talk you through it
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgical resident!reader summary: your workâs been leaving you exhausted, but youâre struggling to fall asleep, you barely can relax. Javadi recommends you an audio erotica app. and it does help you unwind. until you realize that the orgasmic raspy voice in your headphones belongs to one of your attendings â none other than Jack Abbot.
warnings: implied age gap (that you can ignore); mutual pining, Jack isnât that good at flirting when he catches feelings. he compensates for it with his other talents đ smut {dirty talk, masturbation, praise kink, teasing, fingering (with two hands, idk if thatâs a thing?), piv, aftercare}; Park is an unintentional wingman, Javadi is the bestest of friends / words: 13K / authorâs note: this was suuuper unplanned, I wrote the whole thing in a couple of days. is the smut too detailed? maybe. idc ⥠READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Late in the evening, the cafeteria makes for a perfect place for naps.
With day and night shifts overlapping, everyoneâs busy with the paperwork and greetings, and thatâs when you prefer to slip away. You arenât alone at this uncommon hiding spot â Santos already dozed off at a table further off, earbuds in, hood up. She can sleep anywhere and anytime. But you arenât that lucky.
You spent ten minutes genuinely trying â deep breaths, and meditation, and counting sheep. Now youâre just sulking, helpless against your permanent exhaustion. You catch the footsteps first â quick, quiet, a woman on a mission. The door creaks just a little when it opens.
Closes.
You know the quiet wonât last long.
âI can feel you staring. Youâd suck as a spy,â you say, grudgingly opening one eye to see Javadi leaning on the fridge door.
She shakes her head â half disapproval, half concern. âYou know, each time I see you here, Iâm not sure if youâre asleep or dead.â
âAnd they let you talk to suicidal people like that? Maybe I plan on walking out of the nearest window.â
âYou wonât make it that far,â she chuckles and hands it to you â her peace offering: a frozen Butter Pecan Swirl, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with crushed nuts. Itâs like an orgasm in a cup (a huge one), which you are happy to accept.
Javadi sits right next to you, concern still very present in her deer-like dark eyes. âI think even the patients on a psych hold look better than you do.â
âWow, that comparison really cheered me up. You should be thankful, by the way,â youâre savouring the icy, jarringly sweet drink. âIf I didnât look like death, youâd still be dreaming about getting into surgical residency. My eyebags changed the course of your life. Youâre welcome.â
âI am forever in your debt. Iâll pay it off with coffee,â she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out â black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.
And you think â suddenly and stupidly, because thatâs how your brainâs now wired â of that one time Jack brought you the same drink. Sat with you on this same spot. Looked at you with his eyes crinkled at the corners, his usual smirk turned into a softer smile. You donât even remember what he talked about, but the feeling stayed: of just how calm his presence made you. How comforting it was.
For a good minute, your coffee loses taste.
You blink. Take another sip. Look up â and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like youâre losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesnât disappear.
âLong time no see,â Jack says, very much real. Casual. He goes to look for something in the fridge, a crumb of time for you to get yourself together. Then he looks back at you. âTough shift?â
Tough week. Or month. Actually, lifeâs been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.
âBearable,â you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping heâd take a hint. And yet, despite him being good at many things, Jack is perpetually bad at leaving you alone.
You left him first. You thought heâd hate you.
Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:
âDidnât you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.â
His compliment feels like a glass of water, and youâve been parched with thirst.
âYeah,â you meet his gaze, because youâve missed him terribly. Heâs looking at you like he hoped you would. And you canât help the smile. âI guess it was.â
He doesnât stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest â unreasonably, sinfully buff arms â and stares straight at you:
âRemind me whereâd you learned that clamping trick?â
Heâs being smug now, and you have missed this too. Slowly, the room is narrowing to the small space he takes. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. âI might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.â
He holds your gaze. Pins you to the spot with his. And just as always, he makes you feel like no one in the world exists except you two â
But you arenât really alone.
You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, itâs Javadi wishing she could blend in with the wall. And when you snap back to reality, Jack follows.
He clears his throat, taking a step back. âTeach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to orâor if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.â
âIâll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,â you tell him, in the politest tone that you can master. Already grieving that small moment you knew could never last.
Javadi can barely wait for him to leave â before her face breaks into a smile. âAw, he has a crush on you.â
âWhich you have told me a dozen times, and Iâll continue to reply that no, he doesnât,â although your own face treacherously heats up.
âHe flirted with you just now.â
âHe flirts with everyone. Heâs like an energy vampire, thatâs why he doesnât look his age.â
Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. âTo be fair, his flirting isnât that impressive.â
âI think half of the ER would disagree,â Javadi eagerly retorts. If thereâs one thing these two donât ever get tired of, itâs bickering.
âOh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,â Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. âWith you, heâs awkward. Which, donât get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point â heâs totally into you.â
âDid you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.â
Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.
âHeâs also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,â she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.
Your mood hasnât been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didnât kick in.
âCan you develop a high tolerance to coffee? I feel like I should be way more awake. This cup is literally the size of a newborn.â
âBabe, you know thereâs barely any coffee in it,â Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. âYou just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.â
âBut what if coffee isnât working anymore... Whatâs the next best option? Cocaine?â
âYou canât afford cocaine.â
âIâll sell a kidney.â
âCanât do that either, you need them both.â
âI didnât say I would sell mine.â
The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. âI know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes itâs okay to actually talk about whatâs bothering you.â
âIâm very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,â you quip. And your regret is instant. âSorry, I genuinely donât remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.â
âHas Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesnât think so.â
âNo, itâs not that I donât have free time, I justâ I canât fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow â nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck itâs called.â
And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.
âI might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.â
âVic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If thereâs any way to help me fall asleep faster, Iâll try it.â
âOkay, thereâs this app... With a collection of audios. Recorded by men and women, you can pick. They sort of play out different imaginary scenarios, like meeting you for the first time and getting to know each other. And maybe, like, kissing or ââ
âJust to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?â youâre trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.
âItâs not porn!â she hisses, adorably ashamed. âI mean, not always. They arenât all explicit. The ones Iâve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I donât know, I kinda thought youâd be into it.â
âMasturbation? I feel like I should be offended.â
âNo, the whole... Talking thing.â
With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.
