followed your lead and released his hardened cock from his jeans, the tip aching and bright. You tried not to think too hard about how the hell that’d fit inside you as you started to stroke him carefully.

“Let me take care of you, Daddy,” you said. “After everything you did today.”

“You’re such a sweet girl, honey,” Robby said through a grunt. “But I’m afraid that’s your Daddy’s job, now, isn’t it?”

The sentiment made your cheeks flare, and you simply nodded.

“Good girl,” Robby cooed. He slowly tucked his dick back into his pants. Confusion filled your face until he started to lift your shirt—his shirt—up so that your skin was exposed to him. He smirked at the sight of you without panties on.

“Someone was ready,” he teased. He tucked his dick back into his pants and pressed featherlight pecks to your belly, then started his descent down your body, starting with your inner thighs. He kissed and sucked at the skin there which had you squirming instantaneously, watching your every move to gauge how you were feeling.

“This okay?” he asked. You nodded.

Robby did the same and continued his ministrations. When he finally locked eyes with your pussy, a little sigh left his lips at the sight of your wetness. “Fuck, honey. You’re soaked.”

“Couldn’t h- help it, Robby. Need you.”

“Ah-ah, that’s not my name,” Robby chided with a sharp bite to your inner thigh. “You wanna try again?”

“I need you, Daddy,” you corrected.

“Much better, sweetheart,” Robby said. With that, he finally licked his first stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you. He started slowly to watch your reactions, tonguing your puffy clit in steady circles while his fingers joined the ministrations, entering your aching hole.

Robby alternated between licking your clit and diving between your folds, but whether that was more for you or him was unclear. He was completely drunk on your pussy, and paired with the sound of your pleasured noises, he was eating you up like a man starved.

“Fuck, babygirl, your pussy’s perfect. You’re perfect,” Robby grunted, driving his fingers inside you. You arched back with a particularly loud moan, the new nickname making you dizzy.

“F- Feels so g- good, Daddy,” you moaned. Robby smirked.

“Yeah? S’your Daddy making you feel good, kiddo?” he grunted between your folds, though it felt like he was talking more to your pussy then to you. “You deserve it, honey. My girl deserves to feel so good.”

He lifted your legs above his shoulders so he could dive deeper into your cunt, and you gasped at the change in position, his face almost completely blocked by your own body.

“D- Daddy, can you even breathe like that?” you asked worriedly.

Robby chuckled against your cunt, the sound vibrating between your legs. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Just focus on feeling good.”

With that, he started to eat you out again, only this time, it felt completely different. This time, with his hands wrapped around your thighs and your knees hooked over his shoulders, there was no limit to what Robby could do to you. His tongue entered your hole this time while his big nose rubbed against your clit, and you were convinced you were seeing stars.

“Fuck, D- Daddy, m’gonna—!” you moaned loudly, bucking your hips into the heat of his mouth. You were grinding against his face shamelessly now. Thankfully for you, Robby didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go, Daddy’s got you,” Robby cooed before flicking his tongue against your clit, and not letting up until you were practically exploding against his face, coming with a loud cry.

Robby eased you through your orgasm with small licks against your sensitive clit. When the feeling became overstimulating, he switched gears and pressed kisses to your inner thighs, peppering them in a gentle path up your abdomen soon afterwards. He continued until he was hovering you again, and you took the opportunity to press your lips against his.

You tasted yourself on his mouth and felt your wetness from his beard, both facts working you up even so soon after your last orgasm. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he immediately caught on.

“Needy little girl. So eager to cum again, huh?” Robby said, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You nodded, to which Robby chided, “None of that, babygirl. You tell Daddy what you want.”

“Want you inside me, Daddy. Want your cock,” you managed through shaky breaths, bucking your hips against his for emphasis. “Please.”

“You sound so sweet when you use your words, honey,” Robby cooed. For the second time, he freed himself, only this time he was visibly more hard. The tip of his cock was an angry red and dribbling bouts of pre-cum, and, fuck, did he look so much fuller than before. You gasped as he ran his head between your folds.

“You’re sure you want this, sweetheart? Absolutely positive?”

“Yes, Daddy, m’sure. I want you so bad. Please.”

Robby didn’t need another word before he was thrusting inside you completely, filling you to the brim.

You’d thought he was big before, but this stretch was completely different. There was a visible bulge where your bodies were conjoined which became more prominent with every little thrust into your pussy. Robby watched, utterly transfixed, at the sight of his large cock causing such an imprint on your skin.

“Y’okay?” Robby grunted. He had one hand on your belly and the other next to your head.

“M- Mhm. You’re so big,” you huffed.

