leo

for the occasional musing. side blog for leoincolor.

[andrewmiinyard]

— an introduction.

masterlist | ao3 | wip list | fic recs | twt

hello everyone, my name is leo! i am 24 years old.

welcome to my side blog, where i post all my writing. i like/follow from @leoincolor!

my asks and dms are always open :) all my work features mature themes or content, so mdni.

current interests:

the pitt (jack abbot mostly), industry, yellowjackets, daredevil, all for the game, animal kingdom

[abbotsbunnygf]

-> [rated: e.] smut. (pervy) andrew 'pope' cody x (secretly pervy) female reader. word count: 2.1k.

summary: andrew's your best friend. he steals your panties to jerk off while you pretend to know nothing 'bout that.

you become best friends with andrew quite literally out of the blue. you don’t even remember how it happens; someday he’s just… there. for every moment of your life. 

when you get the job you so desperately wanted? you called him first, even before you called your parents. you make him meal prep so he would stop relying on take out. you don’t question when he appears on your doorstep bloody and bruised, just take care of him. 

and the thing he treasures most, you’re not afraid of him. never was. you trust him, not only with your own safety and life, but your thoughts — no matter how small or meaningless you thought it was — and opinions, your dreams. 

it’s not uncommon for you to come home and find andrew on your couch, eating your food — you’re not gonna tell him that, but you always make more than you can possibly eat so he can indulge in whatever he wants. you know he didn’t always have food, or enough food, or whatever he wanted to eat. cooking is basically your love language, of course you cook for him. it gives you some kind of satisfaction knowing you're feeding him good stuff, and even more that he likes it. craves it, even. for someone as stoic and afraid of getting too close like andrew, that is, in fact, huge. 

you know andrew’s in your apartment when you come home and his boots are right by the door. you smile to yourself, always happy to have him there. his company makes you feel safe. moreso, you just love having him near. 

but he’s not on the couch, or the kitchen. the next place to look is your bed; for some reason, andrew loves taking a nap in your bed — it smells like you. that’s why; it makes him relax, for once. not he’ll tell you this. 

you walk on your tippy toes to your bedroom, not wanting to wake him up if he is asleep. 

except he’s not. 

andrew’s standing by your dresser, one of the drawers open. specifically, the intimate clothing one. he’s staring at your panties and bras with blown out pupils. one of his hands fisting the fabric of his pants, like he’s trying to hold himself back. 

the one hand though holds one of your panties. used ones. simple ones too, nothing flashy or overly sensual; just cotton and a little bow at the crotch. your eyes go comically wide when you watch him bring them to his face and take a deep breath, like he was inhaling more than just your scent, but you.

he turns as if to walk out and freezes when he sees you there, leaning against the doorway. 

“you weren’t supposed to be home,” andrew says, looking away, guilty. 

your lips quirk up in a smirk. “you really wanna talk about what we were or weren’t supposed to be doing?”

he can’t even look at you properly, but his hand doesn’t let go of your panties. 

“what are you gonna do with those?” you ask, pointing at the fabric with a tilt of your chin. 

he looks like a cornered animal for a second, before his face goes blank. you know he’s trying to deflect. 

“i’m gonna use ‘em to jerk off,” is what andrew replies. 

or not. 

you were not expecting that he’d say that. you knew he might do just that, you just didn’t know he’d be so… brazen about it. andrew smirks at your widened eyes. 

“what? like they weren’t laying around where you knew i could see ‘em,” he says. “it’s almost like you wanted me to find them.”

“i… no,” you whisper, cheeks heating up. caught red handed. 

“whatever you say, gorgeous,” he smirks. 

the two of you stand a few feet from each other, just staring at each other. 

“now, if you’ll excuse me…” he motions out the door. you shake your head and step farther into the room, closing the door behind you. 

“not so fast, popey,” you say. “if you want to keep my panties, i wanna see it. wanna see what you’re doing to them,” you smirk at him. 

“you fucker—” he groans when the door clicks shut. 

you only smile at him, feigning innocence. 

“c’mon. i wanna watch it,” you say, leaning back against the door. 

andrew stares at you like he can’t believe this is real. that you’re asking him this. you. not even in his wildest dreams you’d… alright, yeah. in his wildest dreams you do so much more than just watch.

he nods then, taking a cautious step back. “okay. i’ll show you,” he says, sitting on the edge of your bed. his hand slips down his body, straight to the waistband, but you click your tongue. 

“take your shirt off,” you say. “if you’re giving me a show i want the whole thing.” 

he groans, rolling his eyes at you. but he takes off his shirt, and you can’t help but bite your lip when his body is put on display for you. his toned muscles, tan skin and a few scars you know personally from tending to their wounds. 

then his hand goes under the waistband of his pants, pulling out his cock. his hand wrapped around it, stroking slowly. it's not as long as it is girthy; undoubtedly would split your cunt in two. the thought makes you clench your thighs.

the veins on the underside of it caught your attention; you wanna lick it up and down, trace them with your tongue. andrew gives his dick a few, experimental strokes, precum already leaking from the tip. 

“fuck, baby. you look like you want to swallow it whole,” he says, and he’s not entirely wrong. you do want to take his cock down your throat until you’re gagging around it. 

“show me, andy,” you say, licking your lips, eyes glued to that fat cock like you're under his spell. 

he strokes it in earnest now, up and down his fat cock, twisting his hand every time it goes up, bringing your panties to his nose with the other hand. he takes a big sniff, eyes rolling back as he imagines what you looked like if you weren’t wearing anything. 

“i think about you every time,” he says, voice barely above a shaky whisper. “every time i do this.”

“what do you think about, andy?” 

his hand moves faster on his cock, more and more clear precum slicking down his shaft. “i think about you… fuck… riding me. my cock and my face,” he groans, your panties still on his nose. “i think about how wet you’d get when i make you cum for me.”

his words make your mind spin. images of him on top of you, under you, fucking you so good run around your mind. you can’t help but clench your thighs again. 

his eyes never leave yours. with a sleazy smile, andrew brings your panties down and wraps it around his cock. he groans, long and loud and your cunt clenches just from hearing it. you want him to make those sounds when he slides inside you. he uses your panties to jerk off, the fabric rubbing against his sensitive skin making him moan, low and ragged. 

“i think about cumming on your panties and making you wear ‘em all day long,” he groans, throwing his head back. “make you walk around with my cum in that sweet cunt of yours.”

your body moves before you can stop yourself. you’re kneeling between his spread thighs, face-to-face that fat cock. it makes him moan louder, his hand speeding up. andrew leans forward, brushing the leaky tip of his cock on your lower lip without pushing for more. 

you hum, licking your lip, tasting his precum. salty and tangy, delicious. “taste so good, andy,” you whisper, looking up at him with your big doe eyes. “feels good? my panties around your cock?”

“you minx,’’ he almost growls, and the sound makes heat pool on your lower tummy. “feels so good, goddamnit. gonna keep ‘em and use it every time,” he says. 

you lean in, pressing a sweet, otherwise chaste kiss to the tip of his cock. andrew’s body locks up, head thrown back as he cums. thick ropes of his release spilling all over your panties. you moan, too, watching him. you reach out, cleaning a little drop of cum from his thigh with your thumb, then brings it to your mouth to taste it. the sight makes his cock twitch, still cumming. 

“want you to cum on my mouth next,” you say, standing up. 

“fuck that,” andrew growls, tackling you to the bed. his large body engulfs you, trapping you to the bed. 

before you can even think of reacting, his tongue is shoved down your mouth, and he's pulling moans from you when his hips grind against your pussy through the jeans you're wearing. 

“it's my turn to have some fun, baby,” andrew says, his hand pulling your pants down — the button flies away with the force of his tug. 

“andrew, my favorite pair of jeans!” you complain, pouting at him. 

“i'll buy you another one,” he says, shimmying his way down your body. “hell, i'll buy you the whole store if you ask me to.” 

he pulls your leg up, to rest on his shoulders. he buries his face right in your cunt, taking a whiff straight from the source. he groans into the fabric when he realizes it's wet. not only wet, soaked. 

“been dreaming ‘bout this for so fucking long,” he says, his nose prodding at your clit through your panties. andrew licks at you, his tongue flat against the covered slit of your pussy. 

the extra stimulation — his tongue, the rough fabric — makes you shiver, gripping the sheets. 

andrew pulls back, licking his lips like he's hungry and you're his last meal, his fingers hook under the elastic of your panties, pulling them to the side. 

“oh, hello, baby,” he whispers, talking exclusively to your pussy. andrew, being the little shit he is, parts your soppy folds with two fingers and blows cool air. the sound that comes out of your mouth is unholy. 

the first touch of his mouth is almost tentative. andrew licks your pussy with the tip of tongue, from your already fluttering hole to the clit. he does it again, only this time, with the flat of his tongue. 

andrew sucks your clit into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he suckles on it ‘til it throbs. your back goes up in a pretty arch, hands now gripping his auburn curls. he does it again, then pulls off with a wet, loud pop. 

“andy,” you whine at the loss of contact, and the bastard laughs. he laughs with his face still against your pussy, the rumbling sound making a shiver run up your spine. 

“just a little touching with my mouth and you're already whining like a kitten, baby?” he murmurs, giving your pussy lips a little graze of his teeth. 

andrew teases your hole with his tongue. he prods at it, never actually pushing inside, but bringing you closer and closer to the edge. 

just when he's sure you're close to the orgasm, is when he's starts eating your cunt in earnest. straight up making out with it; his tongue’s everywhere, flicking your clit and then fucking your weepy hole. 

your thighs shake and clamp around his head as you come, trapping him there — not that he'd ever wanna leave. your pussy's his heaven, now. andrew growls, doubling down on his ministrations, two of thick fingers suddenly dipping inside you to the last knuckle. 

“this fucking tight cunt, gonna make sure it's gaping in the shape of cock when i'm done with you,” he says, muffled into your pussy. it triggers another orgasm out of you, your body wired on extra sensitivity. 

“andy, please—” you sob, thrashing on the bed from the overstimulation. “i need… i can't…” you babble incoherently. 

“going stupid on me already, sweets?” he bites the inside of your thigh. hard. hard enough to bruise, and you suspect that's exactly what he wants. 

you tug on his hair, and it only spurs him on. you're barely breathing right as you try and recover from two orgasms back-to-back, and andrew's back at it again. 

“too sensitive, andyyyyyyy,” you whimper. 

“don't care, honey,” he mumbles against your cunt. “this pussy's mine now. gonna eat it ‘til i'm full of you.” 

and he does. 

[heavenlybarnesss]

MDNI, 18+

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Singing karaoke with Trinity and Mel, except it’s “Don’t Cha?” by The Pussycat Dolls and you’ve all somehow convinced a bunch of others from the E.R. to come have a drink, including Jack and Robby (I can’t quite see Robby at a karaoke bar, but I also can’t imagine Jack going somewhere like that without making Robby tag along, so here we are. 😂) And when it’s your turn to sing, you do a kind of burlesque type thing where you have fun with it and teasingly strip your jacket off and spin it around in the air. You toss it jokingly to Dennis offstage and wink. Jack and Robby are at the bar, and Jack is just drinking you the fuck innn. Beer? Whiskey? Fuck the alcohol. Who needs it when he has you, in front of him, swaying your hips and shaking your ass like there isn’t an entire bar of people with eyes on you? He just wants that sweet ass in those jeans on a platter in front of him, and he’ll die a happy man. There is, however; too many eyes for Jack’s liking.

Don’t get him wrong, he wants to watch you. He could watch you do this alllll night long. You’re so carefree and effortlessly sexy in the way you move, and sing, and laugh. It’s just that he wants to be the only one watching you. He wants you to dance like this for him naked, and at his place. Did it make him feel like a little bit of a gross, old man? Sure. But if he’s got you - in nothing but his old college T-shirt to wake up to every god given morning - people can think whatever bullshit they want. Fuck ‘em. Yeah, maybe he can be a little gross. He’s daydreamed a time or two about you meanly shoving your panties in his mouth as you bounce up and down on his cock. And yeah, he’s older than you. But that just means he knows how to fuck you better than any guy your age ever could.

You girls aren’t at all quiet when drinking, and Jack overheard you earlier telling the group how nobody’s ever given you an orgasm. And it is a fucking tragedy if Jack ever heard one. He’s embarrassed for the men in your age bracket that don’t know how to please and worship a woman like you. You’re a ray of fucking sunshine that deserves the world, and Jack just wants to show you this - by fucking you with his tongue while you clamp your thighs around his head, crying for him to stop because it’s so deliciously too much. It’s okay, he’ll build your tolerance. You’re not even used to one orgasm from a man let alone two or three a night - every night - rain or shine, period or no period. Don’t worry baby, old Jack’s gonna get you there.

[lauraneedstochill]

talk you through it

pairing: Jack Abbot x surgical resident!reader summary: your work’s been leaving you exhausted, but you’re 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 — none other than Jack Abbot.

warnings: implied age gap (that you can ignore); mutual pining, Jack isn’t that good at flirting when he catches feelings. he compensates for it with his other talents 😏 smut {dirty talk, masturbation, praise kink, teasing, fingering (with two hands, idk if that’s a thing?), piv, aftercare}; Park is an unintentional wingman, Javadi is the bestest of friends / words: 13K / author’s 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, everyone’s busy with the paperwork and greetings, and that’s when you prefer to slip away. You aren’t alone at this uncommon hiding spot — Santos already dozed off at a table further off, earbuds in, hood up. She can sleep anywhere and anytime. But you aren’t that lucky.

You spent ten minutes genuinely trying — deep breaths, and meditation, and counting sheep. Now you’re just sulking, helpless against your permanent exhaustion. You catch the footsteps first — quick, quiet, a woman on a mission. The door creaks just a little when it opens.

Closes.

You know the quiet won’t last long.

“I can feel you staring. You’d suck as a spy,” you say, grudgingly opening one eye to see Javadi leaning on the fridge door.

She shakes her head — half disapproval, half concern. “You know, each time I see you here, I’m not sure if you’re asleep or dead.”

“And they let you talk to suicidal people like that? Maybe I plan on walking out of the nearest window.”

“You won’t make it that far,” she chuckles and hands it to you — her peace offering: a frozen Butter Pecan Swirl, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with crushed nuts. It’s 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. “I think even the patients on a psych hold look better than you do.”

“Wow, that comparison really cheered me up. You should be thankful, by the way,” you’re savouring the icy, jarringly sweet drink. “If I didn’t look like death, you’d still be dreaming about getting into surgical residency. My eyebags changed the course of your life. You’re welcome.”

“I am forever in your debt. I’ll pay it off with coffee,” she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out — black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.

And you think — suddenly and stupidly, because that’s how your brain’s now wired — 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 don’t 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 — and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like you’re losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesn’t disappear.

“Long time no see,” 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. “Tough shift?”

Tough week. Or month. Actually, life’s been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.

“Bearable,” you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping he’d 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 he’d hate you.

Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:

“Didn’t you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.”

His compliment feels like a glass of water, and you’ve been parched with thirst.

“Yeah,” you meet his gaze, because you’ve missed him terribly. He’s looking at you like he hoped you would. And you can’t help the smile. “I guess it was.”

He doesn’t stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest — unreasonably, sinfully buff arms — and stares straight at you:

“Remind me where’d you learned that clamping trick?”

He’s 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. “I might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.”

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 —

But you aren’t really alone.

You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, it’s 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. “Teach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to or—or if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,” 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 — before her face breaks into a smile. “Aw, he has a crush on you.”

“Which you have told me a dozen times, and I’ll continue to reply that no, he doesn’t,” although your own face treacherously heats up.

“He flirted with you just now.”

“He flirts with everyone. He’s like an energy vampire, that’s why he doesn’t look his age.”

Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. “To be fair, his flirting isn’t that impressive.”

“I think half of the ER would disagree,” Javadi eagerly retorts. If there’s one thing these two don’t ever get tired of, it’s bickering.

“Oh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,” Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. “With you, he’s awkward. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point — he’s totally into you.”

“Did you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.”

Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.

“He’s also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,” she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.

Your mood hasn’t been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didn’t kick in.

“Can 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.”

“Babe, you know there’s barely any coffee in it,” Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. “You just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.”

“But what if coffee isn’t working anymore... What’s the next best option? Cocaine?”

“You can’t afford cocaine.”

“I’ll sell a kidney.”

“Can’t do that either, you need them both.”

“I didn’t say I would sell mine.”

The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. “I know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes it’s okay to actually talk about what’s bothering you.”

“I’m very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,” you quip. And your regret is instant. “Sorry, I genuinely don’t remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.”

“Has Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesn’t think so.”

“No, it’s not that I don’t have free time, I just— I can’t fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow — nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.

“I might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.”

“Vic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If there’s any way to help me fall asleep faster, I’ll try it.”

“Okay, there’s 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 —”

“Just to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?” you’re trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.