âI mean, isnât that why you liked working with Abbot? He was explaining everything to you, always talked you through the procedures and stuff. And now you are super annoyed because Park barely speaks. Just glares at people.â
âI assure you, Iâm not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.â
Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. âSo what youâre saying is that... Abbot turned you on?â
âYou know what, now I actually want to kill myself.â
âNo, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,â she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. âYou will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.â
âThose gummies donât do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.â
She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. âWell, thereâs always another option,â Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. âI need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. Iâm serious.â
âWill do, mom.â
She flips you off on her way out.
Whatever little caffeineâs been in your drink, it helps you look less dead and more like a person who can be trusted with a scalpel. The OR floor is quiet and cool, and from afar, Park can be mistaken for a statue: a tall body made of sharp lines and muscles, staying completely still as he looks through a patientâs file.
He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.
âGot enough coffee to keep you standing? Donât want to scrape you off the floor.â
You give him a dry chuckle. âWhen have you ever scraped me off the floor?â
One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. âFair,â he says, his gaze back to the tablet. âIâd like for it to stay that way.â
âSo whoâs the last one for today? Anything exciting?â
âMale, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. Itâs all in his file. Iâll see you in ten.â
Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.
âThey say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you itâs also such a mood killer,â you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.
Park makes a sound thatâs more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: âIâll let you do the CRPP.â
âThanks, Iâm smiling on the inside.â
He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes youâre thankful that he doesnât: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.
Unlike the previous one.
You may never admit it out loud, but youâve come to enjoy working with Park. Heâs harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isnât that he doesnât talk much. You donât mind doing your own research, and youâre actually okay with him being closed off.
The real problem is Jack Abbot. Who has been driving you insane.
At first, there were no signs of trouble.
You picked the night shift for your rotation because youâve always been more of a night owl, and you enjoyed the challenge that comes with the variety of traumas. You two clicked from day one â Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didnât get offended by someone elseâs talent. He smiled at you and made small talk and always offered answers to your questions. He also smiled and talked to literally everybody else, so you didnât think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldnât allow your feelings to interrupt your job.
Even when said feelings turned into a crush. That felt like an addiction.
It started with you waiting. Wanting. More of his words, his gaze, his flattering attention. Jack always knew exactly how to land a compliment â his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. Heâd stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. Heâd push you when he knew that you could handle it. Heâd tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. âYes, thatâs the move.â âLook at you taking risks, kid.â âGoodâ â
â âgirlâ, you wanted Jack to add.
So good for him, you wanted him to think.
You wanted him. God knows, you wanted him so badly.
It didnât help that Shen soon started calling you âJackâs favoriteâ. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasnât denied it once. Ellis discreetly (so she thought) tried leaving you alone with him more often. And even Crus once told you that you were the only resident Jack paid so much attention to.
It couldâve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.
Even after youâve caught his gaze lingering, his hands reaching for you, his warmth grazing your shoulder or your spine. On more than one occasion. And still, it led nowhere. There were no accidental touches, no flirting outside of the ER, he didnât even try to get your number.
Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. Whatâs worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldnât do.
So you looked for a way out thatâd let you save your dignity and your career. Switching to surgery helped you with both. Despite the fact that you had to restart your year. Despite seeing the very obviously hurt expression on Jackâs face when you informed him. He didnât try to stop you, though. You didnât tell him why exactly you were leaving. Instead, you dived right into work: from dealing with small fractures and arthritis to sports injuries, torn muscles, spinal disorders and crushed bones. It was in no way easy, but it felt empowering â knowing that you could fix something so strong and weighty, the living tissues made of minerals and collagen, the bony structure that allows people to move.
And on the rare occasions your paths crossed, Abbot kept being friendly. But you kept your distance.
Even if deep down, you still missed him.
His gaze, his guidance. Most of all, his voice.
It takes you two more days to finally give up and ask Javadi about the app.
Hey, so that app thatâs totally not audio porn... Can you please give me the name. And then forget I asked.
Actually, forgetting might not be enough. Next time you come over, Iâll need you to swear on the Bible.
Thereâs no way you have a Bible at home.
Well, another option is a blood oath.
Iâm this đ€ close to admitting you into our psych ward.
Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. Thereâs no shame in it!
Please, get fucked (literally đ).
You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.
The layout is pretty simple â pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You donât waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They arenât at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddyâs Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration â and youâre about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:
A Helping Hand.
âOkay, a little on the nose,â you mumble to yourself.
It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but heâs got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: âI guess, this is my new hobby.â
Youâre positive that it wonât work on you.
You take a shower, put on your pajamas and your noise-cancelling headphones. You sit in bed, your back against the pillows. With zero expectations (except maybe to find it all ridiculous and cringe).
You press play.
At first, thereâs just silence.
And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:
âHi, baby. You look so tired,â he murmurs. âYouâve had a hard day, I can tell.â
You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you â how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this strangerâs voice made heat flash in your stomach.
You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.
âAll that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I canât have you going to sleep so tense.â
Yeah, you donât want that either.
His every quiet word strikes home: your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, your mind is clouded with it. You let out a breath you didnât realize that you were holding. And you donât think that him saying all that is a hell of a coincidence. Instead, it actually feels nice: for someone else to talk about your struggles. For it to sound like understanding.
âDonât worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.â
So you slide lower in your bed, the pillows now behind your head and shoulders. And when he asks to close your eyes, you do.
You follow every single one of his instructions. His raspy, gently voiced commands: heâs telling you to take deep breaths, to slowly stretch out your arms and legs, to draw small circles over your temples, to put your hands lower and massage your neck. Heâs telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers wouldâve felt much better.
Then heâs instructing you to put hands on your chest, to run them up and down your body to get your blood flowing. You do just that. And soon you feel your skin prickle with warmth.
âNeed you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,â he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. âDonât think about anything. Itâs just you and me, sweetheart.â
Your thoughts are light; thereâs nothing on your mind but him. Your muscles pliantly unravel as he continues speaking. About how warm your skin must feel, how pretty you are looking â laid out for him on your bedcovers. And thereâs another feeling that feeds off his voice: a spark of fire that grows and spreads and makes you ache for more.
