The Postmortem of a Tuesday Night
Vampire!Jack Abbot x F!Reader
Synopsis: You told yourself it was just a Tuesday night. A stranger named Jack, no last name, hands that ran impossibly cold, and a bite that shouldn't have felt that good. A little unforgettable, which was the best kind of thrill (the temporary kind). Then you walked through the doors of PTMC and found him at the end of a fluorescent corridor, badge and scrubs and all that terrible composure, hazel eyes going straight to your neck the moment he saw you. Pittsburgh has a way of growing on people, he'd said. You're only just starting to understand what he meant.
Warning: Explicit/Mature Content (18+) Ahead!
Tags: Vampire AU, One Night Stand, Strangers to...Lovers Coworkers?, Slow Burn, Smut, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Biting, Age Gap, Soft Dom Jack Abbot, Overstimulation, No Use of Y/N, Deceptive Narration
The best way to start a new job is to ensure you've already slept with the boss.
Preferably before you know he's the boss.
Or maybe just...don't sleep with the boss at all.
Noted, you thought, two nights too late, and smiled at nothing in particular as Lena Handzo came around the corner to collect you.
The night shift at PTMC didn't breathe; it hummed, a low-frequency vibration of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic, sterile hiss of oxygen. Lena Handzo moved through it like a woman who had long ago declared war on wasted seconds, and you liked her for it immediately. You’ve always appreciated people who don't bumble, and Lena was as sharp as a fresh scalpel.
She led the orientation tour of one (you) at a blistering clip—supply closets, trauma bays, the geography of the ED laid out in clean, declarative sentences. You kept pace easily, offering a bright smile and a nod to every person you passed. You were the "new girl," the sunniest travel nurse to ever hit Pittsburgh, and you made sure to absorb the layout with the focused energy of someone ready to prove they belonged. First impressions were everything, and yours was going to be flawless.
"—Senior Attending on nights is Dr. Abbot," Lena was saying, her sneakers squeaking rhythmically against the linoleum. "He’s been here longer than most of the equipment. You’ll meet him at—"
He rounded the corner then, and the hallway seemed to tighten.
He had salt-and-pepper curls and a steady, weathered face that looked like it had seen every tragedy a city could throw at it. He walked with a slight hitch—a rhythmic quality you noticed instantly and noted with a nurse's intuition. His hazel eyes swept the corridor on autopilot, weary but alert, until they landed on you.
The world didn't stop, but it certainly slowed down.
As he reached for a tablet at the station, the black ring on his left hand caught the harsh overhead light. It was a sudden, dark glint against the sterile white of the ward. Your mouth went dry.
Jack. Dr. Jack Abbot. The name on the badge was new, but the face? You knew that face. You knew it with a staggering level of detail that had no business existing in the mind of someone who had walked into this building for the first time less than an hour ago. You knew those hazel eyes from a distance of two inches, framed by low light and a heavy, focused silence. You knew the exact weight of his gaze as it traveled down your body, the memory of him looking up at you from—
Oh. The thought landed with a silent, cold thud of horror. Oh, no.
His expression remained a fortress. Not a single muscle in his jaw betrayed him. But something behind his eyes shifted—a brief, dark flicker, quick as a candle blown out in a draft—and then he looked away. He continued down the corridor toward the central hub, his gait unhurried, his presence undisturbed.
You turned back to Lena. The smile remained on your face; it was a masterpiece of professional warmth, fixed and flawless.
That’s him. That's Jack. From the bar. That is also your Senior Attending.
He was also the man whose fingers, not forty-eight hours ago, were buried deep inside your puss—
"—fair but particular," Lena finished, oblivious to the sudden, screaming static of your internal monologue. "So just follow his lead on protocol until you find your footing. He doesn't like surprises."
"Great," you said, your voice steady and bright, perfectly pitched for a dedicated new hire. "Sounds perfect."
You kept your eyes locked on Lena, but your focus was already miles away, drifting back to a version of him that didn’t come with a title or the weight of those dark blue scrubs.
Adverse outcome, the clinical part of your brain supplied, unhelpfully. Intervention: none available.
The sterile, humming pressure of the ward began to blur, the sharp hiss of oxygen fading into the low, rhythmic thrum of a jukebox. Before he was a Senior Attending, before he was a problem, and exactly forty-eight hours before he was your boss...he was just a guy.
And he was sitting across from you at the bar.
The bar was called Gilroy’s, and it was exactly what you needed.
It was a space of exposed brick and a jukebox that sat silent in the corner, boasting a whiskey selection that was modest and entirely honest about its limitations. You had walked past the place twice since moving to Pittsburgh before deciding Tuesday night was the right occasion to step inside. Dani and Penny, your new roommates, were both at work, leaving the apartment feeling cavernous and unfamiliar—a collection of boxes and echoes that hadn’t yet learned to be a home. The cure, you decided, was a gin and tonic in a room where nobody knew your face.
You found a stool at the far end of the bar and spent a contented twenty minutes simply existing.
You let the world wash over you in fragments. A couple argued in hushed, jagged whispers in a booth near the window. A man stood on the sidewalk just outside the glass, his voice cracking as he begged a fiancée on the other end of the phone for a second chance. Near the jukebox, a few patrons were joyfully butchering a melody, their laughter rising above the off-key lyrics. Even the bartender seemed occupied, locked in a private, frustrating struggle with a shaker that refused to seal.