“It’s not porn!” she hisses, adorably ashamed. “I mean, not always. They aren’t all explicit. The ones I’ve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d be into it.”

“Masturbation? I feel like I should be offended.”

“No, the whole... Talking thing.”

With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.

“I mean, isn’t 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.”

“I assure you, I’m not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.”

Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. “So what you’re saying is that... Abbot turned you on?”

“You know what, now I actually want to kill myself.”

“No, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,” she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. “You will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.”

“Those gummies don’t do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.”

She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Well, there’s always another option,” Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. “I need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. I’m serious.”

“Will do, mom.”

She flips you off on her way out.

Whatever little caffeine’s 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 patient’s file.

He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.

“Got enough coffee to keep you standing? Don’t want to scrape you off the floor.”

You give him a dry chuckle. “When have you ever scraped me off the floor?”

One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. “Fair,” he says, his gaze back to the tablet. “I’d like for it to stay that way.”

“So who’s the last one for today? Anything exciting?”

“Male, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. It’s all in his file. I’ll see you in ten.”

Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.

“They say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you it’s also such a mood killer,” you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.

Park makes a sound that’s more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: “I’ll let you do the CRPP.”

“Thanks, I’m smiling on the inside.”

He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes you’re thankful that he doesn’t: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.

Unlike the previous one.

You may never admit it out loud, but you’ve come to enjoy working with Park. He’s harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isn’t that he doesn’t talk much. You don’t mind doing your own research, and you’re 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 you’ve 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 — Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didn’t get offended by someone else’s 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 didn’t think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldn’t 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 — his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. He’d stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. He’d push you when he knew that you could handle it. He’d tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. “Yes, that’s the move.” “Look at you taking risks, kid.” “Good” —

— “girl”, 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 didn’t help that Shen soon started calling you “Jack’s favorite”. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasn’t 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 could’ve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.

Even after you’ve 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 didn’t even try to get your number.

Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. What’s worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t do.

So you looked for a way out that’d 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 Jack’s face when you informed him. He didn’t try to stop you, though. You didn’t 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 — 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 that’s 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, I’ll need you to swear on the Bible.

There’s no way you have a Bible at home.

Well, another option is a blood oath.

I’m this 🤏 close to admitting you into our psych ward.

Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. There’s no shame in it!

Please, get fucked (literally 😛).

You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.

The layout is pretty simple — pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You don’t waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They aren’t at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddy’s Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration — and you’re about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:

A Helping Hand.

“Okay, a little on the nose,” you mumble to yourself.

It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but he’s got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: “I guess, this is my new hobby.”

You’re positive that it won’t 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, there’s just silence.

And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:

“Hi, baby. You look so tired,” he murmurs. “You’ve had a hard day, I can tell.”

You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you — how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this stranger’s voice made heat flash in your stomach.

You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.

“All that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I can’t have you going to sleep so tense.”

Yeah, you don’t 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 didn’t realize that you were holding. And you don’t 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.

“Don’t worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.”

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: he’s 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. He’s telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers would’ve felt much better.

Then he’s 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.

“Need you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. “Don’t think about anything. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

Your thoughts are light; there’s 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 — laid out for him on your bedcovers. And there’s 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 —

“Wish I could feel how wet you are right now.”

Your eyelids flutter open.

You probably should’ve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you aren’t as opposed to it as you thought you would be. You’re just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties —

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:

“Touch yourself.”

Barely a second passes before you do.

This isn’t 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:

“want you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,”

“apply more pressure with your index finger — feels good, yeah? c’mon, don’t stop,”

“now move a little lower, feel what a mess you’re making. I know you must be dripping”.

He’s right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.

“I bet you’d feel so tight around my fingers,” he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.

If he was here, in your room, you’d shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.

“Want you to put a finger in,” he orders. “Imagine that it’s mine.”

You start with one. Just one, and yet, it’s 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 — or guesses — where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:

“But mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,” — you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, — “There you go. Don’t rush it, we’ve got time. I’d never rush it with you, honey.”

Despite you trying to move slowly, you’re 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 you’re 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.

“Want you to go faster,” his words come out in low grunts. “Yes, keep going, don’t 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 —”

Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.

You’re 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 you’re too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.

Before you know it, you are fast asleep.

What’s meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you don’t really feel ashamed about it.

There is a certain thrill to it — having a secret you don’t want to share, the one thing you can’t 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 he’d 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 — the stranger’s voice reminds you of Jack’s.

It can’t be him, of course.

You wish it was.

You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that he’s been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldn’t be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.

So, since you’re 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 PTMC’s 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 Garcia’s cases, you’re lucky to assist Javadi’s mother a few times. And even though you feel that Park’s a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.

You don’t see Jack. He’s 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.

It’s no surprise that you’re working on the 4th.

And it’s predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse — and way more gruesome — 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.

“Look who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?” Robby puts on a smile to greet you.

“Garcia is still operating on Howard, Park’s dealing with your water slide case. I’m just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.”

“Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight.”

“Didn’t count on it.”

He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. “Here’s the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.”

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 doesn’t see you yet. You can’t help but notice — 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.

“I’m gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!”

“You hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!”

“Because you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!”

“You’re the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be —”

“Take yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,” Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isn’t 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:

“Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character — 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 aren’t 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 isn’t the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them — intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his “shut” and “fucking”. You aren’t surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.

You’re struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.

“If his heart was damaged, he surely wouldn’t be yelling,” Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. “But the stabbing’s definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?”

“Cardiac box it is. I’d bet on a pneumothorax,” you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you aren’t looking at the patient.

Jack grabs the scissors to remove the man’s clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasn’t managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric — 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 you’re staring at him, and he has no idea why.

It’s almost funny to imagine how you’d explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that I’ve been getting off to the sound of your voice.

But at the moment, you aren’t laughing.

You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This can’t be happening. It cannot actually be him.

“Do an ultrasound to get a confirmation, I’ll go up to prep the OR,” 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 it’s him — his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things — you don’t think you’ll 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 Park’s dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe could’ve 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 you’re about to hear Jack.

It doesn’t ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.

Because it’s not some random guy — it’s 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 could’ve made you gag around his cock.

“Ass up for me, baby,” he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight — you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. “Bet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. C’mon, be a good girl. Show me.”

You never even think about reaching for your toys. You don’t need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.

“Want you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,” Jack rasps, “Because it’s all I think about,” and you’re 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, “I know you’ll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.”

His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.

“I’d make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until you’re sobbing for me to fill you up,” he whispers heatedly. “I 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.”

And he is right, you would be.

“Like you were made for it. For me.”

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 don’t let her say a word.

“Hey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldn’t 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?”

“Wow, are you already on cocaine?” Javadi laughs.

“No, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. You’re coming to the same bar this Friday, right?”

“Yep, that’s the plan. You decided to join us?”

“I’m thinking about it. But I’m gonna be at least an hour late, cause I’d have to get home to change and then —”

“Or you can just come right after work. The place isn’t that fancy. You can do casual.”

“I don’t want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, it’d be nice to actually feel pretty for once.”

“Oh, cut the crap, I know you’d look great in anything!”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again —”

“O-ooh.”

“No, don’t oh at me. You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“If Abbot shows up, I’m gonna tell him that you are coming too, so he’ll stay and wait for you.”

“Okay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.”

“You’re both kinda predictable,” Javadi notes with a chuckle. “When he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you weren’t there.”

“Or he just remembered he left the stove on and didn’t want his flat to burn down. It’s not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.”

“He didn’t need to,” she argues. “He 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 didn’t come. Wished us a good night and took off, didn’t even take his beer.”

That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment — until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?

“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. “The spinal fusion should take about three hours.”

“Ugh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.”

“It is pretty cool.”

“And I am very glad you think that,” she’s quick to reassure. “Go fuse some vertebrae, so we’ll have something to drink to!”

The surgery takes four hours.

It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Park’s curt advice and your own strategic guesses — 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.

“Good call about rotating the metal plates,” Park says, his voice emotionless. Like he’s not sure himself that it’s a compliment.

Still, you take it.

“Thank you, I did some reading beforehand,” you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. “Should help with healing, too. But knock on wood, we’ll see what his post-op scans show.”

And you’re already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patient’s file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if you’re lucky, you’ll be home in 20 —

“Abbot was right about you.”

That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You haven’t seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.

You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:

“Care to explain?”

“He wrote you a recommendation letter. Didn’t he tell you?” he casually clarifies. “Not that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,” the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, “Abbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.”

“Hold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,” and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. “So he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?”

“Yes. About the letter.”

“About me, you mean.”

“The letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,” he deadpans. “Is this interrogation over?”

“Oh, come on, that was only two questions. Don’t act like I am waterboarding you,” you huff, hands on your hips.

Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. You’re half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.

“He talks about you, you talk about him,” Park muses coolly. “You guys just need to fuck it out.”

He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.

And under other circumstances, you would’ve 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: Jack’s 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 you’d do great. Two sentences was all he managed.

And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!

You’d really like to get a fucking explanation.

You don’t 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 doesn’t 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.

“Her face clearly suggests she’s not interested. Get lost.”

“Hello to you too,” he whistles, leering at you. “You wanna be our third, babygirl? I’m always down for... some new experiences.”

“I can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? It’s when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you don’t leave in 10 seconds.”

“You’re into human anatomy? That’s hot,” the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.

“I’m 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? You’ve got seven seconds. Six —”

“Geez, fucking chill, girl,” he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.

Javadi snorts a laugh. “Thank you, he was so annoying, I just didn’t want to make a scene. You’d think the "Let’s go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but —” and then she takes you in — your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Abbot?”

“It depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?”

“You may be a witness.”

“I don’t think that’s any better,” but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that there’s no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.”

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 didn’t.

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 don’t stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isn’t meant to be.

The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesn’t help to cool you down. You’re walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you — 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 —

You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.

“Hey,” he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at arm’s length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. “Is everything alright? The way you left got me worried.”

“Yeah, everything’s just peachy.”

But Jack ignores your sarcasm — or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. “Is it Park? Did something happen?”

And his concern doesn’t sound feigned.

It all comes to your mind at once — 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.

“Why does everyone assume— You know what? Park is actually perfect,” you snap at him. “He 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!”

“Ok-kay,” Jack draws, “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing?”

“It’s freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,” and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. “Because you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe!”

Your hands don’t hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, he’s speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:

“Wait, what?”

“You wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldn’t 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?!” and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. “You act all nicely, you’re glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and your— your smirking! And what’s 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?! It’s not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!” you huff angrily.

Still, he isn’t moving.

“Sure, it didn’t mean anything to you, you don’t like me like that. And I love surgery, I’m glad I transferred, I wouldn’t want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out — oh, you’re actually very talkative! And it’s not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because it’s been so damn exhausting — not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice and—” you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, “And honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.”

The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness — but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jack’s cheeks. You don’t back off — instead, you take your phone out and click the app’s 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 you’re an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasn’t really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isn’t on any apps nor is he —

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 — to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.

“It got that bad, huh?” a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops — to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. “F’course, I can help you out. Should’ve asked me sooner, sweetheart.”

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, he’s lethal.

When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that you’re disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.

“Mine or yours?” he asks calmly.

“W-what?”

“My place or yours?”

You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. “Mine is about 40 minutes away.”

Emotion flashes across his face — surprise that’s borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.

“I live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,” Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.

You let him.

You know it’s impolite to gawk, but you can’t help it — you’re 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 — from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also don’t think he spends too much time in here.

“So how many roommates do you have?” you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.

“None,” Jack chuckles. “It’s my apartment.”

“You live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,” your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. “I’m serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them won’t even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? —”

He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.

“How about I do the talking,” 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, “I’ll walk you to the bedroom.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

There is no build-up and no hesitation — he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like he’s 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 you’ve 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 — you’re blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.

He tsks against your lips. “Careful, you almost ran into a wall.”

“Well, it’s not like I can really see —”

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 — 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.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what to do?” you want your words to sound like a challenge — instead, they come out as a plea.

You don’t mind. There’s nothing on your mind but him.

Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.

“Ask me nicely,” he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.

And he already knows that he won’t meet resistance — 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 doesn’t pull it down. And you’re glad that you aren’t standing, because the way he’s staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

You do not need to ask him twice.

Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans — 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 he’s climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesn’t hover over you — because he’s equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.

His lips trap you in place — 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 —

then Jack sucks in a breath.

His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:

“No bra?”

“I don’t— don’t like the feeling of it,” 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.

“And how’d you like this?” 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 heartbeat’s pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave —

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.

“Show me how you do it.”

“You— Um. You want me to show you how—”

“Touch yourself for me,” 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 — 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. “I want these off. Need to see you, baby.”

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 can’t help but moan.

You do not wait for his command — you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jack’s cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.

“So what’s the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?” he muses with a grin. “I see, I have some room for improvisation,” and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, “You’re doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.”

You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jack’s 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 — and then one slips inside.

Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. “Would you look at that,” his voice is low, teasing, “Your pussy’s drooling all over the bed.” And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. “Go ahead, make yourself cum.”

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 — Jack’s 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 you’re so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But something’s missing.

“What’s wrong? Your fingers aren’t enough?” Jack taunts. “Does my girl want me to help her?”

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.

“Tell me what you want,” Jack whispers, lips to your ear.

“I w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please —”

But just as you’re 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 you’re adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.

“Relax for me. I know you can take all four,” 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 — then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you don’t 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 you’re doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.

“Yes, just like that,” Jack murmurs. “Feels good, doesn’t it? About to get even better.”

This time, only his hand is moving while he’s staying still, drinking you up — your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds you’re making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as you’re getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.

Jack’s other hand comes up to turn your face to him:

“Eyes on me.”

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, you’re 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 you’re yet to satisfy.

Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.

It’s hot, it’s 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 you’re still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Wanna get a proper taste,” 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.

“Jack, I’m very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,” you don’t bother hiding your impatience. “And please, take your damn clothes off.”

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.

“Someone’s very eager,” 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.

“Makes two of us,” 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 you’re climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: he’s thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than you’ve 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:

“I have an IUD, I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone for a while.” 

“Me neither. For way longer than you probably,” 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.

“This okay?”

Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.

Jack gets it. “Yeah, m’fine. You want me to...?”

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.

“I couldn’t care less,” 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 he’d feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:

“We both know I don’t need that.”

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 —

And right then, Jack’s hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you can’t move. Can’t lower yourself on him.

“Now, where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asks, playfully cruel.

He knows you’re 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.

“I want you, please, I want you so fucking much,” your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, “Want you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time you— you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them or— fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-please—”

Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.

“Months, huh? I know the feeling,” 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. He’s easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jack’s watching you — your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as you’re 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 you’ve 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.

“You are— s’big, so-o —”

“Breathe for me,” 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. “Need you to start moving, baby. Yeah?”

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.

“There she is.”

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.

“Look how well you’re taking me,” Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. “Just like I knew you would.”

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:

“Who do you think I thought about—” his fingers move down to open your legs wider, “While making all these audios—” and he plunges deeper, “For my favorite girl—” and your moans pitch louder, “After her tiresome shifts?”

You’re too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. You’re only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.

“I’m— I’m close,” you mewl. “M’gonna cum, Ja-ack.”

“Think I should let you?” he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.

“P-please,” you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, “Wanna cum, wanna— want you— t-to make me cum, please.”

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:

“That’s a good — fucking — girl.”

His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze — 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 doesn’t 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 — against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises — or just the letters of your name, you honestly can’t tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.

“Yeah, that’s right. Need your head empty,” Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. “Need you to only think about how good I’m fucking you.”

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:

“Let go, baby. I got you.”

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 — the way you look, feel, finally his — pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, he’s powerless against it. Jack’s 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:

“You good?”

You nod first. Then open your mouth:

“That was—” you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, “Literally the best sex I’ve ever had.” Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.

Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty — 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 won’t 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. “Come here.”

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.

“You spend too much time on your feet,” you say, working your fingers over his muscles. “And you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like it’s made out of concrete.”

Without even looking, you can tell that now he’s 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 isn’t shy about his disability, but he doesn’t like bringing attention to it, you’ve noticed. Like living with it isn’t hard, like it’s not that big of a deal. You also know that he’s 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 it’s working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.

“I try to take breaks, but you know how it is. We’re always busy,” Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you can’t possibly be angry at.

“Shen’s an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Don’t act like the ER’s gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,” you turn your head to look at him.

Jack doesn’t meet you with defiance — he’s 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 prosthesis’s 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 don’t know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didn’t 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 —

Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until you’re pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:

“You really like it in surgery, don’t you?”

“I do,” you answer honestly. “Way more than I thought I would. I was afraid it’d be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But it’s not that hard. And I love learning.”

He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. “Even with an attending who’s as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?”

“I think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Park’s teaching me how to mend bones, I’m giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.”