Robby chuckled. “Hope that’s a good thing, sweetheart.”

“I- It is, I—oh!” you were cut off by the feeling of Robby’s hips snapping against yours, trying to find his pace. His stamina isn’t exactly what it used to be, but he’ll be damned if he leaves this room without making you feel good.

“Too much, kiddo?”

“N- No, not at all.”

“Good,” Robby said. He kept a steady albeit rough pace, reaching the deepest parts of you. It wasn’t your first time having sex, but it was with a man who was set on really taking care of you and not chasing his own pleasure. The thought made it feel all the more better.

You pulled Robby in for a kiss he answered gladly. As your tongues pushed against each other, his hips rocked even harder, driving his thick cock into your spongy walls. He was starting to hit the part of you that made you see stars, and you weren’t doing a good job of hiding it.

“That’s it, babygirl. That feel good?” Robby grunted against your lips.

“M- Mhm, y- you’re s- so good, Robby. Feel so good,” you said.

Robby chuckled and decided to let the use of his name slide, deciding you were probably too fucked-out to even remember your own right now. “You feel good, too, sweetheart. You’re so pretty like this,” he praised.

It was only a few minutes before Robby’s steady pace was replaced with a stronger one, as much faster as it was rougher. At the blown look of your pupils, he figured as much that this was what you wanted, what you needed, and he was right.

His cock was driving so far into you that it felt like he was in your throat. Every push had your back arching off the bed, unable to make any noise beyond a few broken whimpers and moans.

“That’s it, sweet girl. I got you, I got you,” Robby said gently, a stark contrast to the way his dick was bullying into your pussy.

“You—fuck—you promise, Daddy?” 

“I promise, honey. M’never letting you go, alright? Never,” Robby assured. Despite the pace, his words had your heart lurching, and you almost got emotional all over again.

“Robby,” you gasped. “I’m g- getting there again. Close.”

“S’okay, kiddo. Your Daddy wants you to feel good,” he groaned. He wasn’t so much looking for his pleasure as he was trying to give you yours. “What do you need?”

Easy. 

“Just don’t stop,” you said.

And Robby didn’t. He pressed kisses down your neck and sucked hickeys into your skin while he fucked you hard and fast, setting an absolutely lethal pace. The same pressure from earlier when you’d cum in his mouth was starting to return, and you were seconds away from your second orgasm.

“Cum with me, Daddy, please, please, I wanna feel you,” you begged, framing his cheeks with your hands. Robby had his on either side of your head while he smirked down at you.

“Yeah, you want my cum, baby? Want me filling your pretty pussy with my load?”

You nodded quickly, pulling him in for another kiss. “Yes, please. S’all I want.”

“That’s what you’ll get,” Robby said.

He didn’t stop until you were right on the edge, and when you were, he kissed you through it, rocking his hips into your pelvis and driving his dick hard into your cunt while your second orgasm crashed over you. You clenched hard around his cock as he spilled into you, securing your legs even tighter around his waist so that every drop stayed inside.

Robby got the message and gave a few last thrusts that stirred his cum deep inside you. When he pulled out, small ropes of white dribbled out of your hole and stained the bed, while the rest of it remained nestled within you.

“Who knew my little girl could be so dirty?” Robby teased, kissing your cheek.

You giggled. “It takes two, you know.”

“Fair enough,” Robby chuckled. “I’m going to get a towel, honey. Get you cleaned up.”

As he made his move to leave, however, you tugged his arm. Robby was at the edge of the bed. “Robby, w- wait.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Did you. . .mean it? When you said you’d. . .never let me go?” you asked. “That you’d be his replacement?”

Robby smiled at you and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, nodding. “Yeah, sweetheart. I meant every word.”

"the fucking mouth on you." jack roughly manhandled you, positioning you easily over his lap. you squeaked in surprise. you bit back a giggle, imagining the countless of possibilities of what's he going to do to you next. bad idea.

jack clicked his tongue disapprovingly at your attire. "is this what young girls are wearing nowadays? why do you even bother wearing anything at all?" he didn't even need to flip your micro skirt up to see your ass. didn't need to push the gusset of your sheer so-called string of an underwear away to see you already dripping all over the couch. you basically presented yourself to him.