There was a profound lightness in this anonymity. Pittsburgh was a fresh slate, a city of steel and rivers that had no expectations of you yet. You leaned back, sipping your drink, and decided you had a very good feeling about this place.
That was when you noticed him.
He sat three stools down, facing the mirror behind the bar with both hands draped loosely around a glass of bourbon. He wasn't nursing the drink, nor was he rushing it; he simply sat with it companionably, as if the amber liquid were an old friend who required no conversation. He looked to be in his late forties, broad-shouldered in a manner that suggested a life spent in motion. A layer of scruff covered his jaw, something that had moved past deliberate and into the realm of inevitable. Faint freckles dusted his face and neck, softening a profile that belonged in a noir film—weathered, magnetic, and subtly dangerous.
He also smelled, even from three stools away, incredible. He had the scent of cedar-warmth and clean skin.
It was obvious he hadn't come here to talk.
This was, you decided, a challenge you were willing to accept.
You picked up your gin and tonic and moved a single stool closer. You didn't crowd him; you stayed in the realm of the neighborly and the plausible. He didn't look over. You waited, letting the silence settle between you, because waiting had never been a difficult task for you.
The bartender provided the opening, sliding a bowl of mixed nuts toward your end of the bar. You nudged it precisely one stool in his direction, a silent invitation in ceramic.
He looked down at the bowl. Then his gaze traveled upward, finally landing on you.
His voice was a surprise—warmer and rougher than you had anticipated, a low resonance that seemed to settle into the wood of the bar and linger there.
"They're communal." You propped your chin in your hand, your expression a study in pleasant persistence. "You looked like a man who could use a pretzel."
A pause followed, heavy and deliberate. "I don’t."
"You haven't tried one yet."
He studied you with the steadiness of someone who assessed a situation quickly and had long ago learned to mask what he found. Finally, he reached over, claimed a single pretzel, and ate it before setting his glass back down on the coaster.
"Deeply," you said, your smile widening. "I'm a nurse. Feeding people is a reflex."
That earned a reaction. It was a brief, dry exhale through his nose that suggested a hidden well of humor he rarely let people see. He shifted on his stool, turning slightly toward you.
"You're looking at everything," he noted, his gaze tracking yours for a fleeting second.
"I moved here about a month ago," you admitted. "I'm still in that sweet spot where the city feels interesting."
You extended your hand, offering him your name with a bright, easy confidence.
He looked at your hand for a moment. It was that same quiet audit, a brief weighing of risks, before he finally shook it. His grip was solid and cold—the lingering chill of the bourbon glass—and he let go at precisely the right moment.
You laughed, a sound that felt genuine and easy, and you caught a slight shift in his expression. It wasn’t much, but it was there—a quiet recalibration, as if he had expected a different reaction and was now adjusting his internal map of you.
The second round of drinks brought more fragments of him. Doctor. Night shift. He never offered a surname, and you didn't press for one; there was something pleasant about the anonymity of the dim lighting.
"Night shift," you repeated, leaning back. "So this is your day off."
"And you're spending it at a bar alone."
He gave you a look that managed to be dry and pointed at the same time. You felt a small, pleased spark of warmth at the words.
"Sorry to interrupt your solitude," you said, though the apology didn't reach your eyes.
"No," you agreed cheerfully, "I'm really not."
He made that sound again—that dry, phantom laugh—and reached for his glass. You found yourself watching his hands. They were steady, broad-knuckled, and possessed a quiet competence. You appreciated that in a person. It was a rare quality, that lack of wasted motion. You wondered how they’d feel on your jaw, throat, tits—
The conversation drifted with the ease of a tide, the rhythm of two people who refused to be caught trying too hard. You touched on Pittsburgh’s jagged neighborhoods, its brutal hills, and the geometry of a city carved out at the convergence of three rivers. It was a place that demanded a different spatial logic than most, and Jack had been here long enough to have earned his opinions.
You asked questions—some born of genuine curiosity, others crafted specifically to draw him out—and watched him warm incrementally. It was a slow process, a gradual softening of his guarded edges that reminded you of something left to thaw in the afternoon sun.
He was dry, occasionally sharp, with a dark humor that surfaced in brief, brilliant flashes before retreating, as if he rationed his wit for emergencies. Yet, beneath the armor lived something steadier and warmer. It manifested in how he caught your expressions and noted them, or how he stopped mid-sentence to study you with a look you couldn't quite pin down.
"What?" you asked, leaning into the silence.
His eyes dropped to his glass for a fleeting moment. "You're easy to talk to."
"You say that as if it’s a problem."
You tilted your head, the light from the bar catching the movement. "Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little too broody?"
"Has anyone told you that you’re a little too cheerful for eleven on a Tuesday?"
"Constantly," you replied pleasantly. "I’ve never once taken it as a criticism."
He looked at you then—really looked, the gaze lingering a beat longer than the ones before it—and the corner of his mouth shifted. It wasn't quite a smile, but the very architecture of one was starting to form.
"No," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I don’t imagine you would."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy; it was warm, buffered by the low hum of the bar and the third inch of gin settling into your system. You leaned closer, the movement fluid and perhaps a little looser than it had been twenty minutes ago. The air between you had shifted from a clinical audit to something thicker, more tactile. You found yourself studying the line of his jaw, the way the dim light caught the silver in his scruff, and the filters you usually kept under lock and key began to slip.