Jack’s 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 you’d make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.

“You said I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” Jack recalls.

“I didn’t mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,” you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you should’ve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. “From 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,” he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions he’s been holding back for months. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.”

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. “Funny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.”

“My therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,” Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. “But you were the one who gave me the idea.”

“Um, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasn’t mine.”

His chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t 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 — and I quote — that I’ve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.”

You cover your face with your palm, groaning. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.”

“I didn’t,” Jack says and pulls your hand away. “Everything you do and say is very memorable to me,” 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. “So, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?”

“Yeah. Give or take,” you tell him vaguely.

He doesn’t buy it. “And if we’re being more specific?”

“Closer to an hour,” you admit reluctantly. “But the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so —”

“You can move in here.”

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 doesn’t mean it.

“You aren’t serious,” you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. “No, I really— I can’t.”

Jack props his head up on one hand. “Why not?”

“Because it’s your apartment. You’re living on your own, and I wouldn’t want to bother you or— or take up too much space.”

“Didn’t you say this place can fit a football team? So unless you’re gonna bring another 10 people with you...”

“No, it’s just me,” you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since you’re out of arguments, the only thing you’re left with is the truth. “I don’t want you to regret it later on.”

“I won’t regret it.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.”

“Yeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isn’t 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 I’ve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?” you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. “And then we’ll 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 —”

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 — 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:

“You usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when you’re tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,” his smile grows wider. “You 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 don’t iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and I’ll make sure to stock up on ice cream. I’ve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when you’re upset or nervous. Which I can handle,” but there is no pressure behind his reasoning — instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, “I know enough, and I’d love to learn the rest. If you let me.”

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.

“Okay,” 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.

“You’re not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,” Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. “What time do you need to wake up?”

“M’not working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,” you mumble.

“Good,” he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you — and then adds in a tender whisper, “Good girl.”

You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know you’re about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:

no, this definitely isn’t a one-time thing.

✧ dividers by @/strangergraphics, @/saradika-graphics, @/omi-resources, @/cafekitsune; ✧ I usually don’t like diving a fic into shorter “parts”, but it felt right in the moment, and I hope it didn’t 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 COULDN’T HELP MYSELF! ✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

[houseofhyde]

but kiss me & i might... ⤷ jack abbot x nurse!reader ⌇ 23.1k

✶ ― SYNOPSIS. the 5 times jack abbot walks you home + the 1st time you invite him in.

warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, night-shift nurse!reader, colleagues to lovers, slow burn, smut (jack pussy pleaser abbot and his big dick, soft dom jack, fingering, piv, unprotected sex, praise, creampie, cum play, cum eating, smothering?, sex against a wall + cowgirl, hair pulling [jack receiving], slight dubcon as they are both tipsy), age gap (reader is early 30s), fluff, pining, longing, workplace romance, mentions of mental health struggles + therapy as consequence of the pittfest tragedy, violence + workplace assault, jack calls the reader kid but it's only as a coping mechanism!!! (he's down bad), one too many references to drop dead by olivia rodrigo, no mentions of jack's late wife or his wedding ring, 1 reference to a scene from the movie fresh. i tried my best to represent jack's life as an amputee as respectfully as possible, deepest apologies if i failed to do so. ᯓ★ hyde's input. wrote most of this in the hospital, boots on the ground journalism. 𓂃✍︎ dt. huge big fat sloppy wet kiss for miss @pinksplace for popping my beta-reader cherry and reassuring me that this was not straight up buns, no hotdog. your friendship means the absolute world to me, the fact you match my freak is just a bonus. and to my cousin @iamthatonefangirl for telling me to watch the pitt back in february, you helped awaken something in me that had been dormant for months. & to me for continuing my tradition of posting a fic on my birthday, finishing this was my present to myself.

follow @houseofjekyll + turn on notifications to know when i post a new fic!

The first time feels like a fluke.

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

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

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

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

Then there were two.

Abbot and you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack pays it no mind.

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

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

The journey is slow.

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

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

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

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

Neither of you should have been at the Pitt.

One man and a weapon had changed that.

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

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

The reason doesn’t ultimately matter.

What matters is you’re finally speaking.

“Did you litter?”

Not exactly what Jack expected you to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vague, unspecified.

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

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

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

You’re not crying, not yet.

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

Attending physician. Nurse. Colleagues.

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

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

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

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

You take a steadying breath.

It doesn’t work.

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

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

“I only worked on-”

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

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

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

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

You laugh, slightly.

It eases something in Jack’s chest, nonetheless.

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

Now Jack is the one laughing.

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

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

There is no grand goodbye between you.

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

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

Once again, not a question. An order.

The second time is all about convenience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dingus? What are we, five?”

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

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

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

Mateo reaches for the bag, again.

You dodge it, again.

You glide to the left.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take her home.”

Never a question, always an order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you let him walk you home.

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

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

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

You know immediately who he’s referring to.

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

Understandably, he had been screaming up a storm.

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

Jack had offered to shut the patient up.

You had a more peaceful idea.

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

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

But this is different.

Jack is different.

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

Worst of all, you think he knows.

He has to, right?

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

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

Right.

James.

The crying baby.

Your peaceful idea.

That’s what you’re both talking about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the imagery they conjure.

Positive tests and hospital visits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack hadn't known about the nightmares.

Or the sickening doubt.

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

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

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

Jack scoffs.

“Nobody likes therapy.”

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

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

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

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

You will yourself to strip your bag from his grasp.

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“That’s my girl.”

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

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

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

The fourth time is a matter of protocol.

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

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

Not his own.

Yours.

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

She needed you to check on a patient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack frowns before he can even think to stop himself.

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

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

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

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

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

“John, I swear to-”

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

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

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

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

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

“Son of a-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until you move.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

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

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

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

He leaves no room for debate.

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

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

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

Something in your demeanour has shifted.

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

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

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

A shiver forces him to break the silence.

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

“Wait a second, would you, kid?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not quite finished digging through his bag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have other plans.

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

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

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

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

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

Jack is no stranger to stomach-churning sights.

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

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

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

You interrupt his collapse of self-control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack needs more.

The fifth time is a matter of routine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abbot didn’t correct her.

Your girl.

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

As you assist Dr Ellis, passing her a scalpel.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you even listening to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You finish on time, for once.

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

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

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

“Rough night?”

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

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

Why haven’t you left?

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

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

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

Instead, it’s become his signature.

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

“Do you have any gum?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never. You?”

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

“To Japan?” He nods. “Yeah, maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, there is the time where lines blur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you ever tried to break up a marriage?

Mel drinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack doesn’t answer immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, no! We have to head to Passion!

Ew, Passion sucks. Every surface is… sticky.

Can’t we just go anywhere that offers karaoke?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth opens, ready to answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shen doesn’t need Sunday off.”

“Oh.”

“I knew you were off tonight.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m… Big.”

And cue the laughing track.

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

“How big?”

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

Silence haunts the space between you.

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

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

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

“Take it out.”

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

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

The switch is instant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love what, kid?”

“Your cock.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, it has the opposite affect on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ extra hyde!

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

[witchywithwhiskey]

do you want the kitchen tour?

pairing: chef!jack abbot x female reader

summary: when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), some verbal and physical abuse against reader during her date, reader sustains a minor injury (bruised wrist), some hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap, porn with feelings, kinda instalove, eventual smut, dry humping, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, big cock, cock warming, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, come eating, marking/hickeys, sorta scent kink, dirty talk, chef kink, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby), aftercare, happy ending

word count: 26.0k

a/n: it's finally hereeeee!!! i've been working on nothing else but this fic for the last month and it's finally done 😮‍💨😭 it was inspired by Shawn Hatosy's Quinn audio (although i haven't actually listened to it yet). i just had to write something for chef!Jack Abbot, and i'm really happy with how this turned out! it feels almost like a smutty little romance novella, which i think is cool. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!!

if you'd rather read the fic broken down into chapters, check it out on AO3

“Hey, chef.”

With just those two words, Jack Abbot knew his night was about to take a turn for the worse. Nothing good could come from the underlying urgency and overt hesitance in the voice of one of his servers, Nazely Toomarian.

But Jack also knew, from his years as head chef and owner of one of Pittsburgh’s most popular fine dining restaurants, Night Shift, that it wasn’t Nazely’s fault. No, it was very likely to be one of the insufferable guests who frequented his restaurant who ruined his night.

So Jack swallowed his sigh, kept stirring the sauce of that night’s special, and glanced at his server, giving her a nod to go on.

“We’ve got a situation in the dining room.”

Of course they did.

Jack finally let loose the sigh that had been building between his ribs, wondering distractedly if the situation was some jagoff businessman’s card declining, an impossible-to-please socialite sending every bite of her food back, or if another influencer was insisting on getting their meal comped in exchange for free publicity on their Instagram or TikTok or whatever.

Jack knew he was old and out of touch—that was why he’d hired one of the daytime servers, Victoria Javadi, to run the restaurant’s social media—but he also knew a scam when he saw it. Someone who genuinely wanted to work with him asked about partnership deals before eating an entire meal they expected to be free.

Grumbling about influencers under his breath, Jack gave the sauce on the stove one last stir, adding a little more salt, then handed the wooden spoon off to his sous chef, John Shen. Quickly, but methodically, Jack took off his gloves, turned to Nazely, and tucked his arms behind his back—a remnant from his days in the army.

“What kind of a situation?” Jack asked, his voice calm and measured even as he was already preparing himself for the worst.

The chef listened attentively as his server explained what had brought her back into the kitchen with that concerned look in her eyes. The frown on Jack’s face deepened the more he heard about the date going decidedly bad in his dining room.

Finally, Nazely finished up her story with a breathless, “Do you want me to have security handle it?”

Jack knew it was the easiest solution, to call security and have them escort the man creating the situation out of the restaurant. But it would cause a scene, and everyone else in the packed restaurant would be talking more about what had happened than his food.

It would be better for Night Shift’s business if Jack could remedy the situation himself, as quietly as possible.

Instead of answering his server’s question, Jack walked to the double swinging doors that led out to the dining room. He peered through the window, feeling a bit like a king overlooking his kingdom, and he had a sudden, fierce impulse to protect it.

“Which table was it?” Jack asked, glancing back at Nazely, who’d followed him to the doors.

“Table 12,” she answered quickly.

Jack looked out across the sea of glamorous guests dining in his restaurant, a swell of pride in his heart when he saw beyond the expensive clothes and glitzy jewelry to the smiles and laughter of people enjoying his food. In his heart of hearts, Jack just wanted to make food people liked eating, and it never failed to overwhelm him when he got a chance to see the delight he brought to complete strangers who’d entrusted their time and money to him.

Pushing those thoughts and feelings aside for the moment, Jack focused back on the room, his eyes tracking along the tables until he found the one Nazely had indicated. For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot’s heart skipped a beat and he froze at the sight in front of him.

The first thing about you that rendered Jack speechless was your mouth, the curve of your lips, the tension around the edges as you hid a frown behind a sip of wine. Jack knew, instinctively, that your lips would look gorgeous when you smiled, that your mouth would look exquisite while eating his food—and he knew, too, that he’d do anything to make you smile, to feed you, to take care of you.

Jack shook his head at those thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the situation Nazely had told him about, the date going irreparably sideways.

Still, the chef couldn’t help but rake his eyes over you, telling himself he was simply assessing how much distress you were in. Jack noted the stiffness in your shoulders, how you were curling in on yourself slightly, like your body was trying to protect itself. He also noticed the pretty color of your eyes, the curve of your cheekbones, the sweep of your dress at it fell across your thighs.

You were beautiful, enchanting in a way Jack hadn’t experienced in a long, long time—and you were miserable. That much was clear from your body language and the way you regarded your date with no small amount of disgust and fear deep in your pretty eyes.

Finally, the chef dragged his gaze across your table to your date.

Immediately, Jack didn’t like the arrogant slant of the man’s shoulders, the imperious tilt of his chin, or the pompous way he held his glass as he spoke and drank. Even the way the man took a sip of wine, smacking his lips before resuming his tirade where he’d left off, made anger coil like a poised predator in Jack’s gut.

Something shifted in the man, and Jack looked back at you, seeing indignant rage boiling beneath the surface of your expression. Jack watched you say something through bared teeth, hissing at your date like you were trying not to make a scene.

Your hands were braced against the edge of the table, and you pushed to stand—but then your date moved to stop you, grabbing your wrist, and something in Jack snapped.

Later, he’d tell himself he would’ve had the same reaction if any man had put his hands on a woman in his restaurant. But in that moment, he was driven almost entirely by the edge of something else threaded through the fury in his chest—something greedy and selfish that you, and only you, had inspired in him.

“I’ll handle this myself,” Jack growled, tossing the words over his shoulder at Nazely without taking his eyes off where your date’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist, holding you chained to the table like a misbehaving pet.

All Jack could think, as he strode across the dining room, his chest churning with wrath and violence, was that it was a good thing he didn’t have a knife in his hand.

You were on the date from hell.

And the worst part? You weren’t even sure when everything had gone wrong.

Was it when you’d let your coworker set you up with her boyfriend’s best friend, a man named Curtis Larsen?

Was it when you’d gotten your hopes up and donned your favorite dress—the black fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places and showing off your legs—only for Curtis not to say a word when he picked you up from your office building in downtown Pittsburgh?

Was it when you decided you could put up with his pretentious posturing about his job and his golf game to enjoy one night at Night Shift, the restaurant you’d always wanted to try but could never afford?

Hiding a sigh by taking a sip of your wine—a bitter red you’d never have ordered for yourself—you decided that was probably when things had gone wrong.

From the moment you’d gotten into Curtis’s car, he’d been nothing but insufferable. You should’ve left before walking into the restaurant, but you’d heard such good things about Night Shift, and its head chef Jack Abbot, that you’d ignored your instincts and soldiered on.

You were rewarded for your selfishness by watching Curtis talk down to everyone he came across—the hostess, who sat you in the middle of the dining room only for Curtis to complain you weren’t in one of the booths; the server, who tried to recite the night’s specials only to be interrupted by Curtis asking about a specific dish; the sommelier, who had to put up with Curtis acting like he knew more about wine than the man whose job it was.

It was all you could do to offer the restaurant workers apologetic smiles and slip them some money from your own purse when Curtis wasn’t looking. You tried to grin and bear it, to soak up the ambience of the restaurant despite the black hole of unearned smugness sitting across from you.

Truthfully, Night Shift was spectacular enough to almost distract you from your horrible date and everything that was wrong with him.

The space was decorated in rich, emerald greens and dark, roughhewn wood, with real, lustrous plants and other greenery breaking up the dining room to give each table a pretense of privacy. Warm candles and low lighting gave the restaurant an intimate atmosphere, even while it was packed full.

All told, Night Shift was the perfect place for a date. It was too bad you were there with a man who might’ve been worse than the devil.

You were hiding another frown behind a sip of your disgusting wine when Curtis launched into a tirade about how the woman he’d marry should have a respectable job and make a good salary—and she’d also be responsible for keeping his house clean and taking care of his kids.

It took all of your self-control to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. You weren’t exactly surprised—you’d been set up with enough financial analysts like Curtis to know a lot of them were useless assholes who wanted a mommy more than a wife. But you could feel your desire to put up with the date for the sake of trying Night Shift’s food slipping away, and you hadn’t even ordered your appetizers yet.

Resolving to treat yourself to a dinner at Night Shift for your next birthday, you interrupted Curtis’s egotistical diatribe about modern women and tried to politely excuse yourself. You were kinder than you thought he deserved when you told him you didn’t think the two of you were a good fit and it would save you both some time to cut the date short.

But Curtis’s eyes flashed in a way that had fear suddenly bursting in your gut, and his expression turned mean as he leaned forward across the small table, invading your space.

“The date isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Curtis said, his voice so cold, you froze in your seat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

For a moment, you sat in your seat in surprise. You’d been on some bad dates, and while some of the men had reacted badly when you’d left early, none of them had scared you the way Curtis was. There was something so aggressive about the way he spoke, and it was then that you noticed a strange haze in his eyes.

Was he… high?

Thankfully, a sever must’ve caught Curtis’s words, or his tone of voice, because she came over to check on you. Her brown eyes were sharp, but kind as they stayed fixed on you, asking if everything was okay.

“We’re fine,” you told her weakly, giving her the most reassuring smile you could offer while silently begging her to help you somehow. You didn’t want to make a scene, and you were sure the restaurant didn’t want that either, but you would if you needed to.

That’s what you hoped to convey, and you thought the server might’ve understood because she gave a firm nod and headed off with a determined spring in her step. You saw her walk quickly toward the kitchen before your attention was diverted by Curtis.

“You better not embarrass me in front of the staff,” Curtis was saying, clutching his wine glass a little too tight and swirling the liquid enough that you worried he’d spill some on the expensive decor. “I bring a lot of high-profile clients here, I can’t have you leaving early—you know how people like them talk.”