"little fucking thing." jack observed quietly mostly to himself when he started rubbing his thumb along the lacy covered slit. "juicy pussy. . . she's drooling, baby. does that mean she's happy to see me?" he said it in a sickly sweet tone you wanted to smack him because you're so embarrassed. "i should keep you here to myself, hm? wouldn't want anyone knowing my granddaughter is a gross disgusting girl."

god, he's so nasty. "papa, you're being so cruel to me." your whimpers turned into loud groans of pain when jack started to spank your pussy in quick successions. "oh yeah? and whose fault is that? you're being a bad girl right now so i'm treating you how bad girls should be treated. you're going to cum just like this. . . if i'm feeling merciful i might give you my finger up. . . here." probing at your rim. ♡

💭 i don't think this needed to be said but my readers in all of my writings are legal adults with fully developed frontal lobes !

i was inspired by the recent shawnyhats appearance like omg. i'm diving in the snow grandada

you set your brush down and rose from your seat, making your way behind him. you pressed yourself against his back and wrapped your arms around him, your hands barely meeting at his belly. then you rested your cheek against the beef of his arm. 

you looked at him seriously through the mirror. “jack–” you started before he interrupted you, “i’m not complaining, just noticing.” 

he continued, “it’s just. . .not exactly comfortable, especially when we move around a lot. we’re in the emergency department — it’s like a medical survival show.” 

you laughed softly, you agreed. you were ready to admonish him for talking down to himself, you were happy that was not the case. he would be always attractive and sexy in your eyes. 

his growing belly excited you so much you didn’t realise you’d started running your hands languidly up and down, kneading and squeezing the fat.

jack looked down to your hands, raising a curious eyebrow. he felt your chest release heavy breaths, he turned his attention back to the mirror. there was a distant look in your eyes, glazed over. your mouth slightly agape. huh. 

“uhh, hon? should we head out?”

you snapped out of it at the sound of his deep voice. when you came to, you saw him sporting a tiny smirk. you felt your face heat up with embarrassment. 

jack started to connect the dots throughout the night — the way you stared at his stomach when he clasps his hands behind his back during handovers, the gentle pats of praise for his good calls, and, again. . .the containers of food you brought that could be shared between three people, all somehow ending up all for him.

it never occurred to him until now, you’d completely conditioned him into eating more than he usually did. oh well, you wormed your way to his heart through his stomach.

as soon as you locked the door after you got home, jack pulled you into a tight embrace. he’d done it on purpose, holding you against him until you felt his soft belly getting squished between you. you tried really hard to stop the small whimper that escaped you, but he heard it. cat’s out of the bag now. 

“anything you wanna tell me, sweetheart?” 

“umm. . .” you could sense blood rush to your face with humiliation again. how could you possibly confess the dirty stuff you want to do to his belly? you stood there quiet and frozen in place. you wanted to separate yourself from his grasp, run to the bedroom you share with him, and lock yourself in. 

but jack had voiced it out for you. “i saw you eyeing my stomach.” he ran his palms slowly over the exposed skin of your arms, trying to soothe you. “it’s okay. you like it that much?”

“you like that it’s getting bigger? you like seeing the result of your care and how much you love me?” he continued talking, “fuck, baby. . . now that i’m thinking about it, the way you take care of me is making me sooo fucking hard.” 

you gasped at his crudity. he suddenly held one of your wrists and placed your hand on the top of the fat, then he led it downwards to his raging hard on. the sound of your whiny moan made his hips buck up. 

he rested his forehead against yours, you could feel his heavy pants fan on your lips. jesus, he’s really horny. 

“s-show me. fuck—” he didn’t stop thrusting into your hand, he just kept going. “please, baby. please— show me what you wanna do to me.” he sounded absolutely pathetic begging you, and you fucking love it. you could feel yourself soak through your underwear and pants. 

“use me.” 

you instantly dropped to your knees, you bunched his scrub top and undershirt up until his tummy was revealed to you. you peppered it with open-mouthed kisses, licked it, bit it, sucked a hickey on it — all the while keeping your eye on jack completely losing his mind. 

you were never good with talking dirty, instead you showed it through your actions.

you tugged his pants and boxers down, the heaviness of his cock slapping against the plush of his belly. it was, by far, the sexiest sight you’d ever seen. 

you gave him one last kiss on the side of his gut before you enveloped the tip of his cock with your mouth. there was no teasing or patience — you pushed yourself towards the base until you could feel your lips kissing his mound. 

jack never pressured you into taking all of him, he could cum just by licking on his tip alone. but you wanted to make him feel good and hear him praise you for being such a good girl.

most of all, you wanted to feel the fat of his stomach pressing against your forehead. you squeezed the flesh with your hands, so you could get closer to him as much as possible. if you could choose a way to go, this was it — death by suffocation due to his growing belly. maybe next time you could ask him to fuck your mouth like a fleshlight whilst you lie on the bed.

you pulled away before ramming his dick inside your mouth again a couple more times. your top had darkened because it was drenched with your spit. at some point, you involuntarily started to hump the air. you could reach your orgasm just by sucking him off. 