"You know," you began, a small, lopsided smile tugging at your mouth. "You remind me of someone. An old friend."
He didn't pull away. If anything, he seemed to go very still, like a hunter sensing a change in the wind. "Yeah?"
"Pope," you said, the name drifting out of your mouth before you could catch it. You waved a hand in a vague, dismissive arc. "Same quiet gravity. Same...difficult charm."
A flicker crossed his face—a jagged, sharp flash of recognition that he smothered so quickly you almost missed it. He tilted his head toward you, his hazel eyes narrowing into something piercing.
"Pope," he repeated, testing the weight of the word. His tone was light, but his eyes remained frozen. "He a great guy?"
You stared at him a beat too long, the sudden tension in the room making the gin feel heavy in your veins. You shook your head, trying to reclaim the easy, bubbly rhythm of the night. "Never mind. I’m talking too much. I think the Tuesday is finally catching up to me."
"It’s fine," he said, his voice steadying into a low, resonant vibration. "You’re not."
He delivered the words with the flat certainty of a verdict. At that moment, the bartender reappeared, setting a fresh whiskey on the scarred wood of the bar. Jack lifted the glass—not toward his own mouth, but toward yours. It was a silent offering, punctuated by the slow, knowing tug of a smile at the corner of his lips. It was a challenge; a way to see if you’d keep talking or if you’d blink first.
You blinked at him, then at the amber liquid shimmering in the glass. You weren't entirely certain what he meant by you’re not—whether he was dismissing your apology or signaling that he wanted you to keep talking—but you found yourself believing him as his gaze locked onto yours. There was a gravity to his presence that made doubt feel like a wasted effort.
When you reached for the whiskey, he didn't let go. Instead, his fingers brushed yours as he kept his hand firmly on the glass, guiding the rim to your lips with a steady, unhurried precision. You let him. You let your lips part, welcoming the sharp, clean burn as the spirit settled on your tongue, the heat of it radiating through your chest.
"There you go," you saw his lips murmur.
The words were so low they were almost a vibration, a secret shared between the two of you in the dim light of the bar. You only caught them because you were already watching his mouth, tracing the way his expression had finally, fully softened into something dangerous and certain.
When your eyes met his again, you found them warm and impossibly patient. It was the look of a man who had stopped looking for an exit and had started looking for a destination.
You knew exactly how the rest of the night was going to go.
His condo was spacious, though it felt less like a display of wealth and more like a sanctuary—the home of a man who had made a deliberate peace with his own solitude. Bookshelves lined the walls, crowded with actual books; some stood upright in disciplined rows while others were stacked sideways, their spines cracked and dog-eared from years of use. A coffee table held a small mountain of novels and a ceramic mug he hadn’t bothered to take to the kitchen. It was a lived-in space, possessing a texture that only time can accumulate and no amount of staging can fake.
You paused at the window. Below, the amber lights of Pittsburgh scattered across the dark like embers. It was a view that demanded a moment of silence, so you gave it one.
He appeared at your shoulder, a glass of water in his hand.
You took it, drained half, and looked at him sideways. "Bossy."
"Thoughtful," he corrected.
He took the glass back, setting it on the counter behind him. When he turned around, you were already closer—a deliberate, purposeful closing of the distance. He studied you with that same quiet, appraising look, a slow audit of the space between you. Then, his hand rose to your jaw. His touch was steady and certain, his thumb tracing the line of your chin as he tilted your face toward his.
When he kissed you, it was nothing like what his composure had suggested.
It was thorough, unhurried, and possessed the quality of a man who intended to do things properly. You kissed him back, feeling the solid, grounding presence of his hands through the fabric of your jacket. The thought drifted through your mind, sharp and appreciative: He absolutely knows what he’s doing.
It was a long, breathless moment before you pulled away just enough to speak. "Hi," you murmured against his mouth. You felt the ghost of a smile brush against your lips in response.
"Hi, sweetheart," he said, the words a low, gravelly vibration that sent a shiver through you. Then he kissed you again.
The jackets were discarded. He walked you back toward the couch in slow, deliberate increments, acting as if there were no universe in which either of you had anywhere else to be. You followed him easily, your hands tracing the broad line of his shoulders, the heat of his neck, and the familiar texture of his shirt.
"You’re like, really cold," you noted at some point, caught by the sensation. You turned his hand over in yours, pressing your warmer palm against his. The contrast was startling—not unpleasant, but distinct, like touching smooth, chilled stone.
Something flickered in his expression. It was brief and unnamed, a shadow passing over the hazel of his eyes.
"Terrible circulation," he said, the deflection coming with practiced ease. "It comes with aging."
You caught the slight, microscopic pause before the explanation—a beat where the air seemed to hold its breath. But then his mouth was on yours again, his touch more insistent, and you stopped being a nurse about it. You let the questions go, losing yourself in the solid, cooling weight of him.
He parted your legs with his knee and leaned his weight into you—a gradual, deliberate pressure. His mouth drifted from yours to the line of your jaw, then lower, tracing the curve of your neck with the unhurried attention. His hand slid from your jaw into your hair, his fingers combing through the strands before closing in a gentle, firm pull that tipped your head back, exposing the long line of your throat to him.
His lips ghosted the junction of your neck and shoulder. His breathing had gone quiet, a focused, rhythmic heat against your skin that made the rest of the room disappear.