The fear you’d felt melted away in the face of indignant anger on behalf of the restaurant staff—who Curtis had treated like garbage since he’d walked in. It was a miracle he was even allowed in the doors after what you’d seen that evening.

“What kind of people is that exactly?” you asked, quiet fury lacing your voice. You could put up with the indignity of being ordered around by your date, but you wouldn’t sit by and listen to him disparage the people who’d only tried to help the two of you that evening.

Curtis clearly didn’t hear the warning in your tone, because he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, gesturing thoughtlessly with his hand holding his wine. Some sloshed over the edge, spilling on the floor.

“You know, low-class people.”

There was so much casual disdain dripping from his voice, you had to wonder, if Curtis was such a regular at Night Shift, why hadn’t the sommelier poisoned him already—it’s not like the world wouldn’t be better off without your date, who was somehow still talking.

“The type of people too poor to get a real job—like us,” Curtis said, fixing you with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. It did not make him look like a winner.

At the implication that you were anything like Curtis, your stomach roiled unpleasantly, and you were suddenly afraid that what little wine you’d drank was about to come back up.

That was it, you’d officially reached the end of your patience. You didn’t care if it caused a scene, you couldn’t spend another moment in this man’s presence without vomiting.

“You’re a small-dicked, pathetic excuse for a man, Curtis Larsen,” you hissed at him, trying to keep your fury in check as you braced your hands against the edge of the table and moved to stand. “And I would fuck every one of the people who worked here before I let you anywhere near me —”

As you pushed yourself up from the table, Curtis reached for you quicker than you would’ve expected, snatching your wrist in his big, meaty hand. He yanked on your arm hard enough that you sat back down, biting back a cry as a jolt of pain shot through your shoulder.

“Don’t you dare fucking try to leave,” Curtis snarled, his face contorted into an ugly mask of rage. It was clearer, in that moment, that he was high. It was making him more aggressive, so even when you tried to pull free of his grasp, he held on tighter, hurting you even more.

Just then, movement over Curtis’s shoulder caught your attention and your gaze snagged on a man pushing through the door to the kitchen, an air of violence and vengeance about him that made your heart leap in hope. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence weak-willed men like Curtis could only dream of, and he was heading straight for your table.

In the brief time it took the man to make his way through the dining room, you took stock of his appearance. The first thing you noticed was how handsome he was. Silvery, steel gray curls were swept back from his face, giving you a clear view of his sharp, hazel eyes, straight nose and a soft mouth bracketed by short stubble.

The man was clearly older than you, in his 50s, but he looked competent and put together in a way that had your belly swooping as your eyes raked down his body. A plain white t-shirt stretched around his bulging biceps, freckles dusted down his tanned, weathered arms. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were accentuated by the brown apron hanging from his neck.

Something about the man looked familiar, like you’d seen him somewhere before, but between the pain in your wrist, the fear inspired by Curtis’s aggressive change in mood, and the sudden attraction you felt toward the handsome chef, you couldn’t place him.

At least, not until you looked back at his face and saw the intent determination in his expression. It was the same exceedingly hot look he’d been wearing in the photos you’d seen—the ones in the article about Night Shift and its chef-slash-owner.

You realized, with sudden clarity, two very important things: The man approaching your table was the restaurant’s owner and world-renowned head chef, Jack Abbot. And he looked furious enough about the way Curtis was still holding on to you that he was liable to murder your date.

Jack Abbot could not kill a restaurant guest.

He could not. No matter how much that guest might deserve it for putting his filthy fucking hands on a woman in his restaurant. No matter how much Jack wanted to rip this guy’s head off for daring to touch someone as sweet-looking as you.

He could not kill a guest. He could not kill a guest.

Those words were a refrain playing in his head as he made his way to your table, the one with the situation Nazely had told him about—a situation that had clearly escalated to physical. Because your date had put his hand on you and all Jack could think about was murder.

He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him he’d hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that he’d stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldn’t cut off the guest’s hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.

Jack was nearly at the table when he heard your date talking, and he immediately recognized the smarmy voice of Night Shift’s #1 worst regular: Curtis Larsen.

In that moment, Jack knew he should’ve banned the guy after the last time he came in, when he’d terrorized the staff and tipped basically nothing for their efforts. Well, that was a mistake Jack was going to rectify immediately, once he got you away from the shithead.

So focused on his thoughts, and trying to quell his inclination toward murder, Jack didn’t fully register what Curtis was saying until he was right next to the table.

“—Didn’t take you for such a cheap whore—”

Any possibility of Jack politely interrupting Curtis went out the window when he heard those words. What came out of him instead was: “Sir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

Jack was louder than he’d meant to be, making you gasp softly. His gaze found you, wanting to make sure he hadn’t scared you, and he ended up getting lost in your eyes. They were bright and smart, and watching him with such a keen interest, it made Jack feel 20 years younger.

It was then that Jack really looked at you, and he realized just how young you were. Not young enough to make him feel like a complete creep, but… young enough to make him feel at least a little bit like a creep.

Especially when he raked his eyes down your body—telling himself he was just checking to make sure you were okay—and he couldn’t help but notice the way your dress clung to your curves, taunting him with how high the hem rode up your thigh. Your bare legs were a tease beneath the tablecloth, and Jack wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looked…

Reminding himself that you needed help, not to be ogled by a creepy older man, Jack shook himself free of the spell you’d cast on him with your wide, trusting eyes and your pretty, tempting curves. He turned to Curtis, giving the man his most fearsome glower, the one that kept the most unruly of restaurant guests in line.

“And keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Jack growled, making a point of looking down at where Curtis’s hand was still holding your wrist before returning his gaze to the man’s face. “Or do I need to teach you a lesson about putting your hands on woman without her consent?”

Jack knew he sounded dangerous—unhinged, probably—but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his thinly veiled threat did the trick and Curtis let go of you like he was dropping a hot pan.

Something settled in Jack’s chest, and he felt soothed knowing he hadn’t even needed to resort to violence to save you from Curtis. But that feeling quickly shriveled as Jack watched you bring your hand to our chest and cradle your wrist.

He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap you up in his arms and tell you no one would ever hurt you again. Not on his watch. But somehow, Jack managed to keep his hands tucked behind his back, even as the tips of his fingers prickled with the desire to touch you, to soothe you.

Those thoughts and urges were troubling enough, but then you lifted your eyes and gave Curtis a withering look that had the other man cowering almost as much as he had under Jack’s glare. The chef felt a threat of pride weave through his heart.

Jack could see your strength, your resilience, and he knew in that moment that you could take care of yourself. You could’ve freed yourself from Curtis’s hold, you hadn’t needed saving, but that only made Jack want to whisk you away all the more. He wanted to take care of you in a way he’d never felt before.

Biting back a sigh at himself, Jack realized one very important thing: He was a goner for you. Already. Even though he didn’t even know your name.

Unable and unwilling to stop himself from acting selfishly, Jack held a hand out to you, giving you a soft, encouraging smile and nodding toward your hurt wrist.

“My name’s Jack, I own this restaurant. Can I take a look, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, a low, raspy rumble that he hoped felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “I used to be a medic in the army.”

It made Jack’s heart soar when you looked at him for a moment, like you were taking his measure, and decided you could trust him. Your fingers were soft and a little cold as they slipped into Jack’s plam, his own hand closing reflexively around them to warm you up.

Carefully, Jack turned your wrist one way, then the other, bending low over your hand to examine whether it was injured. All the while, he kept an eye on your face, watching for any wince or twinge in your expression to indicate he was hurting you.

Thankfully—for you, for Jack, and most especially for your date—it didn’t look like Curtis had done any real damage.

“No sprain, just some bruising,” Jack said, giving your fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze and lifting his gaze to yours. He nearly lost himself in the admiration and gratefulness in your eyes, but managed to continue. “I have some ibuprofen in my office.”

Your eyes widened a little in surprise, and Jack was forced to endure the torment of watching you nibble on your lower lip while uncertainty filled your expression. He understood your reticence to trust a man so soon after another had hurt you, so Jack tried to put you at ease.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart, do you want the kitchen tour?”

Jack shot you a cheesy, hopefully charming wink, and when you let out a soft giggle, shaking your head at him like you couldn’t believe how corny he was, he felt like he was flying. He felt like he could soar above all of Pittsburgh with only the confidence he earned from making you laugh.

“That would be nice,” you said, looking up at him from under your lashes. Jack was immediately entranced by your voice, by the way your lips moved as you spoke. “Thank you, chef.”

It did absurdly wild things to Jack’s heart, which was already beating a fast, staccato rhythm in his chest, to hear you call him ‘chef’. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, it was a title he heard about a hundred times a night from dozens of other people.

But hearing it from your pretty mouth made Jack feel like it was a badge of honor, and he was glad to have earned it.

Distracted by thinking of ways to get you to call him ‘chef’ some more, it wasn’t until you clutched his fingers more tightly that he remembered he’d intended to get you away from Curtis as quickly as possible. Using it as an excuse to keep holding your hand, Jack helped you to stand up.

When he was sure you were steady on your feet, after wobbling for a moment in your heels, Jack nodded to your chair and said, “Grab your things, angel. You won’t be coming back.”

Even though Jack was leaning into you when he said it, Curtis must’ve caught the words because his expression turned from icy resignation to red-hot fury as he pushed himself to stand. But Jack was quicker, putting himself between you and your former date, growling at the younger man before he could fully stand up.

“Sit down, sir.”

A stunned Curtis plopped back into his chair. Jack raised his chin, staring down his nose at the other man while he tucked his hands behind his back, standing guard between you and your former date. Images of knives began dancing in Jack’s head, and he let it fuel the anger in his expression to keep Curtis in check.

Jack could sense you moving around behind him. You’d dropped his hand when you’d turned to grab your jacket and purse, but you must’ve been done because you slipped your fingers back into his palm.

You grasped his hand tentatively, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, his heart soaring in his chest even as he continued glaring at the man at the table, who looked riotous at the thought of Jack stealing you away.

“You can’t do this,” Curtis snarled, trying to puff up his chest and make himself look big, even as he remained sitting in his seat, too much a coward to actually challenge Jack’s authority.

The chef responded to the other man’s posturing by looming over him, an unkind smile on his face. Jack was more than a little satisfied by the way Curtis cowered, just a little, in his seat.

“This is my fucking restaurant,” Jack said, his voice even but ruthless. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.” Jack kept your hand tucked in his, holding you behind him while he dealt with your ex-date. “You’re going to pay your bill, leave your server a generous tip, and then you’re never going to step foot in here again. Do you get me?”

Jack watched emotions flit across the younger man’s face—surprise, frustration, indignation, fury—and he could practically feel the temper tantrum brewing, like a storm rolling in. But he could also smell the booze on him and, if Jack wasn’t mistaken, he could see the telltale signs Curtis had been indulging in more than wine.

Night Shift really didn’t need the scene or the paperwork that would come along with the temper tantrum, which would inevitably lead to someone calling the cops. So Jack went in for the metaphorical kill.

“If I ever see your face in here again,” Jack said, lowering his voice even more so only you and Curtis could hear him. “You’re going to pay for putting your hands on a woman in my restaurant—and I’ll take that payment with my knife.”

Jack watched as Curtis blanched, his tanned skin going ghostly pale as all the fight drained out of him at the threat of actual violence. The younger man’s gaze finally fell to the table, and Jack knew he wasn’t going to challenge him again.

It was completely unhinged to threaten Curtis like that, he knew that, but all Jack worried about was that he’d scared you. When he turned to check on you, though, he found you staring at him with so much admiration, Jack wanted to puff up his own chest and take on every asshole who’d ever wronged you.

You took a careful step closer to Jack, looking at him with those wide eyes, a smirk flirting around the edges of your pretty mouth, and wrapped your other hand around his bicep. “Thank you,” you murmured for only him to hear, and Jack offered you an answering smile.

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asked charmingly, squeezing your hand gently.

Your smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin, and he caught the edge of excitement in your expression, making Jack’s heart thump harder in his chest. He could hardly believe someone as young and beautiful and strong as you wanted to go anywhere with him. Not only did you look like you wanted it, you looked eager for it.

“Yes, please, chef,” you purred, the sound of your voice calling him ‘chef’ again going straight to his dick.

Oh yeah, Jack was definitely a goner for you.

You could hardly believe how drastically the course of your night had changed in just a few minutes.

You’d gone from being on the absolute worst date of your life, trying to figure out how you were going to get away from the man who’d accosted you, to being on the arm of one of the most talented—and handsome—head chefs in all of Pittsburgh.

Jack Abbot’s hand was warm and strong in yours, his stride steady and determined as he led you through the dining room toward the kitchen. His presence at your side helped to settle the wobbliness you felt in the wake of the fear and adrenaline that had rushed through you when Curtis had grabbed you.

Leaning further into Jack’s side, you got a hint of his scent—fresh laundry something earthy, like sage or rosemary—and you let it stoke the little ember of interest that burned deep your core, the one that had flared to life when you watched the chef put your date in his place.

What did it say about you that you thought it was inexplicably hot the way Jack had threatened Curtis with his knife? What did it say about you that you felt safer with Jack than you had with any man you’d ever gone out with?

With those questions rattling around in your head, you were glad that Jack didn’t try to make conversation beyond asking for your name as he guided you to the kitchen. He seemed to understand you needed a moment to process everything that’d happened, and he remained quiet as the two of you walked together through the crowded dining room, the soft chatter of the other diners filling the silence so it wasn’t awkward.

When Jack pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen, the gentle murmur of the restaurant’s dining room gave away to the chaos of the kitchen. Immediately, you felt the buzzy, almost electric energy, of the staff, and you took your first full breath since you’d walked into Night Shift, something about the kitchen making you feel like you were coming home.

Your eyes were opened wide as you looked around because there was so much to take in—a whole army of chefs and cooks moved around the silver metal tables and big, gas range stoves, grabbing things out of fridges, chopping vegetables and searing meat. It was like a masterfully choreographed dance, the way everyone moved around each other.

And it smelled divine. Herbs and spices and so many other scents filled your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach grumble, though there was no way anyone could hear it over the noise—the clatter of knives and pans, the people calling out orders, the slamming of fridge doors.

Everything seemed to revolve around on particular chef, an Asian man spooning some sauce onto a plate and conferring with a Black woman. He was the calm in the center of the storm, obviously running things while Jack had been dealing with your date.

The head chef himself tugged you to the side of the room, pulling you out of the way of the steady stream of servers coming in and out of the double doors, carrying big trays filled with all kinds of dishes—salads and seafood, pasta and chicken. All of it smelled amazing, looked amazing, and it was all you could do to stare around the kitchen with awe no doubt written plainly on your face.

Gradually, you became aware of Jack’s gaze on your face, and when you looked at the chef, you found him watching you closely, so much intensity in his hazel eyes, it made you feel a little shy. Here was this older, accomplished chef, and he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in his entire kitchen—his entire restaurant.

You offered him a tentative smile, your heart skipping a beat when he towed you just a little closer by your still clasped hands.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Jack asked, and you could tell by the tenor of his voice that he actually cared about your answer. He sounded worried, hopeful, and so achingly interested that it made you unsteady on your feet.

“I think it’s amazing,” you answered honestly, your voice more than a little breathless with wonder. You leaned further into his side, staring into his eyes and getting a little lost in them. “Everything looks and smells delicious, chef.”

A small, pleased smile curved Jack’s mouth, even as his eyes darkened at what you’d called him. It stole the breath from your lungs, the knowledge that you could affect him so clearly just by calling him ‘chef’. It made you want to say it more, to say it while his mouth was on your body, just to see if you could drive him wild…

Tension crackled between the two of you, sharp and electric, sucking all the oxygen out of the room so it became a little hard to breathe normally. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your legs trembled, and still, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Jack, your gaze drifting down to his mouth and the silvery stubble that surrounded it.

“Jack?” you murmured his name softly, a question in the single syllable, as you raised your eyes back to his. There was an answer in his gaze, in the way his own eyes dropped to your lips and back up, like he was fighting the same urge as you.

“Everything good, chef?”

You and Jack jumped apart, your hands disentangling as you put a respectable amount of space between your bodies. You watched Jack straighten, his expression shifting into something much more professional, much more appropriate for his workplace, as he turned to the room.

“Gimme a few more minutes, chef,” Jack called back to the Asian man who’d addressed him. You got the sense that the man was amused by the two of you, even though his face remained unreadable. “I’ll be back to dig you out of the hole of the dinner rush.”

The man who must’ve been Jack’s sous chef huffed a laugh and, without looking up from the dish he was plating, said, “Don’t worry about us, old man. We’ve got this.”

“Who’s he calling old?” Jack muttered under his breath, making a laugh burst from your lips at how disgruntled he sounded. A smirk flickered at the edge of Jack’s mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and he leaned closer to you. “Do you think I’m old, angel?”