You hear him telling you to move your hands down to your stomach. He says he wishes he could touch you there, to slowly drag his fingers down to your navel â
âWish I could feel how wet you are right now.â
Your eyelids flutter open.
You probably shouldâve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you arenât as opposed to it as you thought you would be. Youâre just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties â
you find the fabric in between your legs already soaked.
All that from someone talking to you nicely?
There must be something in his voice.
That same voice whispers:
âTouch yourself.â
Barely a second passes before you do.
This isnât your first time, but somehow, it feels very different. More satisfying. Way more intimate. Pads of your fingers move against your clit, exactly how he tells you:
âwant you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,â
âapply more pressure with your index finger â feels good, yeah? câmon, donât stop,â
ânow move a little lower, feel what a mess youâre making. I know you must be drippingâ.
Heâs right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.
âI bet youâd feel so tight around my fingers,â he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.
If he was here, in your room, youâd shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.
âWant you to put a finger in,â he orders. âImagine that itâs mine.â
You start with one. Just one, and yet, itâs getting difficult to focus on his words. And fleetingly, with your chest heaving, you wonder what his fingers would feel like. As if he reads â or guesses â where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:
âBut mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,â â you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, â âThere you go. Donât rush it, weâve got time. Iâd never rush it with you, honey.â
Despite you trying to move slowly, youâre getting dangerously close to cumming. You want to drag it out, you do, but he is making it too hard. When he is whispering to spread your legs wider. To set a rhythm, to start moving your hips a little. When he is telling you that youâre doing so good.
When he wants you to use your free hand to touch your nipples. When he says, teasingly, how much he wishes he could put his lips on you.
When you can hear him sigh, like all this also turns him on.
âWant you to go faster,â his words come out in low grunts. âYes, keep going, donât stop. Keep fucking yourself. Need to get you loosened up and ready for me. Fuck, your cunt would feel so perfect wrapped around my cock ââ
Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.
Youâre gasping, too loudly to hear what he is saying, your body floating in the waves of bliss. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath.
The audio ends abruptly on his own heavy breathing.
You are left stupefied and sweaty. And satisfied beyond description. Your headphones end up thrown across the bed, but youâre too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.
Before you know it, you are fast asleep.
Whatâs meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you donât really feel ashamed about it.
There is a certain thrill to it â having a secret you donât want to share, the one thing you canât wait to get home to. It does help you to take the edge off, yes: with just his words, he makes your tension melt away, makes all the worries disappear. Leaving you dazed and gasping at the thought of how good heâd fuck you.
But sometimes, as you come down from your high, your thighs wet and hands trembling, and he is soothing you back into consciousness â the strangerâs voice reminds you of Jackâs.
It canât be him, of course.
You wish it was.
You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that heâs been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldnât be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.
So, since youâre able to wake up well-rested, you start to pile on more work.
You take your time to learn about non-invasive treatments: you get to know the PTMCâs physician and psychiatrist, you print out studies about injections and post-operative care, you spend your breaks leafing through the countless pages. You learn fast. You grab at every chance to practice. You ask to scrub in on some of Garciaâs cases, youâre lucky to assist Javadiâs mother a few times. And even though you feel that Parkâs a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.
You donât see Jack. Heâs still on nights, and you are mostly up in the OR, and even when you do come down, you do your best to stay away. You hope that a tight schedule and your daily orgasms will be enough of a distraction. That at some point, your crush will quietly die down.
Itâs no surprise that youâre working on the 4th.
And itâs predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse â and way more gruesome â than the other. You deal with fractured, broken bones, you get to help with torn-off fingers, bashed-in skulls and penetrating wounds. You rush from one OR into the other. You barely get time to take a breath. And once you finally do, you get called down to the ER.
âLook who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?â Robby puts on a smile to greet you.
âGarcia is still operating on Howard, Parkâs dealing with your water slide case. Iâm just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.â
âCanât promise it will be a pretty sight.â
âDidnât count on it.â
He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. âHereâs the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.â
And in the next second, your own chest tightens, anxiety bruising your ribcage like a seatbelt in a crash. Because the aforementioned patient is rolled in by Jack.
He doesnât see you yet. You canât help but notice â the tension roped around his back, the sheen of sweat around his forehead, faint sleepless shadows spilled under his eyes. Reflexively, you step out of the way so he can move down the hall without bumping into you. So you can stay unnoticed.
The injured man is in the middle of a screaming match with some guy whose cheek is slashed in half.
âIâm gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!â
âYou hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!â
âBecause you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!â
âYouâre the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be ââ
âTake yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,â Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isnât working.
And you can tell that Jack is low on patience.
He grips the gurney with both hands and pushes it into the room, his voice coming out low and clipped:
âSir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.â
It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character â too blunt, too rude; although acceptable under the current circumstances. And in the never-ending noise and busyness of the ER no one would ever waste their time on lecturing him. You arenât even sure they heard.
But you freeze. As if a bomb just went off. The world around you is momentarily devoid of all the other sounds.
It isnât the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them â intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his âshutâ and âfuckingâ. You arenât surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.
Youâre struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.
âIf his heart was damaged, he surely wouldnât be yelling,â Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. âBut the stabbingâs definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?â
âCardiac box it is. Iâd bet on a pneumothorax,â you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you arenât looking at the patient.
Jack grabs the scissors to remove the manâs clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasnât managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric â then stops. And then his eyes come back to you, this time with purpose. He meets your gaze, his own confused a little, one of his brows crawling up. Because youâre staring at him, and he has no idea why.
Itâs almost funny to imagine how youâd explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that Iâve been getting off to the sound of your voice.
But at the moment, you arenât laughing.
You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This canât be happening. It cannot actually be him.
âDo an ultrasound to get a confirmation, Iâll go up to prep the OR,â you say to Robby flatly, eager to leave the room, to have a minute to yourself.
You take the stairwell, thoughts rushing as your feet are. And very quickly, your shock gives way to irritation. Surely, Jack is allowed to do whatever in his free time. But now that you suspect itâs him â his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things â you donât think youâll be able to relax. It would also be kinda inappropriate to continue listening to that.
But then you spend another seven hours on your feet. Three surgeries, two breaks (about ten minutes in total), a lot of blood and bones, a few of Parkâs dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe couldâve helped you to unwind. And by the time you cross the hall of your apartment, you find it hard to care about propriety.