"Has anybody told you," he murmured, the vibration of his voice moving through you rather than over you, "that you smell sweet?"
You let out a shuddered breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "I’ve been told I am sweet," you managed, your voice strained. "If that counts."
He made a sound against your skin—a dark, muffled note that could have been a laugh or something far more primal. His mouth pressed more firmly against the pulse point of your neck, lingering there for a heartbeat too long.
When he finally pulled away, a small, involuntary sound escaped your throat. He chuckled—a rough, low resonance that felt like a caress—and offered you his hand.
"I’d like to treat you better than a sofa," he said, his hazel eyes dark and certain. "My bed."
You didn't need convincing.
The curtains were open. Pittsburgh’s nightscape poured through the glass in a wash of amber and silver, and somehow—impossibly—he looked even better in the half-light. The harsh geometry of his face softened at the edges in the gloom, and you didn't quite understand how a lack of proper lighting could make a man look more handsome, but there he was.
He walked you back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You sat, the weight of his presence hovering over you. He stood there for a moment, the silence between you heavy and expectant, before one finger grazed your chin, tilting your face up toward his.
"Take off your shirt." It wasn’t a barked command or a demand you could argue with; it was a low, even directive that left no ambiguity about whether it was optional.
You pulled it off. Then, holding his gaze, you unhooked your bra and let it fall.
His eyes moved down. It was a slow, satisfied drag of attention that settled low in your stomach, heavy and hot.
"Obedient," he murmured, his gaze returning to yours with a dark, appreciative glint. "I’ve always had a weakness for that."
He leaned over you, bracketing your body with his hands on either side, and did that thing again—his lips hovering at the curve of your jaw and the hollow of your throat as if he were deciding something. As if he were restraining something. One hand claimed your waist to ground you both, his nose brushing your skin as he inhaled deeply, as if he were trying to commit your scent to memory. Then, his fingers moved to the button of your jeans.
"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart."
The endearment, delivered in that rough, low register, could have undone you on its own. You lifted yourself from the mattress, and he stripped the denim away in one clean, efficient motion. You helped him past your ankles, sliding back until you were fully claimed by the bed.
He loomed over you, his weight braced heavily on his palms as he hung in the air—a steady, hovering presence. There was a slow, deliberate hitch in his movement as he anchored one knee into the soft give of the duvet, using the leverage to pull himself further into your space, his shadow closing the gap between you. And then is hands were in motion again—one cradling your face, the other cupping your breast with cool, broad-knuckled certainty. He swallowed your sharp inhale in a kiss. You moaned softly at the temperature of him, the stark contrast between his chilled hands and your flushed, feverish skin making your head spin.
His mouth slid down to your chest, trailing fire in its wake. He took a nipple between his lips, slow and deliberate, and your back arched on pure instinct. Your fingers found their way into the salt-and-pepper curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the world narrowed down to the heat of your body and the steady, cold weight of his.
He unlatched his lips with a soft, wet pop and looked up at you through the dark fringe of his lashes. "You want more?"
You looked at him as if he had just asked the most stupid question in the world. He chuckled—a low, gruff vibration against your collarbone—and moved back up, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of your ear.
"’Course you do," he murmured.
His hand slid down, his broad palm cupping you firmly through the thin barrier of your panties. You gasped, your hips stuttering against his hand.
"Is this why you approached me at the bar?" he asked, his voice dropping into a conversational silk that didn't match the heat in his eyes.
"No," you managed, your voice breathy. "I just...wanted to make conversation."
"Yeah?" His palm added more pressure, a slow, deliberate grind that made your toes curl. "Even when you were batting those lashes at me? Was that for the conversation, too?"
"That wasn't on purpose."
Another low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He didn't press the point further; instead, he hooked a finger under the edge of the lace and swept it aside. He ran a single finger down your slit in a slow, gathering stroke, from the top of your hood down to your core. Your breath dissolved into a sharp, thin whine.
"Don't even need to wet my fingers," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave until it was a rough growl against your skin. "Already soaking for me, doll."
He pulled his hand back, bringing his fingers up between your faces. He held your gaze, his hazel eyes dark and unblinking, as he ran his tongue over them—slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring a fine vintage. His eyes never left yours, anchoring you to the mattress.
"Knew you'd taste sweet," he whispered, the words coated in the copper-and-honey scent of your own arousal.
You stared at him, rendered entirely incapable of words.
"I'm going to take care of you," he said. His voice had softened into a low, steady promise—a decision he had already made and had no intention of rescinding. He kissed you again, a deep and unhurried claim, and used the distraction with precision. The moment his tongue pressed into your mouth, two fingers pressed into you as well.
The moan you made was swallowed whole.
He was romantic about it, a focused and tender lover, bringing the same quiet intensity to your body that he probably brought to every other facet of his life. He curled his fingers slowly, learning your specific geography—not rushing, not performing, simply paying attention. His thumb found your clit and stayed there, circling in small, measured strokes that built a low, relentless pressure without letting it crest.
"Easy," he murmured against your jaw, his mouth brushing the words into your skin until they felt like a part of you. "You'll get there."
"I wasn't—" you started, but the sentence shattered and dissolved the moment his fingers pressed deeper, finding a new depth.
"Yeah," he said, his voice soft but layered with a calm, undeniable authority. "You were."