Jack’s voice was little more than a rasp, and you swore that you could feel it skim down your spine and settle deep in your core, where heat was blooming hotter. All you could do was stare at Jack, at the weathered lines of his freckled face, and the silver curls that you wanted to run your fingers through, as you tried to think of something to say.

A little lop-sided smile tilted Jack’s mouth, like he could somehow see the odd mixture of awe and lust swirling in your body, in your brain, making you tongue-tied—and he didn’t hold it against you. “Don’t answer that,” he grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes still fixed on your face.

The two of you hung suspended in that moment for longer than was strictly necessary, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen fading away, until you finally remembered how to speak. Though once the words came out of your mouth, you wished you’d stayed silent.

“I don’t think you’re too old.”

That statement got Jack’s attention in a way you hadn’t experienced in all the short time you’d been in his presence. His eyes darkened, dropping to your lips once again before dragging their way back to meet your gaze. A charming grin made his mouth look far too tempting.

“Too old for what, angel?” Jack asked innocently, a hint of playful teasing in his tone that had your body burning hotter. His dark hazel eyes were knowing—like he knew what you really meant to say, that you didn’t think he was too old for you.

But you couldn’t say that, couldn’t answer him. You already felt like you’d said too much, and there were too many emotions still swirling around in your chest, in your belly, between your thighs, to make sense of any of them.

Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand you were overwhelmed and he didn’t push it. Instead, he pressed a hand to your lower back, the heat of his palm scorching through the thin fabric of your dress, even in the warmth of the kitchen. He guided you gently to a narrow doorway tucked into the corner of the kitchen you hadn’t noticed before.

Jack led you into a small office that you knew immediately was his. The space was nice and neat, just like his kitchen, with homey touches that reflected the dining room of his restaurant with emerald green walls and a dark wooden desk, which held a few framed photos and other keepsakes alongside his paperwork and computer.

Also, it smelled like him—fresh and clean, with just a hint of garlic and sage.

The room was small, barely big enough for a desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets, but it was cozy, and you felt just as safe in Jack’s office as you did in his presence. Being away from the loud clamor of the kitchen also helped to settle your nerves and, without being invited to, you sank into the chair, leaving Jack to lean against the edge of his desk.

“How’re you holding up, sweetheart?” Jack asked gently, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking down to catch your eye. You gave him a weary smile.

“I’m ok,” you said, then paused to take stock of yourself to see if that was really true. “A little shaken, a lot hungry,” your smile tured rueful. “I was really looking forward to trying your food,” you told him, dropping your gaze to where your hands were twisted together in your lap. “But we didn’t even make it to the appetizers.”

Jack shifted closer to you, his knee nudging lightly against yours, and you felt a little zing of happiness at even that small touch. You almost huffed a laugh at yourself for the silly crush you were developing on the hot, older chef, but managed to bite it back and looked up at the man who’d so gently gotten your attention.

“If you want to go home, I can have security escort you out back,” Jack started, his mouth twisting into the vague impression of a frown, like he didn’t particularly like that idea. “Or, if you want, you can hang out in here, I can make you something to eat, and then later, I can give you that kitchen tour.”

He shot you another one of those exaggerated winks and you couldn’t help but giggle softly. Jack was charming and he knew it, and if you weren’t careful, you were definitely going to develop a big ol’ crush on the man. He made it too easy to feel comfortable around him.

“It’s your choice, sweetheart,” Jack said, pausing for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should go on, but then he did. “I do hope you’ll let me cook for you, though.” He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the edge of your jaw, his touch so light you could barely feel it. “I don’t like the idea of sending you home hungry.”

Before you could lean into Jack’s hand, he snatched it back, like he was worried he’d crossed a line. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, his hands tucked away as if he was worried they couldn’t be trusted not to touch you again, and you had to smile.

Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to develop a crush on the hot, older chef who’d saved you from the worst date of your life—especially since it seemed like the hot, older chef was having trouble keeping his gentle hands off you.

“I’d like to stay,” you murmured, looking up at Jack from under your lashes.

Almost against your will, your body swayed closer to the charming chef, your hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm. The light dusting of Jack’s hair tickled your fingers, and you couldn’t help but notice how strong and firm his arm was beneath your palm.

Your lips quirked into a small smile, putting a little flirty edge on your words as you said, “If you don’t mind, chef.”

Jack’s eyes were dark, liquid heat as he stared at you for a long moment, and you wondered wildly if he might kiss you. The thought had excitement fluttering to life in your belly, but before you could get your hopes up too high, Jack swallowed and looked away. It was only then that you noticed the faint flush pinkening his cheeks.

“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” Jack said, pushing away from the desk and stepping toward the door. “Ibuprofen’s in the top drawer.”

The movement had your hand dropping from his arm and you immediately missed the warmth of his skin. When he looked back at you, he must’ve caught something on your face, something that had him cracking a small smile.

“I’ll be back soon, alright?” His voice was a little rough, teasing your body with its low tenor, but you managed a smile and a nod.

“I’ll be here,” you said, as brightly as you could. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack looked at you another moment, his eyes going a little soft, before he ducked through the office door. He pulled it most of the way closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, somehow knowing you wanted some peace, but not to be cut off from the kitchen—from him—entirely.

Left alone to your own devices, you only had your own thoughts as company. You knew your brain wanted to spiral about your date—Why hadn’t you seen the red flags from Curtis earlier? Why hadn’t you cut the date short sooner?—but instead you focused on what was in front of you.

Tossing your purse and jacket onto the desk, you got comfortable in Jack’s chair, leaning back and noticing a leather jacket thrown over the back. Shooting a quick glance at the door to make sure no one could see in, you tucked your face into the collar and breathed in, a smile curving your lips as you inhaled Jack’s clean, earthy scent.

Once you’d had your fill—or, rather, once your shame caught up with you and you forced yourself to stop sniffing the hot, older chef’s jacket like a mindless hussy—you let your eyes roam around the room, taking in the almost military precision of the organization in the office.

The desk was mostly clear, save for the keyboard attached to his computer monitor, and a stack of order forms for things for the restaurant. There were also the photos and keepsakes. You picked them up one by one, looking closely at the people and things Jack cared about, not bothering to feel bad about your nosiness.

The first photo was of Jack and his whole kitchen crew at the opening of Night Shift, looking worn out but exultant in their success. Another photo depicted Jack with a man about his age, tall with brown hair and a salt and pepper beard, standing next to a motorcycle. They had their arms slung around each other like they were old friends.

Next, your fingers trailed over a medal of honor that was tucked into a corner of the desk. It was purple and gold, in the shape of a heart with a man’s side profile in the center. You remembered Jack’s comment about being in the army and wondered what had earned him the medal.

Feeling like you’d possibly overstepped, you set the medal back in its place on Jack’s desk and focused on finding the ibuprofen. After taking the pills with the glass of water he’d grabbed for you from the kitchen, you snuggled deeper into his chair, your head falling back against the collar of the chef’s leather jacket.

It occurred to you suddenly that you really liked Jack Abbot. You hadn’t known him for long, and you didn’t know all that much about him, but you wanted to.

You wanted to know why he’d named his restaurant Night Shift, and why he’d become a chef after being a medic in the army. You wanted to know what his favorite thing to cook was, and whether he needed readers to read texts on his phone.

You wanted to know if he was going to ask you for your number.

That thought made you stop and smile as you considered what you’d do if Jack asked for you number and actually used it. Your fingers played idly with the soft, supple leather of his jacket, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull you into deeper comfort as you imagined what it would be like to date world-renowned chef Jack Abbot.

You suspected it would be a helluva lot better than going on a date with Curtis Larsen, that was for sure.

Jack Abbot could not be interested in the young, pretty restaurant guest he’d saved from a bad date.

He paused just outside the door to his office, trying to get his head on straight, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like you were attracted to him, like you trusted him to take care of you. His fingers flexed at his side, and he could still feel the softness of your skin beneath his grazing touch—so pretty, so tempting.

His mind was consumed with the sweetness of your scent filling his office, invading his private space, and how much that pleased him. Jack already knew that scent would haunt him for the rest of the evening, that he’d fall asleep just to dream of you.

Wiping a hand down his face, Jack felt like a creep for even thinking about how you smelled, how your hand felt like a perfect fit in his own, how he wanted you to look at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. He was supposed to be helping you, taking care of you, making sure you got home safe, not thinking about what it’d feel like to put his hands on your body and pull you close…

With a hard shake of his head, Jack refocused on the task at hand—making you something to eat—and strode back into the kitchen. He walked up to stand beside his sous chef, who was busy plating a whole tray of that night’s special. John didn’t even look up as Jack approached.

“How are things looking?” Jack asked, busying his hands by retying the strings of his apron while he took a look at the line of orders still needing to be made. It was a busy Friday night at Night Shift, but his sous chef was keeping on top of things.

“Don’t worry about us, chef, we got this,” John said, before raising his voice and calling out to the rest of the kitchen staff. “Don’t we, nightcrawlers?”

“Hoo-rah!” came the answering reply and Jack had to twist his lips to the side to hide the proud smile that wanted to break through. Annoyingly, John noticed.

“Seriously,” John said, straightening up and setting the last of the plates onto a tray for a server to take them out into the dining room. He turned to Jack. “I’ve got this under control, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

John’s eyes drifted over Jack’s shoulder in the direction of the office before returning his gaze to the head chef and waggling his brows a little.

“I won’t take it personally if there’s someone else you’d rather be with than me,” the sous chef quipped, grabbing his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee from the shelf over the worktable and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.

“It’s not like that,” Jack grumbled, hoping to nip that thread of conversation in the bud before it began. The last thing he needed was for his business with you to get around the kitchen. Everyone who worked at Night Shift were talented, good people, but they gossiped more than little old ladies.

Jack tugged on some black nitrile gloves and grabbed a knife and cutting board. But when he returned to his station with the ingredients he’d need for what he planned to cook you for dinner, John was giving him a skeptical look.

“Right,” John said, not dropping the subject, no matter that Jack was no longer looking at him and was instead focused entirely on chopping up some rosemary and garlic. “That’s why you stepped in and took care of her date instead of letting security handle it.”

John’s tone was dry enough to give the Sahara a run for its money, but Jack refused to rise to the bait. Huffing an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, John cut to the chase. “Do you know her or something?”

“No,” Jack said quickly—too quickly, he knew. He could feel John’s indefatigable gaze drilling into the side of his head while he worked. He knew John wouldn’t give up the interrogation until he got something so Jack finally admitted, “But… maybe I want to get to know her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a wide grin spread across his sous chef’s face a moment before John clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s great, chef,” he said, but he must’ve noticed Jack wasn’t grinning along with him because he asked, “It is great, isn’t it? I mean, it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”

“She’s too young for me, man,” Jack said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He paused, swallowing, then grabbed a pan and some chicken cutlets, getting to work breading and seasoning them. “Besides, she’s had a rough night—that jackass grabbed her.” Jack had to stop again and take a breath to contain his anger before he went on. “She doesn’t need some old man creeping on her, too.”

“Dude,” John started, before getting distracted by plating up a new round of orders. It took him a moment to get back to the conversation. “You’re not that old,” he said, shooting Jack a look like the head chef should know all his ‘old man’ comments were in good fun. “And if you think she’s not interested, you didn’t see the way she was looking at you.”

At John’s comment, Jack fumbled the pan he was cooking in, nearly spilling oil and chicken into the fire of the stove. He glanced at John, back to what he was doing, then to his sous chef again, who was watching him with a not-so-small smirk on his face.

“H-how was she looking at me?” Jack finally asked, unable to stop himself, not even daring to hope John wasn’t somehow fucking with him.

Sure, Jack knew you’d wrapped yourself around his arm while he’d walked you back to the kitchen, and he couldn’t get the memory of the way you’d touched his arm out of your head. But that wasn’t flirting… was it? And certainly there wasn’t anything particularly interested in the way you’d looked at him. Right?

John’s incredulous look told him otherwise. “Jack, the girl practically had hearts in her eyes when she looked at you,” he said, and when Jack opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. “She’s into you, dude.”

“What, no—no, no, she’s just…” Jack couldn’t believe how idiotic he sounded, fumbling around his own kitchen while John tried to tell him you were interested. It was like he was a young, inexperienced teenager all over again with his first crush, disbelieving she could ever like him back.

“Ellis, back me up,” John was saying, calling over one of Night Shift’s senior chefs while he set a new round of plated meals onto a tray for a server. “The girl Jack brought back here had heart eyes for our head chef, didn’t she?”

It was only his decades of experience that allowed Jack to continue cooking—boiling water and adding pasta, mixing milk and cheese in with the chicken to create a creamy sauce—while he waited with bated breath for Parker Ellis’s response. Jack trusted the senior chef not to bullshit him or fuck with him the way John sometimes did.

“Oh yeah, full-on heart eyes,” Parker announced, stopping beside John for a moment to drop off some more plates in need of their finishing touches. She glanced at Jack, who was still trying to process her pronouncement. “You gonna do something about it, chef?”

Was Jack going to do something about it? Everything in him ached to do something—to touch you, to kiss you, or, at the very least, ask for your number and take you out for a real meal sometime. He wanted to get to know you, he wanted to impress you with the most romantic of dates, and then he wanted to take you home and take care of you in every way he knew how.

It had been a long time since Jack had wanted any of those things with anyone, and it was a shock to his system to feel them for someone so soon after meeting them. But Jack could tell you were special. There was a spark between the two of you that he knew he’d be a fool to ignore.

However, he was still wary about scaring you off or creeping you out. But maybe he wouldn’t if Jack could take things slow. He could feed you, make sure you were comfortable in his office, and then later, he’d give you a tour of his kitchen and see how things went from there. If you seemed into it, he could ask for your number and take you out on a real date.

Happy with his plan, Jack finally looked up from where he was finishing the meal he’d made for you. He found both John and Parker looking at him expectantly—and a little impatiently. He twisted his mouth to the side to bite back a smirk.

“Don’t you two have something better to do than discuss my love life?” he grumbled good-naturedly, knowing neither of them would take him too seriously.

True to form, Parker snickered and gave Jack a mock salute. “Happy for you, chef,” she said before heading back into the crowded kitchen.

Meanwhile, John was grinning to himself. “Get your girl, old man,” he quipped, giving Jack a sly look out of the corner of his eye.

Jack made a show of grumbling about his impertinent staff while he plated up the dish he’d made for you—chicken and pasta with a creamy, cheesy sauce flavored with plenty of rosemary and other herbs. Then, it was time to bring it to you, and even Jack was a little surprised by how eager he was to get back to you, striding across the kitchen as quick as he could.

Knocking lightly before pushing inside his office, Jack found you curled up in his desk chair, your legs tucked underneath you, an e-reader in your hands. For a moment, Jack was struck by the easy domesticity of the scene—him bringing you dinner while you looked sexy and cozy in his office.

It would be all too easy for Jack to get used to this, having you visit him at his restaurant and waiting in his office for him to finish up for the night so he could take you out for a late-night drink, or some ice cream. And then, he’d take you home and get you underneath him so he could have a late-night snack of his own…

“Oh hi, is that for me?”

Your question dragged Jack from his reverie, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw your wide eyes looking up at him. He stepped forward to set down the dish and silverware he’d brought on the desk in front of you, your sweet scent tickling his nose before he stood back to give you some room—and so that he could watch your reaction.

You tucked your e-reader back into your purse, and Jack knew the exact moment you smelled the food in front of you because you went still and your eyes slid closed. You took a deep breath in through your nose, and when you exhaled, it was with a low, throaty moan that went straight to Jack’s dick.

For the first time since he’d hit middle age, Jack was actually glad he wasn’t as quick to harden as when he was younger. Still, he had to curl his hands into fists at his sides and tamp down on the instinct to adjust his cock, which was twitching to life, not wanting to bring any attention to how your innocent reaction was affecting him.

Instead, he focused all his willpower on keeping himself from getting harder, which became more difficult when you blinked your eyes open, looking almost dazed with hunger and pleasure. It was all Jack could do to hold himself back from touching you, from tracing the shape of your mouth with his fingers, from kissing you so that the desire in your eyes was all for him and not his food.

“It smells delicious, chef,” you purred, your voice low and husky in a way that Jack could tell wasn’t intentional, which made it affect him all the more.

“Give it a try, sweetheart,” Jack said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from reaching for you. He wanted to grab you by your hips, put you in his lap, and feed you. But he reminded himself he was taking things slow, so he leaned against the desk and watched you intently. “I want to know if you like it.”

Bobbing your head in a nod, you grabbed your fork, scooped up some of the pasta and speared a piece of chicken, popping the whole bite into your mouth. Some cream sauce lingered in the corners of your lips, and Jack had to clench his fists to stop from swiping it away with his thumb. He was nearly undone, biting back a groan, when your tongue peaked out and licked it up with a garbled moan.