You put the headphones on, fully aware that youâre about to hear Jack.
It doesnât ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.
Because itâs not some random guy â itâs Jack who puts you on all fours. Jack who tells you to put your fingers in your mouth. To suck them, to then take them deeper, to gag on them, just like he couldâve made you gag around his cock.
âAss up for me, baby,â he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight â you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. âBet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. Câmon, be a good girl. Show me.â
You never even think about reaching for your toys. You donât need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.
âWant you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,â Jack rasps, âBecause itâs all I think about,â and youâre imagining his chest pressed to your back, the sounds he would make while thrusting deep, deeper, relentless movement of his hips, his lips grazing your neck, âI know youâll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.â
His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.
âIâd make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until youâre sobbing for me to fill you up,â he whispers heatedly. âI will. Just so I can fuck my cum back into you when we go for round two. I know my girl is always greedy for more.â
And he is right, you would be.
âLike you were made for it. For me.â
You cum as hard as always, breathless and shaking. And this time, with his name helplessly gasped against your pillow. A few long seconds after that, in your sweet postorgasmic haze, you get a very clear thought: you still want Jack, now more than ever.
And you two really need to talk.
You press Call before you can come up with yet another argument for why this is a bad idea. She picks up in four seconds, but you donât let her say a word.
âHey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldnât go because of that leg amputation thing, and you told me you ended up in some new bar, with those big plants or whatever, and Abbot was there too?â
âWow, are you already on cocaine?â Javadi laughs.
âNo, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. Youâre coming to the same bar this Friday, right?â
âYep, thatâs the plan. You decided to join us?â
âIâm thinking about it. But Iâm gonna be at least an hour late, cause Iâd have to get home to change and then ââ
âOr you can just come right after work. The place isnât that fancy. You can do casual.â
âI donât want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, itâd be nice to actually feel pretty for once.â
âOh, cut the crap, I know youâd look great in anything!â
âThatâs very kind of you to say, but Iâm not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again ââ
âO-ooh.â
âNo, donât oh at me. You donât even know what Iâm about to ask.â
âIf Abbot shows up, Iâm gonna tell him that you are coming too, so heâll stay and wait for you.â
âOkay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.â
âYouâre both kinda predictable,â Javadi notes with a chuckle. âWhen he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you werenât there.â
âOr he just remembered he left the stove on and didnât want his flat to burn down. Itâs not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.â
âHe didnât need to,â she argues. âHe came in, went straight to the bar where we were hanging out, ordered a beer and managed the small talk for barely a minute before he flat-out asked if you were there. Looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you didnât come. Wished us a good night and took off, didnât even take his beer.â
That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment â until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?
âIâll text you when Iâm done,â you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. âThe spinal fusion should take about three hours.â
âUgh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.â
âIt is pretty cool.â
âAnd I am very glad you think that,â sheâs quick to reassure. âGo fuse some vertebrae, so weâll have something to drink to!â
The surgery takes four hours.
It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Parkâs curt advice and your own strategic guesses â and usually, something like that would leave you drained. Hardly in the mood for socializing. But this evening, you step out of the OR with a wide grin.
âGood call about rotating the metal plates,â Park says, his voice emotionless. Like heâs not sure himself that itâs a compliment.
Still, you take it.
âThank you, I did some reading beforehand,â you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. âShould help with healing, too. But knock on wood, weâll see what his post-op scans show.â
And youâre already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patientâs file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if youâre lucky, youâll be home in 20 â
âAbbot was right about you.â
That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You havenât seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.
You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:
âCare to explain?â
âHe wrote you a recommendation letter. Didnât he tell you?â he casually clarifies. âNot that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,â the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, âAbbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.â
âHold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,â and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. âSo he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?â
âYes. About the letter.â
âAbout me, you mean.â
âThe letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,â he deadpans. âIs this interrogation over?â
âOh, come on, that was only two questions. Donât act like I am waterboarding you,â you huff, hands on your hips.
Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. Youâre half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.
âHe talks about you, you talk about him,â Park muses coolly. âYou guys just need to fuck it out.â
He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.
And under other circumstances, you wouldâve been so glad to hear it. Jack talked about you! Jack seems to care!
Except, he had a perfect chance to actually show you that. But on your final day in the ER, he barely said a word. It stayed stuck in your memory, the last nail in the coffin where your hopes were buried: Jackâs weird avoidance, no jokes, no flirting, none of his usual penchant for eye contact. He spent the whole shift painfully indifferent to your departure. Only once you started saying your goodbyes, he came by to wish you luck. To say that he was sure youâd do great. Two sentences was all he managed.
And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!
Youâd really like to get a fucking explanation.
You donât go home to change. You come straight to the noisy bar, in your plain jeans and baggy shirt. And wrapped up in anger. You scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot Victoria from afar: some tipsy guy is cornering her, wildly gesticulating with his hands. She doesnât really seem scared, mostly annoyed. But you are in no mood for being civil.
You unceremoniously walk up to them and grab the stranger by the shoulder to pull him back.
âHer face clearly suggests sheâs not interested. Get lost.â
âHello to you too,â he whistles, leering at you. âYou wanna be our third, babygirl? Iâm always down for... some new experiences.â
âI can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? Itâs when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you donât leave in 10 seconds.â
âYouâre into human anatomy? Thatâs hot,â the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.
âIâm an orthopedic surgeon. There are 3 long bones in your arm, 27 in your hand. Which one would hurt more when broken, how do you think? Youâve got seven seconds. Six ââ
âGeez, fucking chill, girl,â he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.
Javadi snorts a laugh. âThank you, he was so annoying, I just didnât want to make a scene. Youâd think the "Letâs go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but ââ and then she takes you in â your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. âWhatâs wrong?â
âWhereâs Abbot?â
âIt depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?â
âYou may be a witness.â
âI donât think thatâs any better,â but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that thereâs no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. âOkay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.â
You go for it, barrelling through the crowd like an icebreaker through the frozen water. You notice Trinity, Dennis, Mel, Frank and Jesse nearby. You only have eyes for one man in particular. But at the long table where the drinks are being poured and paid for, there is no sign of Jack. You stop and wait; one minute, two, three pass by. And just as quickly, your determination crumbles.