jack had to forcefully pull away, stumbling back, and would’ve fallen on his ass if you hadn’t help stabilise himself. he didn’t want to shoot his load yet, he badly wanted to see what else you’d do to him. 

you two had stripped down to nothing along the way. you were sitting on the meat of jack’s thighs and started bouncing on his cock. you placed your hands on his belly, in awe of the way the movement of your hips caused it to ripple. 

jack held on to your waist, watching you stare at his abdomen. something awakened inside of him, he adjusted the position of his lower limbs, bended his knees, and rested the soles of his feet on the mattress. he started to pound himself into you, meeting you halfway. the ripples turned into stronger waves, making you moan out loud and sinking your nails into the flesh. 

he brought one of his hands to his mouth — biting the back of it as he groaned at the combination of pleasure and pain. his voice was muffled when he grunted, “i’m cumming, baby. shit–! i’m– cumming!”

he was surprised when you pulled yourself out because he’d always cum inside of you. he didn’t have the opportunity to question you as he could not stop his release, making a mess all over his tummy. 

you were almost at your peak as well, you rolled your hips against his belly — your wetness mixed with jack’s seed were used as lubricant to easily rub your clit on him. 

“jesus fucking christ.” jack quietly muttered to himself, the scene was making his flaccid dick harden again. “yeah. . . make it messier, baby. make yourself cum on it.”

your body jolted, convulsing in shockwaves. jack could feel your hole clenching and more of your juices leaking out of you. the real thing was even better than you could ever imagine, you’d been humping your pillow wishing it was jack instead. 

you dismounted from jack’s body to position yourself at his side, you bent forward to start gently lapping on your mixed fluids saturating his skin. you took your time cleaning him up while he watched, adoring. today, you made him feel more loved and cherished. ♡

his head was tilted up, groaning to the ceiling. his readers had gone out of alignment, it now sat on the pointiest tip of his nose. his hair unruly from your fingers roughly running across his scalp, and his face flushed and sweaty — he looked absolutely laughable like this. what would his peers or juniors think if they caught their very serious and very professional attending — helpless before a pretty young thing?

there was a large, creamy stain starting to form on jack’s dress pants, and it’s only getting bigger the longer you keep this up. 

“oh god. fuck– ff-fifty. i’m fifty.” he almost whined at the end of his response. 

“again.” you pressed. the roll of your hips getting faster and more desperate.

“i’m fifty. i’m fifty.” he held you firmly at the soft curve where your hips met your thighs, encouraging your movements. his breathing had become more ragged, his moans and groans getting much louder as he’s nearing his peak. 

you begged once more. “say it again, please. dad, please! i’m gonna cum if you tell me again. please. please! i’m gonna cum–” 

since you asked so nicely, looking so pretty as you did, jack leaned in close to the shell of your ear. the lightest touch of his lips and the gruffness of his voice made you shiver. 

“i’m fifty years old, babydoll. shouldn’t have any business playing around with your dad like this, hm? but you’re a nasty girl. when nasty girls feel achey here–” he pressed the pad of his thumb over your throbbing clit. “–they fuck themselves on their dads’ cock.”

“aahh!” you shrieked at the top of your lungs, the walls of your cunt intensely pulsated around his fat length. 

“shit! i’m gonna cum. i’m not wearing a condom – baby, baby i gotta pull out!” he tried to maneuver himself so he could take himself out before he shot his load in you. 

but you kept yourself buried deep, using your position to your advantage. 

“babydoll–” jack warned you. “get up, young lady.”

“no!” 

he wriggled and squirmed beneath you. he should be able to overpower you but if he got up all of a sudden, he’s afraid he might push you down the floor or hurt you in any way. he just desired for you to gently pull out. 

“you asking to get spanked?!” 

he didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he’s very strict about using practising safe sex. it was already risky enough to let you warm his cock in the first place. he also didn’t want you to feel regret  — if something or someone did come to fruition. he didn’t want to put any pressure on you if you were unprepared to step into that chapter of your lives. 

“don’t care, daddy. jus’ wanna feel you cum inside me. i need it.” if that was not convincing enough for him, you took hold of his face in your hands to look him in the eyes. 

despite the sensitivity of your core, you started to slowly grind on his lap again, mercilessly not giving your lover any other choice. 

that made the dam burst, loads and loads of his spend was released in your sex. his cries were sharp, the loudest you’d ever heard from him. you noticed there were actual tears in his eyes, you carefully wiped them away with the tips of your fingers. 

“daddy? i reallyyy want a sister, but i don’t care that much at all, to be honest. a healthy sibling would be perfect.” ♡