“Oh my god, that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you proclaimed. The pleasure in your voice made Jack harder, but he focused instead on the pride blooming, warm and sweet, in his chest.

Still, he couldn’t completely ignore his cock twitching to life in his jeans. For once, he was grateful for the apron covering his front, helping to shield the bulge growing between his thighs. God, he felt like a fucking teenager.

“Ah, th-thanks,” he said, stumbling over his words, flustered by just how much you visibly—and verbally—enjoyed his food. “It’s a personal recipe, not on the menu.” He shot you a wink, hoping desperately that it came across as charming, and not unbearably cheesy. “I figured you could use some comfort food.”

The somber note in Jack’s voice seemed to strike you right in the heart, and you blinked, your eyes dropping from his for a moment. Jack wondered if he’d made a mistake by referencing your bad date, but then your hand darted out, playing idly with the edge of his apron just below where his arms were crossed.

“I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that situation, Jack,” you said softly, and the chef was so distracted by the sound of his name on your tongue that he almost missed what you were saying. But then you looked up and your gaze was arresting. “I thought I could handle it—could handle him—but I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there…”

Jack hated how small you sounded, how unsure of yourself.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jack was sweeping down onto one knee, barely biting back a wince when his prosthetic protested, and settling his hands gently on the outside of your thighs. He tried to ignore the heat of your bare skin against his palms, forcing himself to focus on you and making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.

“You would’ve been fine, sweetheart,” Jack said in his firmest tone, even as he made sure to keep his voice gentle. He could tell from the uncertainty in your eyes that you were hanging on his every word, and he felt compelled to go on. “You can take care of yourself, and if you’d needed to, you would’ve handled that asshole.”

Something like pride and confidence swirled in your eyes, and Jack let his mouth twist to the side in a smile. It made him feel good to know he could put that look in your eye, and he felt his chest puffing up a little bit before he got control of himself and gave your thighs a reassuring squeeze before continuing.

“I am glad I could help, though,” Jack said, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. But he was kneeling so close to you that he breathed in your sweet scent with every inhale, and it was going straight to his head. “Thank you for letting me feed you—thank you for letting me take care of you.”

Your eyes were wide and bright and fixed so intensely on Jack’s that he barely felt it when your hands settled gently on his shoulders, holding on to him like he was the one steady thing you could count on. His grip on your thighs tightened, drawing you closer until your knees collided with his chest.

“Anytime, chef,” you murmured, your lips parted and glistening and looking so fucking tempting.

A little growl rumbled in Jack’s chest and he watched your eyes flare with interest, before settling back into a heavy-lidded stare. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, curling into the cotton of his white t-shirt, and he could feel you lightly tugging on him, trying to bring him closer.

Fuck, Jack wasn’t just interested in you, he craved you. It didn’t matter that he’d known you for such a short time, he wanted to devour you. He wanted to take you into his arms and kiss the breath from your lungs, make you come apart and then hold you tight until you put each other together again.

He wanted to go back to work knowing you were safe and sound in his office, eating the food he’d cooked for you, then give you a tour of the kitchen later. When that was done, he wanted to drive you home, make sure you got in safe, and make plans to see you again. He wanted to take up as much space in your head as you were taking up in his.

Jack wanted to kiss you. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, too.

A great crashing sound came from the kitchen, shattering the perfect moment, and Jack’s stomach sank when you flinched. You tried to hide your reaction, staring at him innocently like you hadn’t recoiled at the loud sound, but he was reminded that he should be taking things slowly, carefully, making sure you weren’t overwhelmed by all that had happened throughout the night.

“Eat up, angel,” he rumbled, giving your thighs one last squeeze before moving to stand, pushing himself up with one hand on his desk. He gritted his teeth through the pain in his limb as he settled back onto his prosthetic, and gave you another of his hopefully charming winks. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make you some dessert to go with your kitchen tour.”

At that comment, you sucked in a sharp breath, a sultry smile spreading slowly across your face. When you looked up at Jack, your eyes were a little hazy, and your body swayed closer to him, almost like you couldn’t help yourself.

“Oh, I’ll be good,” you murmured, looking more sexy than you had any right to curled up in Jack’s desk chair. “I promise, chef.”

There it was again, that title rolling off your tongue and licking straight down Jack’s spine. He had half a mind to gather you up in his arms and kiss you until you were murmuring that word into his mouth, his neck, into the center of his chest while he pressed between your thighs and slid inside you…

“I’ll be back when it slows down,” Jack promised, wrenching himself away from his fantasy and backing toward the door of the office. If he didn’t know better, he thought you might’ve been smirking as you hummed your acknowledgement. “Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, chef,” you chirped sweetly, turning back to your meal—though not before catching Jack’s eye over your shoulder, a flirty spark in your gaze.

A goofy grin spread across Jack’s face, and for a moment, he let himself watch you as you pulled out your e-reader and began to read while you ate the meal he’d prepared. His chest filled with warm sunlight while something in his gut settled. It felt right to have you here in Jack’s office, in his space, looking safe and comfortable and content.

Holding that sense of rightness close to his heart, Jack ducked back into the kitchen, taking a moment to retie his apron before jumping into the fray. He felt steadier than he had before he’d brought you some dinner, and while Jack knew part of that was because he knew you were fed, it was also because he’d accepted it—he was interested in you and he was going to pursue you.

Jack was done feeling guilty or creepy for wanting to spend time with you, even if you were one of his restaurant guests that he’d had to save from an atrociously bad date. Jack believed what he’d told you, that you could take care of yourself, and if you wanted to spend time with him, too, then Jack wasn’t going to feel bad about it.

So he took his place beside his sous chef and got to work on the endless stream of orders coming into Night Shift’s kitchen. He let himself fall into the rhythm of the work, plating up and putting the finishing touches on all kinds of dishes before they were whisked away into the dining room. He worked with a methodical determination, knowing that the sooner he cleared out all the orders, the sooner he could check back in on you.

When things finally slowed down, Jack heaved a sigh of relief. It was a strange feeling, knowing he had someone in his office that he eagerly wanted to get back to, and it wasn’t until he caught John giving him an annoying looked that he realized he was smiling.

Jack tugged off his black nitrile gloves, tossed them in the trash, and flipped off John while he made his way back to his office. Jack’s heart squeezed at the sight that greeted him.

He found you snuggled up in his chair, his leather jacket tucked around you like a blanket, your head lolled to the side as you slept soundly. Jack marveled at the beauty of your face—the soft slope of your nose, the pretty curve of your mouth, the delicate fan of your lashes against your cheeks.

Somewhere deep in his chest, Jack’s heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to get his attention, and he knew exactly what it wanted to say—you could be his. If you let him, and if you wanted him, too, Jack could fall for you. That night could be the start of something new, something spectacular.

Thinking about how he could very much get used to seeing you in his chair, in his office, Jack tucked his leather jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, holding his breath when your cheek nuzzled against the back of his hand. His heart thumped happily when you smiled softly in your sleep and it took every bit of his strength to pull away.

As quietly as he could, Jack cleared the empty plate and silverware from his desk, taking care not to disturb you. He carried it to the door, where he paused to look at you again, watching you sleep for just a moment longer.

It struck Jack then, like a lightning bolt, that he wasn’t just interested in you or attracted to you. He was completely gone for you. He was yours, and he could only hope that you’d want to be his.

Even before you were fully awake, you knew you were safe.

Warmth, and the scent of leather and herbs, surrounded you, easing you back into reality from dreams about a hot, silver-haired chef and big, capable hands on your body. Desire curled lazily, low in your belly, and you snuggled deeper into the leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, wishing for more time of with your dream chef.

But before you could slip back into sleep, it struck you suddenly how quiet it was in your little cocoon. You’d fallen asleep to the chaos and clatter of the kitchen at Night Shift, but the noise had dwindled down to a dull murmur. It hit you that you must’ve slept longer than you’d intended.

You’d only meant to close your eyes for a few minutes. You’d been so full from eating the comfort meal Jack Abbot had cooked for you, and you’d felt so warm and cozy once you’d tugged his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped it around yourself. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from letting your eyes close and falling asleep.

Reaching out from beneath the jacket, you checked the time on your phone and confirmed you’d not only slept through the rest of the dinner rush, but through Night Shift’s closing time. Slowly, you began to uncurl yourself from your position in Jack’s chair, stretching and looking toward the door of his office, wondering why he hadn’t woken you up sooner.

Had he forgotten about you?

It was a little dizzying, the sheer amount of disappointment that swept through you at that thought, and it took you a moment to wade through the emotions to get back to rational thought. Jack had been so kind and attentive since he’d rescued you from your bad date, it didn’t sit right to think he might’ve forgotten about you.

It also just didn’t make sense based on the way he’d looked at you before he’d left you alone to eat. He’d stared at you so intently with those dark hazel eyes of his, you’d felt like he wanted to consume you. Even just the memory of his stare was enough to warm you from the inside out, heat swirling through your belly before settling between your thighs.

Intending to get to the bottom of why Jack had let you sleep in his office for so long, you did a quick check of your makeup in your phone’s camera and set your feet on the floor. You were just rising to stand when Night Shift’s head chef stuck his head in through the open door.

“You’re up,” he said, his sharp eyes taking in the way you wobbled on your heels, wincing at the pain of wearing them for so long. He came into the room and took your hand, setting a steadying palm on your hip while his fingers twined with yours. “How are you feeling?”

His attentive question sent more warmth spiralling through your chest, and you smiled softly at the chef, leaning into his warmth. He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt that pulled obscenely across his shoulders and highlighted his bulging biceps, but the brown apron he’d had on earlier was gone, leaving him in just a simple pair of dark jeans and black shoes.

Meanwhile, you were still in the little black dress and heels you’d donned for your date, but somehow you didn’t feel overdressed around Jack. You enjoyed the way his eyes raked down your body, appreciating the way your dress clung to your curves—hugging your hips and cupping your tits. It made you crave the chef’s touch everywhere he looked.

“I feel good, chef,” you murmured huskily, your lips quirking into a little smirk when heat flared in Jack’s eyes. “I needed a little rest, but now I’ve got a second wind.”

“Still want that kitchen tour, sweetheart?” Jack rumbled, his hand on your hip pulling you closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the warmth of it teasing every inch of your bare skin. “You were such a good girl during the dinner rush, I’ve got that dessert I promised you.”

Something deep inside you clenched tight at the way Jack’s voice rumbled over the words ‘good girl’, his praise going straight to the place between your legs that was beginning to throb the longer his hand remained on your hip. To steady yourself, you lifted your hands to Jack’s biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingers as you looked at the chef from under your lashes.

“Really?” you asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice, out of your smile.

Jack’s mouth pulled to the side in a slow, wicked grin, his eyes sparkling with humor and something that looked a lot like hunger. “How do you feel about coffee and chocolate?”

Excitement bubbled up your throat, and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as you confirmed your undying love for coffee and chocolate. With another grin that had your core clenching, Jack guided you back into the kitchen, his big hand firm against your lower back.

Most of the kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving the space spotless and easier to navigate as Jack walked you through. He showed you each of the stations, and introduced you to the few remaining kitchen staff—including his sous chef John Shen and senior chef Parker Ellis.

Jack left you chatting with John and Parker while he rustled around in a fridge, pulling out some containers and setting up a work station on one of the long, silver tables in the center of the room. Once he was done, the other chefs each gave Jack a handshake and half-hug before bidding you a goodnight.

As they left, John exchanged a loaded look with Jack that had the head chef’s face twisting into an exasperatedly stern expression, and you had to bite back a smile. It was clear Jack’s staff loved him, respected him—and teased him every chance they got.

It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that you weren’t the only one who felt safe with Jack. He was a good boss, a good man, to everyone in his life. He was the exact opposite of the man you’d gone on a date with and needed to be rescued from.

Jack Abbot was the kind of man you could be alone with in a deserted kitchen and feel only excitement, only the thrumming awareness that something might happen between you two. You turned to him, your gazes meeting, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, silently acknowledging the sparks igniting in space between your bodies.

“Hop up,” Jack said, his voice as rough as a knife on metal. With one hand, he patted the counter beside the cutting board he’d set up, his dark eyes watching you intently.

Your gaze snagged on that hand, on the thickness of his fingers and the smattering of freckles along the back. You remembered how that hand had felt on your hip, on your thigh, and you nearly whimpered with the need to feel his palm on you again, but you managed to bite it back.

Instead, you did as the chef said. You pressed back against the counter, planting your hands on the edge and arching your spine just a little more than necessary to stick out your tits. You were rewarded with Jack’s gaze dropping quickly to your chest before he dragged his eyes back up to your face. With a smirk, you jumped onto the counter, careful not to put too much weight on the wrist your date had grabbed.

The cold metal of the worktable was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bare thighs, and you hissed softly, your shoulders trembling as a shiver snaked down your spine. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your body and wished you hadn’t left your jacket in Jack’s office.

But then Jack’s hand was on your knee and he was giving you a concerned look, his silver brows lowered over his hazel eyes. “Cold, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you answered sheepishly, giving a light shrug and trying to shake off the chill. You leaned into Jack, your body seeking his warmth. “The kitchen gets cold without all the ovens and stoves on, huh?” you asked wryly, trying to get a reaction from the chef, and soften the worried lines of his face.

Jack huffed a laugh, shooting you an amused smirk even as he squeezed your knee in chastisement. The weight of his palm, the soft press of his fingers, had tendrils of heat licking down your spine and settling between your thighs. It took a great deal of effort not to shiver and grab hold of Jack to pull him closer.

“Stay here,” he rumbled, pulling away and striding toward his office. You nearly whined at the loss of his body heat, but you perked up quickly when he returned with his leather jacket.

The chef stepped close enough to your legs that your knees brushed his thighs, and your gaze snagged on his. He was so close, you could see the lines in his weathered face, the silver stubble along his jaw, and the light freckles dusted across his cheeks.

Tension crackled as he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, his fingers brushing gently against your bare skin, and you leaned closer, until you could feel his unsteady breaths on your lips. Jack went still, his eyes searching yours and you tried your best to tell him without words how much you wanted him to kiss you.

But either Jack didn’t get the message or he chickened out, because he swallowed hard and tucked the lapels of the leather jacket around your shoulders, making sure you were ensconced in its warmth before he moved back to his workstation. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself before he spoke.

“Better?” he asked, his voice raw with a hunger that made you squeeze your thighs together against a pulsing ache.

“Yeah, better,” you answered, your voice faint, trying and failing to shake off the unslaked desire burning through your body. You didn’t know if Jack was purposefully ignoring all the signals you were giving him, or if he was truly unaware, but you didn’t know how much longer you could last before you simply grabbed the chef and kissed him yourself.

Despite the almost-kiss, you and Jack fell into an easy quiet, him pulling out some dark chocolate and beginning to chop it up into tiny shards while you watched him work.

The muscles in his arms moved mesmerizingly as he worked his knife against the cutting board, his freckled forearms flexing deliciously, his biceps straining the hem of his white t-shirt. You had to wrap your fingers around the edges of Jack’s leather jacket and bury your nose in the collar, breathing in his herby, masculine scent, to keep from reaching out to touch him.

Whatever expression was on your face made Jack smirk when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. After that, you could’ve sworn he started flexing his arms on purpose, getting fancy with his knife work, like he was trying to impress you.

From anyone else, that might’ve made you roll your eyes, or turned you off entirely, but Jack was so skilled, so charming, and just so downright hot, that it worked for him. His confidence came from his competence, and it was so attractive, it made you squirm where you sat on the counter beside him, the warmth blooming between your thighs becoming nearly impossible to ignore.

“What’re you making?” you asked in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from watching the muscles of Jack’s shoulders shift beneath the obscenely thin fabric of his white t-shirt. That t-shirt looked well-loved, and you had a sneaking suspicion it would feel really good to wear—while staying the night in Jack’s bed…

“We’ve got some leftover coffee mousse from tonight’s dessert special,” Jack answered, seemingly unaware of how you were ogling him as he continued to chop the dark chocolate into little pieces.

His hands were so deft and skilfull, his fingers so thick and sure, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like for Jack to touch you. You imagined him putting his hands on your body, groping your soft curves, slipping his fingers between your thighs to press against your damp panties…

“I’m just adding some chocolate to elevate it a little,” Jack glanced at you, and you knew your filthy thoughts were written all over your face by the way his eyes heated when they raked over your face. “Chocolate makes everything better, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

Jack’s voice had lowered, sending delightful little tendrils of lust licking down your spine. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t have looked away from Jack’s dark gaze, the steady thwack of the knife against his cutting board matching the rhythm of the pulse between your thighs.

Slowly, you nodded your head. “Yes, chef,” you murmured, your voice raspier than you’d expected, matching Jack’s lower tenor. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, you thought you might be able to hear it in the quiet kitchen, but it was only your soft, panting breaths.