You wanted him to tell you that he needed you to stay, all these days back, in person. You wanted him to wait for you today. Both times, he didnât.
It makes you feel self-conscious again. Stupid. Even more pathetic.
You turn around, suddenly too overwhelmed by your own feelings.
The music is too loud now, the smell of alcohol mixing with sweat and perfume, and making your head hurt. You faintly hear someone call out your name, but you donât stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isnât meant to be.
The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesnât help to cool you down. Youâre walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you â that you spent so much time delusionally sure that Jack felt something for you. Cared for you. You think about his watchful gaze on you, the tension hung between you two, his hands he kept a little bit too close, his words that guided you through surgeries and orgasms, his goddamn voice â
You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.
âHey,â he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at armâs length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. âIs everything alright? The way you left got me worried.â
âYeah, everythingâs just peachy.â
But Jack ignores your sarcasm â or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. âIs it Park? Did something happen?â
And his concern doesnât sound feigned.
It all comes to your mind at once â the unsaid words, unresolved tension, the longing gazes thrown at each other, the shamefully short distance your bodies never crossed. It roars your emotions to a boil.
âWhy does everyone assumeâ You know what? Park is actually perfect,â you snap at him. âHe barely speaks to me in the OR, he hates small talk, he is allergic to long sentences and, I suspect, to any sign of real human emotion. So I just clock in every shift to spend 15 hours trying to help people with very little to no guidance. And turns out, I still rock! Even when my mentor is as emotionally evolved as a toothpick!â
âOk-kay,â Jack draws, âIâm not sure if thatâs a good or a bad thing?â
âItâs freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,â and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. âBecause you made me feel like I couldnât breathe!â
Your hands donât hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, heâs speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:
âWait, what?â
âYou wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldnât say a word when I was leaving? After the months we worked together, all you could manage was good luck? The hell is wrong with you?!â and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. âYou act all nicely, youâre glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and yourâ your smirking! And whatâs with the intense eye contact? How was I supposed to work with you looking at me like that? You know how hard it was for me to focus?! Itâs not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!â you huff angrily.
Still, he isnât moving.
âSure, it didnât mean anything to you, you donât like me like that. And I love surgery, Iâm glad I transferred, I wouldnât want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out â oh, youâre actually very talkative! And itâs not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because itâs been so damn exhausting â not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice andââ you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, âAnd honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.â
The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness â but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jackâs cheeks. You donât back off â instead, you take your phone out and click the appâs icon to show it to him on the screen. His gaze flicks down to it. Then back to your face.
You stare at each other.
And then you think: he is about to tell you youâre an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasnât really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isnât on any apps nor is he â
Jack breathes out a laugh.
He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling his t-shirt tight. His gaze is locked on yours. Then it falls lower â to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.
âIt got that bad, huh?â a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops â to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. âFâcourse, I can help you out. Shouldâve asked me sooner, sweetheart.â
The sound knocks the anger out of you. The air, too.
You knew he sounded good on audio, when his words reached you through the headphones, when he so charitably helped you reach your high.
But in reality, heâs lethal.
When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that youâre disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.
âMine or yours?â he asks calmly.
âW-what?â
âMy place or yours?â
You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. âMine is about 40 minutes away.â
Emotion flashes across his face â surprise thatâs borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.
âI live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,â Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.
You let him.
You know itâs impolite to gawk, but you canât help it â youâre pretty sure his hallway alone can fit half of your flat. It is a spacious, very minimalistic place: tall walls, a lot of lights and very little furniture. You guess that he hand-picked each piece â from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also donât think he spends too much time in here.
âSo how many roommates do you have?â you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.
âNone,â Jack chuckles. âItâs my apartment.â
âYou live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,â your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. âIâm serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them wonât even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? ââ
He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.
âHow about I do the talking,â his breath scatters against the side of your neck. Both of his hands find your hips, and very slowly, he turns you to face him. His eyes look a shade darker when he says, âIâll walk you to the bedroom.â
And then his mouth is on yours.
There is no build-up and no hesitation â he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like heâs been starving this whole time. Just like you were. Your shuddering breath turns into a moan. His lips move seamlessly, matching his insatiability to yours, in a deliberately slow pace that leaves you dizzy, heated, panting. Your memory is wiped clean of every other man youâve kissed before him.
You can only crave more.
Jack starts walking without breaking the kiss. He gently pushes you forward, his hands maneuvering your body around the furniture and into doorways â youâre blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.
He tsks against your lips. âCareful, you almost ran into a wall.â
âWell, itâs not like I can really see ââ
Jack silences your protests with another kiss, one of his palms laid flat over your spine to steady you. Not once do you take a peek at your surroundings, entirely too focused on the movement of his mouth, and with his every touch, your heart grows louder.
All of a sudden, your legs bump into something â and in a second, your back hits layers of bedcovers, the fabric silky to the touch. You exhale shakily, taking a couple of seconds to collect yourself. The task proved to be impossible under his heavy stare.
The room is dim, drowned in the colors of the sunset that sinks in through the big uncovered windows. He took the jacket off somewhere along the way, and you watch as the coppery light sneaks into his curls, contours the lines of veins and muscles of his arms, his body standing right next to the bed, legs almost touching yours.
You guess that he is stalling in case you want to stop.
âArenât you gonna tell me what to do?â you want your words to sound like a challenge â instead, they come out as a plea.
You donât mind. Thereâs nothing on your mind but him.
Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.
âAsk me nicely,â he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.
And he already knows that he wonât meet resistance â Jack leans over the bed, palms firmly gliding up your thighs until he finds the zipper of your jeans. He takes the slider between two fingers but doesnât pull it down. And youâre glad that you arenât standing, because the way heâs staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.
âPlease, Iâll do anything,â you whisper.
You do not need to ask him twice.
Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans â down to your knees, then fully off. He parts your thighs with his leg, his gaze drawn to your panties, to where the fabric is already dampened with your arousal. You watch him slowly wet his lips, your body shivering in anticipation of his touch. And then heâs climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesnât hover over you â because heâs equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.