You would have argued—you genuinely would have—but his fingers curled again at exactly the right angle. Your whole body followed the motion on instinct, your hips rolling forward before you could stop them. He adjusted with you immediately, matching the rhythm and guiding it, as if he had already mapped out what you needed and was simply deciding how slowly to grant it.
"You react to everything," he noted. It wasn't a tease; it was a clinical observation. He spoke with the same tone he might use when reading a chart—careful, noting, and quietly satisfied.
"I don't—" you tried, but the thought refused to form.
His thumb pressed, precise and unrelenting, and you dissolved mid-sentence.
"Mm." His nose brushed your skin just below your ear, a slow, deep inhale that seemed to vibrate against your pulse point. Something in the sound that followed made your stomach flip—a dark, satisfied hum of recognition. "Yeah. Exactly."
Your fingers slipped into his hair without entirely meaning to, the strands soft against your skin. He stilled for a fraction of a second—not stopping, but registering the contact—before his fingers moved again, deeper and more deliberate. Your grip tightened involuntarily, anchoring him to you.
"Careful," he said, his voice dropping into a rough, low register. "I want to make this last."
"Last?" you managed, breathless.
"Mm." His rhythm slowed, deliberate. "We're not rushing."
"That's—You're—" you started, gasping as the friction built.
"Annoying," you corrected.
"And yet," he said. He spoke mildly, infuriatingly, his rhythm never wavering.
His hand didn't stop. If anything, his movements grew even more precise—as if he had finally settled into a rhythm, finding the exact frequency that made your breath stutter and deciding to claim it. He worked you with a patient, unhurried focus, his fingers curling and easing in a cadence that kept you balanced on the jagged edge of coherence. His thumb drew steady, relentless circles that made your thighs shift and your thoughts dissolve, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles went white.
His mouth dragged down the curve of your neck.
The inhale he took against your skin was slow. Deliberate. It was the sound of a man sampling a vintage he had spent decades trying to forget.
Then, his lips pressed against the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder. There was a sting—brief, sharp, a precise spark of needle-like heat—and you let out a sound that wasn't entirely pain, but wasn't entirely anything else, either. Your fingers flexed violently in his hair, pulling him closer even as the shock registered.
His mouth lingered there, his lips softening against the wounded skin. It was almost careful. A gesture of contrition, or perhaps a desperate attempt to cover the evidence of what he’d just done.
But the sensation didn't fade. That was the problem.
The sting had already melted into something else—something warm, honey-thick, and spreading. It didn't just sit at the crook of your neck; it moved through you, slow and heavy, as if the feeling itself had physical weight. Your limbs felt loose and heavy, a languid heat that had nothing to do with what his hand was still doing between your legs and everything to do with the way your pulse refused to settle.
The realization arrived in a slow, disjointed wave, tangled up in the heat pooling low in your stomach and the lingering echo of that sharp, precise pressure at your neck.
Did you have a biting kink?
You must have. You must have had it all along and simply never knew. Because this was new. This was a man at least a decade older than you—a man steady, controlled, and currently draped over you, his weight a grounding anchor. His hand continued to work you open with quiet, clinical precision while his mouth had just—your breath hitched—bitten you.
Not gently. Not playfully.
Something about the act had felt—
Your thoughts stuttered. Wrong wasn't the word.
It had felt like being pulled under something warm, deep, and endless. It was the sensation of something that didn't stop at the surface of your skin but sank into you, hollowing you out just enough to make space for a heavier, darker presence to settle in.
It was hollow and blissful all at once, your body seemingly incapable of anything except chasing more of it. Every nerve ending had lit up with a blinding flare before softening into a hum, rather than snapping back to reality. You felt as though you were being heralded as the queen of the fucking world, such was the absolute, totalizing power of how it had taken you out.
His lips moved over the mark again, slower now. The motion was soothing, possessing a quality that felt almost like an apology—but not quite. Not really. It was the sound he made against your skin—rough, quiet, and thick with a dark, primal satisfaction—that told the real story.
You only knew that you wanted it again.
"Jack, fuck—please," you breathed, the words tangling on your tongue as your head tipped back further. "More."
You felt his chuckle this time—a low, warm vibration against your sensitized skin that made your stomach turn over.
"Can't do it again, sweetheart," he murmured. There was something in his voice—an edge that was far too even, far too controlled. "I'd suck the life out of you."
"Don't care," you shot back, the words breaking apart as his hand shifted. You can't believe he's cracking jokes right that moment. His fingers curled with devastating accuracy, dragging another helpless, high-pitched sound out of you. "Just—more of that. Whatever that was."
He pulled back just enough to look at you. He didn't go far, only enough so that you were forced to meet his gaze. There was something amused on the surface, but underneath, something sharper lingered—a hunger that stayed a fraction too long to be entirely human.
"Bossy," he said. His voice was quieter now, layered with an almost genuine fondness.
You would have offered a retort—something sharp to match his tone—if his thumb hadn’t pressed exactly where you needed it. He took his time, dismantling your defenses with a patient, relentless focus that made everything else in the room fade to black.
Every movement was more deliberate now, the teasing patience replaced by a clear, focused intent—as if something in him had shifted gears, deciding you’d had enough of waiting.
Your breath broke around the change immediately. "Fuck—" you gasped, the sound thin and pulled straight from the center of your chest.