His lips trap you in place â while his hands undress you: his fingers are unbuttoning your shirt to take it off, then sliding beneath your cotton tanktop, dragging it up over your ribcage â
then Jack sucks in a breath.
His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:
âNo bra?â
âI donâtâ donât like the feeling of it,â you explain bashfully.
That earns you a pleased smirk. He actually pulls back to take a look, to hastily pull your last piece of clothing off. Then Jack ducks his head.
âAnd howâd you like this?â he asks before catching your nipple into his mouth.
You cry out at the sensation, and Jack uses one hand to pin you to the bed. He pulls more sounds out of you, swirling his tongue around your nipples, biting and sucking at them, his hunger mixed with admiration. Your heartbeatâs pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave â
But unexpectedly, Jack pulls away.
He reaches out to click the lamp on the nightstand. The light is faint, warm, draping your shadows over the silk. Jack lies down on his side, keeping his face close to yours.
âShow me how you do it.â
âYouâ Um. You want me to show you howââ
âTouch yourself for me,â he orders.
Blood rushes to your cheeks. But you comply, too eager for his praise. For all of his recorded promises to finally come true.
Jack watches raptly as your hand moves lower, slowly, just like he taught you the first time â until your fingers dip under the fabric of your underwear. You bite your lower lip, stifling a whimper, feeling the arousal leaking out of you. You spread your legs wider, the thin cotton not leaving much to the imagination as you start toying with your clit.
Jack swallows noisily, his breath uneven. But his voice stays measured. âI want these off. Need to see you, baby.â
You hook your thumbs under your panties and tug them off, a bit too hastily, but Jack makes no attempts to slow you down. Although unvoiced, his own desire is so palpable, it sets your nerves on fire. And when the cool air grazes your wetness, you canât help but moan.
You do not wait for his command â you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jackâs cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.
âSo whatâs the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?â he muses with a grin. âI see, I have some room for improvisation,â and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, âYouâre doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.â
You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jackâs not keeping his hands to himself. He cups your breast, pinching your nipple into a peak, rolling it expertly between his fingers, his lips wrapped tightly around the other one. Your back is arching into his touch, heat pooling in your lower belly, your fingers gliding faster up and down your slit â and then one slips inside.
Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. âWould you look at that,â his voice is low, teasing, âYour pussyâs drooling all over the bed.â And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. âGo ahead, make yourself cum.â
He is still clothed, and the material of his t-shirt rubs constantly against your naked skin as he continues his arousing, agonizing torture. You feel him everywhere â Jackâs warm breath on your neck, your cheek, his mouth placing kisses along your jaw. His hands are steadying your body as your two fingers plunge into your cunt, as youâre so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But somethingâs missing.
âWhatâs wrong? Your fingers arenât enough?â Jack taunts. âDoes my girl want me to help her?â
You nod desperately, rocking your hips into your hand, trying to get some extra friction, trying and failing to reach that sweet high on your own. He easily catches your wrist, forcing you to halt all movement, your moans reduced to needy cries.
âTell me what you want,â Jack whispers, lips to your ear.
âI w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please ââ
But just as youâre about to pull your hand away, he covers it with his.
His wide palm firmly cups your mound, pushing your fingers back into your clenching hole. Jack drags his index and middle fingers through your folds, collecting your creamy arousal. And then he eases his slicked digits into you.
He watches as your lips part in a silent moan, your thighs twitching involuntarily as youâre adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.
âRelax for me. I know you can take all four,â Jack coos, although his voice gets a bit strained as he feels your walls clamp down around him.
Your hand stays limp, so he pulls his thick fingers out â then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you donât try to crawl away from the intrusion. He puts your fingers between his and starts moving them all together, unhurriedly, carefully stretching your wet cunt, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, your juices trickling down on the bedcovers.
Before you even realize youâre doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.
âYes, just like that,â Jack murmurs. âFeels good, doesnât it? About to get even better.â
This time, only his hand is moving while heâs staying still, drinking you up â your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds youâre making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as youâre getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.
Jackâs other hand comes up to turn your face to him:
âEyes on me.â
And as you look at him through lidded eyes, he curls your own fingers inside you, pushing them up against your G-spot. The sudden pressure drags you into a climax, so powerful, youâre blinded for a second, your lungs emptied with a long-drawn exhale as you keep soundlessly mouthing his name.
Jack pulls out his fingers first, then yours. Your hand is drenched and numb, and you barely register as Abbot brings it to his mouth. He licks your fingers clean, one by one, and you are coming to your senses at the sight: his mouth sucking in your digits, your wetness smeared across his lips, his gaze piercing as he keeps eye contact. And just like that, it threads through your veins and bones: your craving for him youâre yet to satisfy.
Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.
Itâs hot, itâs messy, his tongue darting between your lips, your hands tugging at his t-shirt, then sneaking under it to feel him tense under your touch. One of his hands grips your hip, the other moving back between your legs, where youâre still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.
âWanna get a proper taste,â he mumbles, his lips already trailing lower.
But you have something else in mind. You close your legs and clutch his t-shirt, your fingers roughly crumpling the fabric, making him meet your gaze again.
âJack, Iâm very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,â you donât bother hiding your impatience. âAnd please, take your damn clothes off.â
He grins, and this is a command he is willing to follow. Jack brings a hand behind his neck to grab the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes rake over the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms, his freckled skin flushed pink. Before he can think of his next move, you straddle him, leaning to nibble at his neck, your fingers tracing his flexing muscles.
âSomeoneâs very eager,â he notes with a chuckle.
And yet, the gravel in his voice is thinned out by his own keenness. When your gaze drops down, you see his cock straining against the coarse fabric of his jeans.
âMakes two of us,â you note cheekily and palm him through the denim.
His chuckle turns into a low, long groan. Like he is breaking character, like it is not as easy for him to keep his feelings under control.
You hide your smile, taking his jeans off to throw them on the floor, barely half a minute before youâre climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: heâs thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than youâve ever had. Your mouth parts on the inhale; you are dazed just from the look of it. You feel yourself already getting wet again.
Your words are stumbling out, while your brain is still somewhat functioning:
âI have an IUD, Iâm clean. Havenât been with anyone for a while.âÂ
âMe neither. For way longer than you probably,â Abbot admits in a half-whisper, watching you attentively. Getting as drunk on the anticipation as you are.
Your fingers go for the waistband at his hips when you catch faint light glinting off the metal. Your palm briefly lies under his scarred knee.
âThis okay?â
Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.
Jack gets it. âYeah, mâfine. You want me to...?â
Remove it, is what he wants to say.
For just a moment, it comes up to the surface: his lack of confidence, not necessarily in himself but maybe in how he can be perceived, in what he looks like in your eyes. Being so close, so open, naked.
But this has always been exactly what you wanted.
âI couldnât care less,â you whisper and tug down his briefs to free his cock.
Then you look down, and your breath hitches.
He is thick, fully hard, the tip red and already weeping. And instantly, you wonder how he tastes. How warm, how heavy heâd feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:
âWe both know I donât need that.â
You almost want to whine. But you smother your discontent and move your hands up to his shoulders, holding your hips up, hovering just above his girthy length. A sigh spills from your mouth when his cock brushes your slick entrance â
And right then, Jackâs hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you canât move. Canât lower yourself on him.
âNow, where are your manners, sweetheart?â he asks, playfully cruel.
He knows youâre trapped. You know it too. To prove his point, he rubs his tip against your clit, more slickness gushing out of you at the mere contact. You do let out a miserable whine, your thighs are shaking. But he stays unmoving.
And so you beg. Just like you thought you would.
âI want you, please, I want you so fucking much,â your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, âWant you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time youâ you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them orâ fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-pleaseââ
Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.
âMonths, huh? I know the feeling,â he murmurs, with unexpectedly raw honesty.
It lingers. It almost sounds like a confession. But you do not get time to catch the meaning of his words before he starts pushing his cock into your throbbing warmth.
You gasp. Heâs easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jackâs watching you â your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as youâre allowing him to stretch you open. He moves one of his hands to draw light circles on your clit, to help you take him, all of him, until youâve bottomed out.
Your body stills. He feels you clench around him, your pussy gripping him so tightly, he chokes back a groan. Your forehead dips forward, helplessly.
âYou areâ sâbig, so-o ââ
âBreathe for me,â Jack instructs, both palms secured at your hips, sounding a little out of breath himself. He watches as your chest rises and falls, the uneven cadence of inhales and exhales. He mercifully gives you a minute to adjust. âNeed you to start moving, baby. Yeah?â
You scramble for an answer, all your words slurring out into whines, your body barely used to the stretch. But you want to be good for him. And so you lift your hips. Just a few inches. Then sink onto his cock again, trembling at the overwhelming ache of being stuffed so full.
The pause lasts for barely three seconds.
Then your hips start moving up and down on their own, because it feels too good to stop, because the ache is quickly dissipating into pleasure.
âThere she is.â
He lets you find and set the rhythm, at first more grinding and slow, your pussy swallowing him whole each time. As you let the sensation build, as it spreads and turns searing. Euphoric. And your head tips back with a moan.
âLook how well youâre taking me,â Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. âJust like I knew you would.â
His hands grip harder at your hips, and without warning, he starts bouncing you on him. His pace is quicker, harsher, the fat head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your vision blur. Jack leans closer to rasp the words into your ear:
âWho do you think I thought aboutââ his fingers move down to open your legs wider, âWhile making all these audiosââ and he plunges deeper, âFor my favorite girlââ and your moans pitch louder, âAfter her tiresome shifts?â
Youâre too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. Youâre only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.
âIâmâ Iâm close,â you mewl. âMâgonna cum, Ja-ack.â
âThink I should let you?â he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.
âP-please,â you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, âWanna cum, wannaâ want youâ t-to make me cum, please.â
A grunt escapes him, and Jack adjusts his hold, his chest heaving against yours, skin rubbing against skin. His mouth latches onto your throat, each word punctuated with a trust:
âThatâs a good â fucking â girl.â
His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze â and then the world around you spins as he effortlessly flips you on your back.
Your legs fall open for him, and he manages to keep his cock nestled so perfectly in your fluttering hole. He doesnât slow down for a second: Jack shifts his weight on his left leg, angling his hips a little to hit that spot inside you over and over, making your eyes roll back in your head. The room fills with your breathy moans, your cunt squelching around his thick length, your body caged under his weight. In stark contrast, his lips are weightless â against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises â or just the letters of your name, you honestly canât tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.
âYeah, thatâs right. Need your head empty,â Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. âNeed you to only think about how good Iâm fucking you.â
He surely is.
Your whole body tenses.
You are so close.
And then you feel his forehead against yours, a pressure of his fingers on your clit, a command given with the utmost softness:
âLet go, baby. I got you.â
The second orgasm tears through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You cum with a sob falling from your lips, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as your pussy spasms wildly around his cock. He fucks you through it, he does try to last a little longer, but the combination of all this â the way you look, feel, finally his â pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, heâs powerless against it. Jackâs hips jerk as he cums, filling you up, his broken groans pressed into your neck.
The room is still.
You wait for your breath and heart to calm. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he whispers, still a little breathless:
âYou good?â
You nod first. Then open your mouth:
âThat wasââ you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, âLiterally the best sex Iâve ever had.â Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. âDonât let it get to your head.â
âToo late.â
You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.
Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty â you have to stop yourself from reaching for him, from chasing his familiar warmth. You quietly watch him clamber off the bed and pull his briefs up, then close your eyes so he wonât catch you staring. You listen to him walk out of the room, and suddenly, a realization kicks in: his footsteps sound uneven.
Like he is limping.
Jack comes back with a wet towel and gently cleans you up, then helps you put your panties on and brings you a glass of water. And every time you look at him, your gaze catches on how he is obviously leaning on his healthy leg.
You slowly stretch your neck and shoulders, then tap on the spot next to you. âCome here.â
Jack sits down, a little bit unsure where this is going. And very much tense in the exact place you thought he would be. You move your hands to his right knee and feel his hamstrings flex involuntarily.
âYou spend too much time on your feet,â you say, working your fingers over his muscles. âAnd you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like itâs made out of concrete.â
Without even looking, you can tell that now heâs tense all over.