"Stay with me," he murmured. It wasn't gentle this time; it was grounding, a command that anchored you to the bed as the world began to tilt. "Look at me. That’s it."
You tried. God, you tried to keep your eyes on his, but your thoughts were already slipping—half-caught on the lingering sting at your neck and the way that strange, narcotic pulse seemed to beat in perfect time with his fingers. It all blurred together: his hand, your pulse, and that hollow heat spreading through your limbs.
"You’re doing so well for me," he whispered, his voice a low, rough caress against your ear. He was satisfied as he felt you tighten around his fingers at the praise. "Beautiful. You like being told that, don't you? How good you are?"
"Yes," you breathed, the confession forced out of you by the sheer pressure of his gaze. "Jack, please—I can't—"
"You can. You're taking every bit of it," he praised, his thumb circling with relentless, agonizing precision. He watched your face, his eyes tracking the way your pupils blown wide. "You like it. You're a natural, aren't you? So responsive. So perfect for this."
The praise made your skin feel electric, your hips rolling up to meet his hand in a desperate search for more of that approval.
"Good girl," he rumbled, the vibration of his chest against yours making your teeth chatter. "Let go, sweetheart. Give it to me. I want to feel you cum on my fingers."
He didn't give you a choice. He rolled his thumb over your clit—precise and unrelenting—while his fingers plunged deeper, finding that same perfect angle again and again.
That was it. The tension snapped. Your back arched into him, a broken, high-pitched sound tearing out of your throat as everything crested at once. It was sharp and consuming, threaded through with that lingering, heavy warmth from the bite that made the climax feel deeper than it should—like it didn't stop at the surface, but flooded every hollow space he’d made inside you.
"There," he said, his voice heavy with a dark, satisfied pride. "Right there. Cum for me, doll."
For a long, suspended moment, the rest of the universe simply ceased to exist.
He worked you through your orgasm, his movements steady and controlled as he let you crest and fall at his own pace.
"So good for me, sweetheart," he murmured. The words were low, almost a private confession to himself, as he watched the tension slowly drain from your frame.
By the time your breath began to return—uneven, shallow, and slow—your limbs had succumbed to that particular heavy-loose sensation of complete undoing. You registered the shift in his weight before you fully understood it; his hand eased its pressure, and his mouth began a new, deliberate path downward.
"Jack—" you started, your voice dazed and thick with the lingering haze of the climax.
He settled between your thighs as if that specific spot was exactly where he’d planned to be since the moment you’d locked eyes at the bar. His hands clamped onto your hips. The firmness of his hold wasn't a restrictive grip so much as an anchor, pinning you to the mattress and ensuring you remained exactly where he wanted you.
He didn't rush. He lingered there for a heartbeat, his gaze traveling over you with a quiet, appreciative intensity before he finally leaned in.
That was what undid you more than anything else—the way he refused to go where you wanted him. He settled between your thighs with the ease of a man who had nowhere else to be, and then he simply...didn't. Not yet.
His mouth found the sensitive skin of your inner knee first, his lips ghosting over the joint. You made a small, confused sound, your hips twitching in a silent plea for more, but he ignored it entirely. Instead, he reached down and slid your panties back into place, a baffling, deliberate move that only served to heighten the anticipation.
His lips began to travel up the inner curve of your thigh. He moved with an unhurried heat, dragging his mouth slow enough that you felt every point of contact like a brand. Then, just before he reached anywhere vital, he backtracked. He pressed his mouth to the soft, pale juncture where your thigh met your hip, then lower, then back up again. He covered the same ground twice, three times, as if he were learning the terrain and wasn't in any particular hurry to be finished with the lesson.
His hands were a constant, grounding presence spanning the width of your hips. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin of your lower belly, drawing slow, absent circles that felt like a quiet claim. He wasn't going anywhere. He was simply keeping contact, a steady reminder that he was in control and in absolutely no rush to move faster than he intended.
You were already hypersensitive from what his fingers had done to you. Every brush of his lips against your skin registered like a live wire, and he knew it. You could tell by the way he lingered in the hollows of your thighs, by the slight, satisfied pause when your breath hitched, and by the way he occasionally just breathed against your skin—close enough to feel the heat, but not close enough to satisfy the ache.
When your fingers tightened in his hair, a silent bridge between a request and a complaint, he only pressed a lingering, deliberate kiss to the inside of your thigh, his gaze hidden but his intent clear.
"This is mean," you managed, your voice breaking as it left your throat. "You’re being incredibly mean."
"Mm." He didn't bother with a denial. Instead, he turned his head and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the crease of your hip, right at the delicate line of your underwear. He didn't go under the lace—he stayed right at the edge. His tongue dragged along that boundary with a focused intensity, and you felt your thighs try to close on pure instinct. His shoulders, broad and unyielding, efficiently prevented the motion, keeping you open and exposed.
He let out a quiet exhale against your skin—a much-too-satisfied sound.
He took his time there, his mouth tracing the fabric line with agonizing precision. It was just enough pressure, just enough heat. This brand of attention made you hyper-aware of every single inch he wasn’t touching, turning the anticipation into something almost unbearable. He was well aware of the effect, too; whenever you shifted your hips in a desperate attempt to guide him, his hands simply held you still, pinning you to the mattress while he continued exactly what he was doing.
As his lips moved up the inner curve of your thigh, he slowed, his mouth ghosting over the heavy, rhythmic beat of your femoral pulse. You felt him linger there—a fraction of a second too long, a momentary hitch in his breathing that felt like a held breath. Then, he leaned in. He didn't just kiss it; he nipped at the skin—a sharp, precise nibble right over the thrumming artery.
The spark of it sent a jolt straight to your core, your hips bucking off the mattress in a blind, shocked reflex. You realized then, through the haze, that he had a fixation. He liked the bite—liked it where you were most sensitive, where the pulse was loudest.
"You’re taking...too long," you managed, your voice breaking into a jagged whisper.
The comment earned you a low hum that vibrated against the very spot he had just bitten. "Occupational habit," he murmured, his voice a rough vibration against your skin. "I’ve always preferred to be thorough."
Then, without any more teasing, he finally made good on the promise he’d been making all night. He hooked his thumbs into the lace of your underwear and made one final, unhurried shift, and then his mouth was on your pussy.
The first long, slow stroke of his tongue made you forget you were getting slightly annoyed at him teasing you.1
His tongue found a rhythm after that—a slow, building cadence that worked with that same patient, surgeon-like focus. His hands, which had been anchoring your hips, shifted. One stayed, pinning you to the mattress, while the other moved without any particular fanfare. Two fingers pressed into you and curved with an expert, devastating hook.
You arched up hard, a broken, embarrassing sound tearing out of you that echoed in the dark room.
"There you go, doll," he said, his voice muffled against your skin but thick with a dark, satisfied pride. "Just like that."
"Don't—" you started, your breath catching as the world began to blur.
"Don't what?" he asked, his rhythm never wavering. He didn't stop. If anything, the pull of his mouth became more insistent, more demanding, dragging you toward an edge you weren't sure you'd survive.
You didn't have an answer. You couldn't have found one if you tried, because he had freed both of his hands to spread your pussy open, and the renewed, wet lap of his tongue made the very concept of a question irrelevant. Your grip in his hair tightened sharply—a desperate, clawing reflex—which he responded to only by pressing closer. He didn't pull back; he leaned into the tension, as if the signal had been communicated correctly and he was simply confirming receipt of your desperation.
The heavy, wet sounds that filled the quiet room weren't helping your composure.
You were aware of something distantly—that lingering echo from the bite, threading itself into every nerve ending. It deepened the heat pooling low in your stomach, making it feel heavier and more layered than it had any right to be. You couldn't fully separate the phantom sting from what his mouth was doing to you now; the two sensations had woven themselves together somewhere along the way, creating a high that felt almost narcotic.
"Jack—please—" God. You wondered how many more broken whimpers you could possibly let out before you simply ran out of air.
He made a low, guttural sound against you. He didn't stop. If anything, his focus sharpened to a razor’s edge. The pace shifted, the intensity increasing by degrees as his fingers moved deeper, curling with a relentless, rhythmic hook. The combination of that internal pressure and the rapid, precise flicking of his tongue across your clit was too much.
Your back left the mattress entirely, your body arching into a bow as you were forced upward, chasing the very thing that was shattering you.
"Careful," he murmured, the sound a low vibration against your inner thigh. "Breathe, sweetheart."
"You're not," he countered mildly. He didn't even look up, but you could hear the knowing curve of a smile in his voice—that infuriating, calm certainty of a man who knew exactly when a person was reaching their limit. The awareness of being caught in your own physiological tailspin made your stomach flip.
Then he shifted his weight, his face pressing deeper into you as he worked. In the process, the bridge of his nose brushed firmly against your core—straight, solid, and providing a secondary, grounding pressure that sent a fresh spark of electricity through your nerves.
Oh. Doja Cat was absolutely fucking right about noses.
You finally understood the utility of a profile like his. It was a terrifyingly effective realization to have while being systematically dismantled by a man you’d met only hours prior.
He didn't rush the finish. That was the most infuriating part—even now, even with you fully unraveled, he didn't chase the end for his own satisfaction. He stayed in total command of the tempo, keeping the pace exactly where it had you hovering on the precipice. He kept his fingers working at that steady, relentless curl-and-press rhythm, watching the way your muscles jumped with a look of quiet, satisfied pride.
Your hand in his hair had gone from a demanding grip to a silent, shaking plea, and he simply hummed against you, savoring the way you were practically vibrating under his control.
"Yeah," he said, the word low and absolute. "I know, sweetheart. It’s fine. You can let go."
He didn't hold you back. The restraint slipped—deliberate, perfectly timed—and the shift was immediate. Your head fell back fully, a sharp, broken sound tearing out of you as everything crested all at once again. His mouth stayed anchored to your pussy refusing to ease back until the very last of the tension had moved through you. He only pulled back when your breath began to return in slow, uneven pulls.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound in the room was the ragged, desperate rhythm of your recovery.
"You," you finally managed, your voice wrecked and barely a whisper. "You are...a problem."
A soft exhale puffed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh—the closest he’d come to a real laugh all night. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
"Am I?" he asked, his voice a low, even vibration against your skin. "I’d say I’m exactly what you asked for."
You huffed, a weak, defeated sound, but you didn't argue. You couldn’t. Not with the phantom warmth still lingering at your neck and thigh where his teeth had been. Especially not with the way his gaze lifted briefly to yours—just for a fleeting, heavy second—before dropping again. He looked away deliberately, as if he were making a conscious choice not to look at you for too long.