You have seen Jack take the prosthesis off, short moments of reprieve that he allows himself too rarely for your liking, only after particularly long shifts. He isnât shy about his disability, but he doesnât like bringing attention to it, youâve noticed. Like living with it isnât hard, like itâs not that big of a deal. You also know that heâs got no one to take care of him.
You take your time massaging the scarred tissue, mostly applying pressure with your thumbs as they move from the socket up, then back down. And you know that itâs working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.
âI try to take breaks, but you know how it is. Weâre always busy,â Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you canât possibly be angry at.
âShenâs an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Donât act like the ERâs gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,â you turn your head to look at him.
Jack doesnât meet you with defiance â heâs sitting with his shoulders slumped and gaze mellow, way too relaxed to hide it. The sight is so endearing, your heart lurches behind your ribs. You fight the urge to kiss him. Instead, your fingers glide down to the edges of the prosthesisâs socket. You do not push it; you let him decide if he wants to be this vulnerable with you. Jack just gives you a nod. A small, barely noticeable movement. Also an immeasurable sign of trust. You carefully remove the artificial limb, then take the sock off to let his skin breathe. Your touch lingers: you lightly trace the white uneven scars, faded reminders of something horrible he managed to survive.
He lets you.
Silence fills up the space between you two, and you donât know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didnât say that it would happen more than once. This would be the perfect moment for you to thank him and head out.
So you remove your hands â
Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until youâre pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:
âYou really like it in surgery, donât you?â
âI do,â you answer honestly. âWay more than I thought I would. I was afraid itâd be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But itâs not that hard. And I love learning.â
He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. âEven with an attending whoâs as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?â
âI think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Parkâs teaching me how to mend bones, Iâm giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.â
Jackâs smile is tickling your neck as he pulls you back into bed, so effortlessly, like he has done it many times. You readily curl up against him, resting your palm over his chest. He tugs the blanket up to cover you, his fingers gently moving from your shoulder to your collarbone.
But then your eyes meet his, and it is a discovery you never thought youâd make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.
âYou said I made you feel like you couldnât breathe,â Jack recalls.
âI didnât mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,â you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you shouldâve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.
âNo, itâs not that. Itâs justââ his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. âFrom the first day you came to the ER, with your humor and your curiosity and your quick thinking... To me, you were like a breath of fresh air,â he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions heâs been holding back for months. âIâm sorry I didnât tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.â
His heartbeat is hushed under your palm. Steady with certainty. It radiates from him like light, your insecurities melting away under his gaze like snow under the sun.
After a moment, you speak up: your voice is teasing. âFunny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.â
âMy therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,â Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. âBut you were the one who gave me the idea.â
âUm, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasnât mine.â
His chest vibrates with laughter. âYou donât remember it? Your third week in the ER, the nightcrawles on a night out. I walked you out to wait for your cab, and you said â and I quote â that Iâve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.â
You cover your face with your palm, groaning. âOh my god, I canât believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.â
âI didnât,â Jack says and pulls your hand away. âEverything you do and say is very memorable to me,â he presses his lips to your wrist. Then puts your hand back on his chest and holds it there, his thumb brushing yours. And out of nowhere, very nonchalantly, he asks. âSo, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?â
âYeah. Give or take,â you tell him vaguely.
He doesnât buy it. âAnd if weâre being more specific?â
âCloser to an hour,â you admit reluctantly. âBut the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so ââ
âYou can move in here.â
Your words die down in an instant as you stare at him, trying to discern a hint of humor, of pity, of anything to suggest he doesnât mean it.
âYou arenât serious,â you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. âNo, I reallyâ I canât.â
Jack props his head up on one hand. âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs your apartment. Youâre living on your own, and I wouldnât want to bother you orâ or take up too much space.â
âDidnât you say this place can fit a football team? So unless youâre gonna bring another 10 people with you...â
âNo, itâs just me,â you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since youâre out of arguments, the only thing youâre left with is the truth. âI donât want you to regret it later on.â
âI wonât regret it.â
âYou barely know me.â
âI know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.â
âYeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isnât exactly informative, because I can be a total mess in my everyday life. What if you come home to find my clothes lying around everywhere? What if Iâve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?â you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. âAnd then weâll start getting into fights because I was too tired to iron the bedsheets or I accidentally took your favorite t-shirt or ate your favorite ice cream because I got my period and acted bitchy or ââ
Jack tilts your chin up, the small movement making you close your mouth. A smile pulls at his lips, soft just the rest of him â now, in this moment, with you: soft touch of his strong hands, soft grey curls, a little ruffled (totally your fault), soft gaze that is a vortex of green, amber and gold. His voice carries the same softness when he says:
âYou usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when youâre tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,â his smile grows wider. âYou do not throw things around, not when the inside of your locker is strategically organized by shelves. Your only weird food habit is thinking a protein bar can be considered a full meal. I donât iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and Iâll make sure to stock up on ice cream. Iâve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when youâre upset or nervous. Which I can handle,â but there is no pressure behind his reasoning â instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, âI know enough, and Iâd love to learn the rest. If you let me.â
The feeling rolls all over you, familiar and very long-awaited one: of calmness that his presence always brings you. Of just how comforting it is to be with him. Jack makes it sound too easy for you to harbour any doubts.
âOkay,â you manage quietly.
And when your hands cradle his face, he leans in first to close the distance.
You kiss him slowly, like you are trying to spell out your gratitude, your ever-growing fondness, your feelings you are still afraid to name. He holds you close like he can understand exactly what your lips are saying. You want to drag this moment out for longer; but then a yawn bubbles in your throat.
âYouâre not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,â Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. âWhat time do you need to wake up?â
âMânot working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,â you mumble.
âGood,â he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you â and then adds in a tender whisper, âGood girl.â
You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know youâre about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:
no, this definitely isnât a one-time thing.
â§ dividers by @/strangergraphics, @/saradika-graphics, @/omi-resources, @/cafekitsune; â§ I usually donât like diving a fic into shorter âpartsâ, but it felt right in the moment, and I hope it didnât ruin the pacing of the story? ngl I was super horny when I wrote the smut part(s), so maybe I went a liiittle overboard... also, yes, this fic was supposed to be shorter, but then I added a shit ton of softness at the end, I COULDNâT HELP MYSELF! â§ English isnât my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

