Like he already knew exactly what he’d find in your eyes if he did.
You left a little past three in the morning.
He walked you to the door without being asked—a gesture of quiet, ingrained habit you’d already come to expect from him. He insisted on walking you all the way home, but you were equally stubborn. He didn't push; true to the efficiency he’d demonstrated all night, he weighed the situation and let you have your way.
At the threshold, you both stood for a moment in the specific, easy quiet of two people who didn't feel the need to fill the space with nervous chatter.
"New nurse," he recalled.
"New to Pittsburgh," you agreed, leaning slightly against the doorframe.
"You'll like it," he said, his voice level and grounding. "Give it time."
You smiled, the exhaustion finally starting to tug at the corners of your vision. "I'll keep that in mind."
He nodded once—a final, silent acknowledgment—and then the door closed behind you, quiet and solid.
You stood there, watching the floor numbers tick down, and ran back through the last few hours with the detached curiosity of a clinician reviewing a flawless procedure. Everything had been—it had all been so—he had been...
Good with his hands, you concluded. And his mouth. And the way he carried himself. He was genuinely, impressively, and kind of annoyingly good at everything he touched.
As the elevator doors slid open, a stray, hopeful thought surfaced through the haze: You were already wondering if he was free on weekends, too.
You also realized, with a start, that that was all you’d done. You hadn't even touched him—not really. You’d made out, he’d used his hands, and he had spent an inordinate amount of time with his mouth between your legs. You bit your lip as the elevator reached the lobby, the thought of it sending a final, lingering shiver down your spine.
It was rare to find a man like that—someone completely fine, if not entirely unbothered, by the lack of reciprocation. Or perhaps he simply found a different kind of pleasure in the absolute control of pleasuring someone else. Either way, you were certain you’d struck gold. A man who was that talented, that attentive, and that patient was a unicorn in the wild.
You stepped out into the cool Pittsburgh dawn, the air sharp and refreshing against your heated skin. You flagged a car and slid into the backseat, leaning your head against the window as the city lights blurred past.
For the duration of the ride, you felt entirely, uncomplicatedly fine. You were relaxed, satisfied, and already mentally clearing your schedule for a potential round two. You watched your reflection in the glass, a soft, sleepy smile playing on your lips, and not even remembering the tender, rising heat of the mark on your neck.
You didn't think about why it felt so heavy. You didn't think about why it wouldn't stop throbbing. You just let yourself enjoy the hum of the car and the ghost of his touch, leaning your head against the window as the city blurred by. In that moment, you were convinced you’d found the ultimate weekend distraction (if he's free on weekends).
You were exactly forty-eight hours away from realizing he was actually a career-long complication.
The transition from "man of your dreams" to "Senior Attending" happened in the time it took for an automatic door to hiss open. Lena Handzo was mid-sentence, gesturing toward the trauma bays, when a man rounded the corner—and your entire cardiovascular system staged a small, violent protest.
You tried to stay professional. You failed.
That is Jack. From the bar. From the bedroom. From—
"Dr. Abbot," Lena said, as he arrived at the edge of your small orbit.
Abbot. The name arrived exactly one conversation too late. For all the things he had done to you, for all the ways the night had unfolded, he had never once offered a last name. And you—occupied, as you had been, with considerably more immediate concerns—had never thought to ask. Not his last name. Not which hospital. Not a single logistical detail that might have been, in retrospect, genuinely useful.
Jack. Night shift. Doctor. Pittsburgh. You had assembled all the relevant data points and somehow still managed to miss the obvious conclusion. Frankly, it was embarrassing.
He was crossing the floor with the same unhurried certainty you’d memorized two nights ago, his hazel eyes doing a systematic sweep of the department. Then, they found yours, then your neck. For one half-second, something moved through his expression—unreadable and quick as a light switching off.
You held your smile and your posture with both hands, gripping your professional composure like a shield.
Do not make a face, you told yourself. You are not a person who has spent the last two days wondering how his hair feels when it isn't being pulled.
"—Good, you're here," Lena continued, oblivious to the atmosphere currently ionizing between you. She offered your name. "This is our new nurse, just transferred in."
He looked at you. You looked at him.
"Welcome to the night shift," he said. Perfectly even. Perfectly professional. And then, with the faintest possible alteration in his tone—something so slight that Lena would have had to be standing inside your skull to catch the vibration of it: "Pittsburgh has a way of growing on people. Give it time."
Your smile didn't waver. You had practiced that smile for years; it was your best armor.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you said warmly, the new name tasting like a secret on your tongue. "I've already got a very good feeling about it."
He held your eyes for exactly one beat longer than necessary—just one—and then looked at Lena.
"Get her a badge. Dana will want to meet her by morning."
He walked away toward the attendings' station, unhurried, as if the last forty-eight hours hadn't happened at all.
Lena turned to you. "Told you. Particular, but fair."
"Mm," you said pleasantly.
Inside, you were absolutely, thoroughly, and completely mortified.
Down the corridor, just before he disappeared around the corner, you thought you heard—very quietly, entirely deniably—the low, rumbling sound of someone almost laughing.
Note: Okayyyy...so this is kind of just a lowkey Vampire Jack Abbot. But I'm planning to make this a One-Shot series. Vampire Jack Abbot's been on my mind ever since I've watched Ready or Not 2.
Next one-shot in the series may or may not be more of Vampire Jack's lore :)