The measured sounds of Jack’s knife ceased, his eyes dropping to your mouth, watching you breathe for one long moment, and then another, before dragging his gaze back to yours. Tension crackled electrically between your bodies, and it wasn’t until your wrist gave a twinge of pain that you realized your hands were braced on the edge of the counter and you were leaning closer to Jack.

He seemed to notice the position of your body at the same time you did, his eyes darting down to where your tits were bouncing softly with your sharp breaths before looking up, a light pink blush appearing beneath his freckles. His gaze collided with yours, and you could feel the older man holding himself back, keeping himself in check.

But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted…him. Badly.

“Jack.” His name was a desperate whimper, barely louder than your breathing, tumbling from your lips. Something in him seemed to break at the sound of his name from your lips, and you thought he might kiss you.

Instead, he surprised you by grabbing a piece of chocolate from his cutting board and lifting it to your lips. He met your stare with his own heated eyes, looking like melted chocolate mixed with caramel.

“Here, sweetheart, have a taste.”

Jack’s words were a low, delectable rumble from deep in his chest, and you couldn’t hold back the shiver that raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble with excitement under the onslaught of his voice and his closeness. You could smell his earthy, masculine scent, and you wanted more.

The tips of Jack’s bare fingers pressed to your lower lip and, instinctively, you parted for him, allowing the older man to feed you the chocolate. The rich, decadent taste burst in your mouth, and your tongue darted out, licking the pads of Jack’s fingers, making his eyes darken even further as he watched your lips close around the bite of chocolate.

You let the confection melt in your mouth, your eyes sliding closed of their own accord as you savored the delicious dark chocolate. You might’ve felt like you were in your own little world, but Jack’s hand fell to your thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress where it rode high on your leg. You had to stifle another shiver as you hummed in delight, catching the rumble of a muffled groan coming from the chef.

When you opened your eyes again, it was to find Jack’s intense hazel eyes searing into yours, his gaze so blisteringly hot, you felt your core clench in anticipation. And since you knew you weren’t alone in your attraction and lust, you licked your lips, watching Jack track the movement with his gaze.

“Yum,” you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly through the hair on Jack’s arm, nails raking subtly against his warm, freckled skin. You were prepared for him to pull away again, but he didn’t, and you let a small smile curve your mouth. “Do you have anything else for me to taste, chef?”

Although your question was, on its surface, innocent, you imbued your words with enough innuendo for your real meaning to get through to him. You knew that it had when the corner of Jack’s lips quirked into a smile, but instead of leaning forward and giving you what you wanted—his mouth—he pulled away and turned to something at his station.

The chef popped open one of the storage containers he’d taken out of the fridge and swiped his finger through the mousse inside. You almost squirmed in excitement as he held his hand in front of your mouth, offering you the sweet treat.

Wrapping your hands around his wrist, you held Jack’s scorching gaze as you brought his finger to your lips. You licked teasingly at the mousse, making sure not to touch Jack’s skin with your tongue, and had to fight a smirk when he let out a barely suppressed groan.

Putting both of you out of your misery, you closed your lips around Jack’s thick finger and licked the mousse off of him. The bittersweet taste of the coffee mousse exploded in your mouth, with just a hint of salt from Jack’s skin, and it had you moaning around Jack’s finger. His whole body jerked at the sound and the vibrations.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, his other hand grabbing your thigh, gripping you tightly as he nudged your knees open so he could step between your parted legs. “You make the prettiest sounds when you’re eating my food—I just wanna taste…”

Jack’s finger, still sticky with sugar, slid from your mouth and his hand cupped your cheek, tipping your face toward his. For a moment, he lingered with his lips just barely brushing yours, close enough that you were certain he could taste the coffee and chocolate on your breath.

It felt like he was memorizing the moment, savoring the tension that crackled between your bodies, the way your breath hitched with him so close. Your knees squeezed his sides, your fingers dancing up his ribs, and a soft, breathy whined sounded in your throat as you tried to pull him closer.

“Is this alright, sweetheart?” Jack asked, his thumb stroking your cheek, swiping over the corner of your mouth.

The genuine care in his deep, raspy voice was nearly your undoing. This man had done nothing but take care of you since he’d come striding out of the kitchen to save you from your bad date, but you were tired of him treating you with kid gloves. You wanted him so fucking bad.

Fingers curling in the sides of his t-shirt, you tugged Jack closer, sliding your body to the edge of the counter at the same time, uncaring about how high your dress was riding up your thighs. You parted your lips, tilting your head into the handsome chef’s hand as you pressed your soft body against his hard one.

“Yes, Jack,” you whimpered, unable to stand the crackling tension any longer, even as you wanted to bask in it for the rest of your life. “Kiss me. Please, chef.”

Jack didn’t need to be asked twice. He closed the distance between his mouth and yours, capturing your lips in a slow, decadent kiss that had your heart soaring. His lips were soft, but firm, as they moved against yours, taking immediate control while you were left to gasp and whimper into his mouth.

It was everything you’d hoped it would be—the older man kissing you sweetly at first, before pressing his thumb to your chin and tilting your head back so he could sweep his tongue into your mouth. The hot slide of him was determined and possessive and so fucking hot, you moaned against his lips, trembling as you met the fervor of his kiss with your own heady lust.

Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you wrapped your arms around Jack’s shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft, steel gray curls at the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in the strands, tugging lightly on his hiar as your nails raked lightly against his skin, earning you a desperate groan. Jack deepened the kiss again until you couldn’t do anything else but breathe him in.

The chef’s hands skimmed down your sides beneath the edges of his leather jacket where it was still balanced precariously on your shoulders. His palms were warm as his thick fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling you even more flush against his chest, your legs splaying wide to make room for his broad body.

His thick, half-hard cock pressed against your soft inner thigh, and you shifted until he was nestled against your warm center. You rocked your hips, grinding against his bulge, dragging a desperate groan out of the older man.

“Fuck, angel, you taste like heaven,” Jack rasped, pressing kisses along your jaw, tickling you with the silver scruff on his cheeks. When he suckled on a spot beneath your ear, you moaned and writhed in his arms, pressing your aching pussy against his hardening cock. “Feel like it, too.”

“God, you feel so good, Jack,” you babbled breathlessly, rubbing against his body like a cat in heat. You hiked your thighs higher around his waist, using the leverage to hump against his thick cock through your clothes. “I want you. Please, chef,” you begged against Jack’s ear, nipping at the lobe and smiling wildly when he shuddered in your arms, his hips grinding his cock harder against your soft core.

“I thought you were going to be a good girl for me, sweetheart,” Jack growled, his voice softly recriminating as he grabbed your hips hard, his fingers digging roughly into your soft flesh.

But instead of dragging you closer and giving you what you wanted, he pushed you back. Lifting his head from your neck, he gave you a stern look, softened by the affectionate twist of his mouth and the spark of desire in his eyes, sending a zing of lust straight to your dripping slit.

“Don’t you wanna be good for me, angel,” he rumbled, his voice deliciously raspy, “and let me feed you some dessert before you start begging me to fuck you?”

Your jaw dropped and you sucked in a sharp breath at Jack’s filthy words, heat suffusing your body so fully, you couldn’t find a single word in your entire head to respond. You could only stare at the older man, your thighs squeezing his hips and wordlessly begging him to put your body out of its misery, but Jack simply chuckled at your reaction.

He stole a kiss from your parted lips before gently extricating himself from your clinging body, shushing you softly when you whined at the loss of him. Giving your hips one last rough squeeze, he stepped out from between your legs and adjusted his thick cock in his jeans as he moved back to his workstation.

It was absurd how cold you felt without him, and you pulled Jack’s leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, pouting at the chef. He pretended to ignore you, scooping up chocolate shards and dumping them into a bowl along with some mousse while you kicked your feet petulantly and whined, “Jaaack.”

That got you an amused smirk. “Just a few bites,” he urged, picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk the chocolate into the mouse, melting it into the dessert. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” Jack said, giving you another of his charming winks.

It had its intended effect, and you softened, endeavoring to wait patiently, though you still made a show of grumbling your discontent even as you got distracted by watching him work. Jack’s arms flexed deliciously while he whisked the chocolate into the mousse, his biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt so enticingly, you wanted to bite them, then lick every freckle, then bite him again.

Jack’s low chuckle let you know he’d caught your hungry look, and heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t get a chance to stammer out an apology or an explanation before he was setting the bowl down and grabbing a spoon. Scooping up some of the mousse mixture, he lifted it to your lips.

You opened eagerly, already knowing whatever Jack made would be delicious, and let him pop the bite into your mouth. Jack watched you closely as he pulled the spoon out, giving you a moment to taste what he’d given you.

The delectable flavors of rich coffee and velvety chocolate melted on your tongue, and your eyes slid closed as you savored the sweetness, a low moan slipping from your lips at how good the dessert tasted.

“Jesus, Jack, that’s the best thing I think I’ve ever had in my mouth,” you groaned, opening your eyes. You found Jack staring at you, a wild look in his eyes, and so much hunger in their depths, it stole the breath from your lungs. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

You half expected the chef to pounce on you, to kiss the remnants of the dessert from your lips and show you what other things he could stuff in your mouth, but you should’ve known better. Jack didn’t take the bait of your comment as he kept a white-knuckle grip on himself, holding back even as more tension than ever snapped and crackled between the two of you.

“Want some more, sweetheart?” he rasped, holding your gaze.

Your head was bobbing an eager nod before he’d even finished the question, and he lifted another spoonful of mousse to your lips, watching as you ate it happily, humming in delight. When Jack fed himself some of the sweet concoction, you could only watch with rapt attention as it disappeared inside his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch some left at the corner of his lips.

The need in your body had pulled you taut as a bowstring, your skin practically vibrating with desire by the time you’d finished enough of the dessert for Jack to hopefully be satisfied. It was a testament to his culinary skills that you were still able to taste the chocolatey coffee confection with how much lust was swirling through your body, simmering low in your belly.

You squirmed where you sat, the metal beneath your thighs warm from your skin, and felt how wet you were, your panties nearly soaked with your desire. You were hot enough that you pushed the jacket from your shoulders, and looked directly at Jack, pouting at the chef once more.

“Jack, please,” you whined, your fingers curling around the edges of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. You felt him suck in a breath as he let you tug him back between your legs, your body trembling with excitement and need. “I’ve had enough dessert, I need something else…”

The older man didn’t respond immediately, his head ducked, watching as his palms skimmed up the outside of your bare thighs, like he could barely believe you were letting him touch you. Your fingers trailed up his arms, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking lightly against his skin. You watched him close his eyes at the sensation, knowing he enjoyed it.

“I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?” you murmured in Jack’s ear, feeling the tension in his shoulders as they bunched beneath your arms. He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. “I’ve been so good, and I want you so bad, Jack. Touch me—please, chef.”

The last thread of Jack’s control snapped at your comment—you felt it in the way his muscles moved, poised on the edge of giving in before he finally let his desire loose after your begging plea. His hands grabbed you roughly, fingers digging into your bare ass beneath the hem of your dress as he yanked you closer.

His mouth descended on yours, capturing your lips in a blisteringly hot, devouring kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He wrapped you up in his arms, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you, gorging himself on your mouth, his hands groping greedily at your body while you clung to him.

It was everything you’d wanted from the chef, and the corners of your lips curved in an attempt at smile, but then Jack was kissing you harder, overwhelming you until you were moaning mindlessly into his mouth. You’d never felt more desired than you did when Jack kissed you, and you’d never felt more in danger of letting yourself fall for someone.

You were mostly lost to your lust, your nipples puckered and needy where they were pressed against the chef’s chest and your pussy aching to be filled, but it occurred to you that Jack was different from all the other men you’d dated. He was kind and gentle and steady, and he kissed you so good your head spun.

It struck you suddenly that while you knew you were safe with Jack, you were in danger of losing your heart to him. But that was the kind of danger you wanted to be in—especially since you knew that if you fell for him, Jack would catch you.

So you kissed the chef right back, pouring your desire for him into the slide of your mouth against his, holding him close as you flung yourself off the edge, letting emotions swirl and swell in your chest, confident that he’d carry your heart in his hands and protect it with his life.

You’d never been safer in your entire life than you were in Jack Abbot’s arms.

Jack Abbot was in heaven.

In all his years of cooking, of being a chef, he’d never tasted anything as divine as you.

He could gorge himself on you and still never get enough—not of the way your mouth moved against his, your lips soft and tongue eager as it twined with his. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of your body beneath his hands, so sweet and supple and responsive.

Every press of his fingertips into your spine had you arching into him, breathy, little whines slipping from your lips for him to devour. He could taste the coffee and chocolate on your tongue, and he sucked on your plump lower lip, groaning as he savored the combination of the dessert he’d fed you with the natural flavor that was all your own.

Kissing you was making him unbelievably hard—harder than he’d been in a long time—his cock heavy and weeping in his jeans. The only thing that saved him from embarrassment was how enthusiastically you were grinding against his bulge, the dampness of your panties leaving a wet spot where his cock was straining against the dark denim.

Jack dragged his hands up your sides, wrapping his fingers around your ribs, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your tits, teasing you both with the barest of touches. You let out a soft, keening sound against his mouth, making him smirk before he pressed kisses along your jaw and down the smooth column of your neck.

“More, Jack, please,” you begged, your hands fisted in his shirt and tugging on him restlessly. The desperation in your voice, the way you begged for him, it made his cock twitch for you.

He shifted his hands higher, groping your tits through your dress and dragging a filthy moan from your pretty lips. The pads of his thumbs teased your hardened nipples, and he reveled in the way your body shuddered in his arms. Your spine arched, pressing your tits into his hands and he rewarded you by rubbing your nipples more with his thumbs.

“Ya like this, sweetheart?” Jack rasped against your neck, raising his head enough to nip at your ear. “Like letting an old chef feel up your pretty tits?”

“Old, hot chef,” you shot back, correcting him in a deliciously breathless voice.

Jack’s cock twitched at the compliment, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found you—someone so beautiful and full of life. Someone so into him.

He pressed his smile into the spot beneath your ear, kissing and licking your skin until you were moaning softly.

“And yes, chef, I love it. Touch me more, touch me harder—please,” you begged, squirming where you sat on the metal counter in his kitchen.

What was Jack supposed to do? Deny you?

He couldn’t even fathom the idea of not giving you what you asked for, even if he knew that he was letting things get a little out of control. The two of you were still at Night Shift, and though the staff had left for the night, it wasn’t the best idea to have sex in his kitchen.

But Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself, not when you were making such pretty noises while he sucked a hickey into your neck and teased your nipples with the lightest of pinches. His mouth trailed up your throat before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while he played with your tits.

It had been so long since Jack had lost himself in anyone—there hadn’t been anyone who’d awoken that desire in him the way you did. Not since his wife passed. You were a siren calling him to the danger of your body, to the promise of losing his heart to you, and Jack knew he could drown in you if you let him. He hoped to god you let him.

For long, endless minutes, Jack kissed you and groped your tits, playing with your nipples and seeing how many different noises he could pull from your lips. And for a while, you let him, the sounds of your pleasure growing more high-pitched, your hips working more desperately to hump against his cock.

Eventually, your need must’ve grown too great, your frustration too acute, because you grabbed one of Jack’s wrists and shoved his hand down between your bodies, until his fingers brushed your soaked panties.

“Touch me here, Jack, please—I need it,” you whimpered in his ear, and it was nearly his undoing.

It was his turn to gasp and groan, the tips of his fingers stroking against the sodden fabric as he used every ounce of the self-control he’d learned in the army not to spill himself in his jeans right then. You were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet.

Jack teased his fingers along the seam of your slit through your panties, hoping you couldn’t tell how much his hand was shaking. You felt so perfect, it was overwhelming. He’d stopped kissing you, your mouths close as you breathed each other’s air, panting your excitement together while he pressed into your cunt through your slick panties.

“Like this, sweetheart?” he rumbled, the edge of his mouth pulling up in a smirk when you let out a desperate little mewl. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly while you rocked your hips onto his hand.

“Jaaack,” you sobbed, and he’d never heard anything as sweet as the sound of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, pleasure soaked into your voice.

You pulled harder on his hair, and the jolt of pain went straight to his dick, which leaked even more precum into his jeans. Jack responded by pushing his fingers deeper between the lips of your pussy, his progress restricted by your panties, which prevented him from burying his fingers in your hole.

A violent shiver wracked your body, and Jack wrapped his other arm more tightly around your lower back, holding you close while he fucked you shallowly with his fingers. His thumb teased your clit with a featherlight touch, drawing a feral sound from your perfect mouth.

“Please, oh god, please, chef, touch me—fuck me with your fingers, please, please, please,” you babbled, yanking on his hair to draw him closer. But instead, Jack took the opportunity to lean back and take a look at you—and what a sight you were.

Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your gorgeous eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths, enough that your tits threatened to spill out of your mussed dress, which was hiked up high, Jack’s big hand pressed between your soft thighs.

You looked debauched. You looked so beautiful, Jack’s heart clenched in his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining you looking like this in a million different ways—on the desk in his office, in the backseat of his car, on his couch at home, in his bed.

In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to have you in all those ways. He wanted to move you into his place and put a ring on your finger—he wanted to make you his and keep you forever. He was stunned by how much he wanted you.

“Jaaack,” you whined, your sweet voice bringing him back to the moment. Your eyes were wide and pleading as you looked at him. “I was a good girl, wasn’t I?” you asked so pitifully, Jack’s heart ached.

A single tear slipped down your cheek and he cupped your face, panic stealing into his gut and making his stomach drop. He wiped your tears away, already knowing he was going to give you whatever you wanted. If you’d asked him to lay down and die for you, he would’ve done it without a second thought.

“You’re being so mean, chef, when I was so good for you,” you whimpered, your hips worked against his hand. The movement reminded Jack of how he’d been teasing you with his fingers, dragging you to the edge of desperation when all you wanted was to be full of him.

“Oh, baby, baby, baby,” Jack groaned, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

He held your face in one hand as he kissed you, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips, while the other tugged your panties to the side. He pushed one of his thick fingers into your tight, dripping hole, swallowing your moan like it was the most exquisite decadence he’d ever tasted.

“I’m sorry, angel, you’re right,” he rumbled against your mouth, pumping his finger steadily into your pussy, feeling your gummy walls gripping him tight. “You were such a good girl for me—so good that ‘m gonna make you come on my fingers, alright?”

“Promise?” you asked, pouting up at him from under your lashes, and Jack knew he was in trouble, because that look on your face could get him to do anything you asked.

The corner of your mouth twitched, like you were holding back a grin, and Jack’s heart thumped in his chest because you knew the effect you had on him. He liked that a little too much. He liked that you weren’t afraid of torturing him a little bit after he’d teased you a little too much. It felt intimate, like you were building something real together, something that would certainly last past the night.

“I promise, angel,” he cooed, stroking his finger deeper before adding a second one, watching the way your breath caught on a gasp, biting back a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s a rule in my kitchen, y’know,” he went on, talking out of his ass to keep your attention on him even as he finger-fucked your pussy. “Good girls always get to come on the chef’s fingers—and you’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”

You let out a soft, breathy giggle at that, just like Jack had hoped, and he pumped his fingers harder into your wet, gripping cunt, making your laugh devolve into a dirty moan. Your body went loose and languid in his arms, and he rewarded you by pressing his thumb against your clit. He rubbed the little bundle of nerves, watching how you reacted until he found exactly what you liked most.

“Think you can take another, sweetheart?” Jack asked, pressing kisses to your heated cheeks and cleaning away the remnants of your tears with his lips. He trailed his mouth down to your neck, enjoying the way you shivered when his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin. “Can you take one more finger in this sweet cunt, baby?”

“Yes, please, chef,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his thin t-shirt.

Every pinprick became throbbing pleasure as it zinged down to his cock. He hadn’t been so close to coming in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fought off his own desire and focused on you. You and your pleasure were what mattered to him, not his dick.

“Good girl,” Jack purred, grinning into your neck when your pussy pulsed at the praise. He eased a third finger into your slick hole, biting back a groan when your tight warmth enveloped him. He pressed his cock against your soft thigh, looking down and watching your pussy take his thick fingers. “Fuck, angel, look at you—taking me so well.”

You leaned back, looking down your body, and Jack knew the moment you saw his fingers disappearing inside your cunt because you clamped down hard around him, like your body was trying to suck him deeper. He stifled another helpless groan, pumping into you, pressing against a spot that had you shivering and moaning wantonly.

You fell back further, planting your hands on the counter to hold yourself up, trying to use your leverage to bear down further on his fingers. But you’d barely rocked your hips in a slow roll when you let out a cry—the tenor making the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand up—as your arms gave out and you fell backward.

Quick as he could, Jack slid his free arm up your back, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to catch you before your head could hit the shelves above the counter. He pulled his hand from between your legs, holding onto your bare thigh with his sticky fingers as he ducked his head to meet your eyes.

“What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” he asked, his gaze searching your face, which was twisted like you were trying to hide your pain. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought.

You shook your head, rejecting the idea, which calmed Jack for a moment. Until you spoke.

“My wrist,” you whimpered. “Hurts.”

It took all of a second for Jack to understand what had happened. You’d put too much pressure on the wrist that your worthless excuse of a date had grabbed, had hurt, and it had given out. Rage flooded through Jack’s body, his blood pumping hot with the desire to track down Curtis Larsen and beat him to a bloody pulp.

But Jack knew that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all you, so he worked to rein in his anger. He focused on you, making sure you could sit up on your own before taking the hand of your injured wrist in his.

When he held it up to the bright lights in the kitchen, he could see bruises had formed where Curtis had grabbed you. Before he could stop it, a choked off growl rumbled beneath his sternum, the animalistic sound only ceasing when you stroked your palm down his chest, soothing him.

It took Jack another moment to collect himself, to gather his anger and put it in a box to deal with later. Gently, he lifted your hurt wrist to his mouth and brushed the sweetest, softest butterfly kisses over the bruises mottling your skin.

“I’d kill him if I thought I could get away with it,” Jack confessed, hoping to make you giggle again, his eyes lifting to your face to watch your reaction.

Although you didn’t laugh, his words did the trick of bringing the spark back into your eye. A shy smile curved the corners of your pretty mouth, and you lifted your other hand to cup Jack’s jaw, your thumb teasing over the stubble on his cheek.

“He’s not worth the effort,” you said, and though Jack agreed with you, he didn’t like the idea of letting Curtis Larsen get away with hurting you.

“Hmm,” Jack hummed noncommittally, wondering if he could call the police tomorrow and report the man for assault since it’d happened in his restaurant.

He liked that idea.

He liked the idea of locking up Curtis Larsen and throwing away the key even more. But you were his priority, not that jackass that had been your date, so he focused back on you.

Jack squeezed your thigh, his thumb teasing close to the edge of your panties. “Do you want to keep going, sweetheart?” he asked, his gaze watching you carefully. “I can take you home if you’d prefer.”

The change in your expression was immediate, your lower lip pushing out in a pout, your eyes widening and looking at Jack from under your lashes.

“I want to keep going,” you murmured, almost shyly, meeting Jack’s gaze before it dropped to his mouth. Your free hand fell to his arm, moving his hand from your thigh back between your legs then looking up at him. “I don’t want my shitty date to ruin our night—and you promised me I’d get to come on your fingers.”

A small smile curved Jack’s mouth and he ducked forward, stealing a quick kiss from your pouting lips before he pulled away. His grin was cocky as he pushed your panties to the side and teased your tight hole with the tips of his fingers.

“You’re right—and I always keep my promises, baby,” he assured you, pressing his fingers into your pussy while he watched you closely, making sure he didn’t hurt you.

Once they were buried inside you, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your injured wrist, then brought your hand to his shoulder. He gave you a pleased smile when you lifted your other arm to circle loosely around the back of his neck, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape.

“Hold on to me, angel,” Jack urged, easing his fingers out, then back inside your pussy, feeling your slick, tight cunt stretch around him. He watched your eyes go hazy with lust, your mouth falling open as you panted through your pleasure. “I’ll make you feel good—make you forget everything that happened tonight before I came to your table.”

With a soft, sweet sigh, you draped your arms over Jack’s shoulders, taking all the weight off your wrists, and leaned forward to nuzzle into the side of his neck. Warmth suffused his body, his cock twitching in his jeans when he felt you press a kiss to the underside of his scruffy jaw.

“Thank you, Jack,” you murmured, your voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the quiet whir of machinery in the kitchen. Your warm breath brushed against Jack’s throat and he had to suppress a shiver, focusing on your words. “You’re all I want to remember about tonight.”

Jack’s arm tightened around your lower back, instinctively pulling you closer as his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. Your sweet words called to something deep in his soul, something that hadn’t been fed in too long for him to be normal about it.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell you he wanted to spend every night with you, that he wanted you in his bed when he woke up in the morning and to come home to you in his kitchen. He wanted to cook for you and take you out and move you in with him…

But Jack knew it was way too soon to be having those thoughts, let alone say them out loud, so he put on the charm, hoping you couldn’t tell where his mind had wandered.

“And the food, right?” he asked, his tone teasing and light as he fucked you with his fingers again, his thrusts building you back up to where you’d been. He could feel the way your body trembled in his arms, and he held you tighter so he could feel the pleasure work through you. “You want to remember the food, right, sweetheart?”

You huffed a laugh against Jack’s neck, your tongue darting out and swiping up the side of his throat, making him groan helplessly at the obscene feeling of you licking him. His hips bucked forward of their own volition, his cock grinding against your soft inner thigh.

“Oh yes, chef,” you purred in his ear, your voice shaky and breathless and so, so sweet as he pumped his fingers into you harder, his thumb rubbing your clit. “I want to remember everything I got to taste tonight.”

Your words conjured images of your pert mouth on Jack’s cock, your teasing tongue swirling around the tip, licking up his precum before sucking him deep between your soft lips. It was such a hot image, Jack had to duck his head and muffle his tortured groan into your shoulder.

It took him a full minute to get himself together, your giggles echoing softly in the empty kitchen while your nails raked through his silver curls. Once he was able to focus again on the present, Jack pressed his mouth to your collarbone, licking and sucking your skin down to your tits, pushing the top of your dress down so he could take your nipple into his mouth.

The older man was rewarded with a sharp cry from your lips, your spine arching and pressing your tits further into his mouth. Jack grinned into your soft flesh and began to lavish them with his attention, his fingers still working in and out of your pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit in teasing, maddening circles.

It occurred to Jack that he could stay right where he was for a long, long time and be happy to keep sucking on your tits, learning what made you squirm and moan, all while he fucked your cunt with his fingers. But all too soon, you were hovering on the edge of your release, your pussy fluttering around Jack’s fingers, your cries turning high-pitched and desperate while your body worked to find your pleasure.

Your fingers were threaded in his hair, clutching his head tight to your chest as you moaned and rocked your hips harder on his fingers. Mindless pleas were falling from your kiss-swollen lips, frantic appeals for ‘more’ and ‘harder’, begging him to give you the release you needed.

Jack was torn between drawing out the moment, making it last forever, and giving you what you wanted. Eventually, his need to take care of you won out, and he pushed his fingers deep into your cunt, his thumb mercilessly rubbing your clit while he lifted his head from your chest.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growled in your ear. “Show me what a good girl you are and come all over chef’s fingers—let go, let me see you come for me.” He pressed his fingers against that spot deep inside your body and stroked your clit, feeling you tighten around him.

Pulling back enough to see your face, Jack watched you succumb to pleasure, your release taking hold of your body and making you throw your head back, a desperate, breathy cry bursting from your mouth. Your fingers tightened in hair, and your pussy clamped down on his fingers, making him work to keep fucking you through the waves of pleasure surging through your body, which trembled in his arms.

“Good girl,” Jack rumbled, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of your pulsing channel, wringing every ounce of bliss from your body. “Sweet girl, perfect girl.”

You curled forward and sobbed your pleasure into Jack’s neck, and when you shuddered at the overstimulation of his fingers, he gently eased you down from your peak. Once your release had ebbed, he slipped his fingers out of your body, and helped you to sit up.

“You gonna keep being a good girl and clean me up, baby?” he asked, touching his wet, dripping fingers to your plump lower lip. Jack didn’t know what had come over him, but the desire to see you taste yourself was too great to ignore, and he hoped he wasn’t making you uncomfortable.

He was pleased when your already unfocused eyes went even more hazy, your head nodding and a smile curling the edges of your mouth before you parted your lips and let Jack slip his fingers inside. You hummed a happy sound that went straight to Jack’s dick then got to work cleaning your own release from his skin.

It was such an erotic sight that Jack thought he could watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of the night, but then he realized he’d given away the opportunity to taste you himself and he got ridiculously jealous. You weren’t done cleaning him up, but he pulled his fingers from between your lips and shoved them into his own mouth.

Jack groaned at your taste, savoring the musky flavor of your pleasure while he held your gaze, letting you watch him lick his fingers clean. Your eyes were hooded and full of renewed lust, your lips swollen and parted as you panted for him.

He couldn’t stop himself. Between one breath and the next, his mouth was crushing against yours in a mindless, feral kiss. He could taste your pussy on your tongue when his delved into your mouth and it drove him wild. His arms wrapped around your body, crushing you to his chest while he kissed you harder, groaning when your fingers pressed into his spine and clung to him just as tightly.

“Jack, I want more,” you cried when your lips wrenched free from his, your fingers trailing around his ribs and down over his stomach until you could cup his thick erection through his jeans. “I need you inside me—need you filling me until I’m so full of your cock, it’s all I can think about.”

“Fuck, angel, you beg so pretty, how can I say no?” Jack teased, his voice only a little unsteady. He tried to pull away, but couldn’t bring himself to when you were stroking his cock through his pants, wringing desperate whimpers from him that would’ve embarrassed him if you weren’t smiling like the cat that got the cream. “C’mere, baby, let me fill up that greedy pussy of yours.”

But when Jack grabbed your ass and pulled you close to he could thrust into your pussy through your clothes, he felt a twinge of pain in his leg where it rubbed uncomfortably against his prosthetic. The pain shot straight up his spine, making his mind go completely blank for a moment, his breath catching in his lungs.

During work, Jack could typically grit his teeth and bear the pain when it hit, but he’d been on his feet for too long. He’d pushed himself beyond his own limits and his body was reminding him that he wasn’t the young, spry man he’d once been.

“Jack?” you asked, your voice thick with concern.

The older man took stock of himself, and realized he’d half collapsed against you, his head on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants as he breathed through the pain. He’d shifted his weight to his one good foot, leaving him a little off-balance and using you to steady himself.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, stroking your fingers comfortingly through his hair and across his shoulders. When he relaxed into your touch, you held him tighter, not seeming to mind that he was putting some of his weight on you.

“My prosthetic,” he grumbled, not entirely happy that this was how he was telling you, but not shying away from the truth either. “Hurts.”

“Your prosthetic?” you asked after a moment, and Jack paid close attention to the tone of your voice. You sounded confused, maybe a little curious, but Jack was relieved that there wasn’t revulsion or, worse, pity in your tone.

“Lost my leg while I was in the army,” he explained, taking a deep breath as he began to recover his strength. The pain had subsided, leaving him a little shaky and off-balance, but fine.

“Oh, okay,” you said, nothing but acceptance in your tone.

Your fingers were still idly playing with Jack’s hair and that, more than anything else, helped him feel better—though he knew he’d have to get off his feet soon. He was trying to work out how to tell you he couldn’t fuck you on the counter in this position when you took him by surprise with another question.

“Is that how you got the medal?’

Jack paused. Of all the questions you could’ve asked—and he’d heard most, if not all of them—that wasn’t one he’d anticipated. Most folks didn’t know about the medal, and it took him a moment to remember that he kept it on his desk in his office, where you’d spent most of the evening.

The realization that you’d been curious enough about him to look through his desk made his heart soar, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, you going through his things. It felt right, the idea of you being comfortable in his space.

“Were you snooping through my stuff, sweetheart?” Jack asked teasingly, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze, curious about how you’d react to the question.

He watched your eyes widen slightly, your gaze darting away before returning to his with a sheepish look on your face. “It was on top of your desk,” you mumbled, shrugging, then wincing at how blithe you sounded. “I didn’t go through any drawers or anything, I swear.”

Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at how guilty you looked, and he smoothed a hand down your spine in a reassuring gesture. “You’re adorable,” he murmured, capturing your lips in a kiss to let you know you were forgiven. “And yes, it’s how I got the medal. I’ve made peace with it, but sometimes, it makes things…tricky.”

You nodded somberly as you absorbed that information, your eyes dropping down to where Jack was still half-leaning against you. The chef could practically see the gears turning in your head as you thought, but he was still taken by surprise when you lifted your gaze back to his and asked, “Would it help if I was on top?”

Your question made Jack pause again. He’d been with his wife already when he’d lost his leg, and she’d helped him figure out what worked afterward. It had given him the confidence he’d needed to eventually move on after she’d passed on. But the few flings he’d had since weren’t as easily accepting as you, and none of them had been as considerate.

It made Jack’s heart clench in his chest as he realized all over again how glad he was to have found you. Although he wished the circumstances of your meeting were different—he wished you’d never been hurt by your date—he was grateful that the universe had brought you together.

“Yeah, actually, it would,” Jack said, matching your serious tone with his honesty.

It was another moment where the weight of his feelings for you took him by surprise, especially after knowing you for such a short time. In an effort not to scare you away by revealing how he felt, he used his charm to lighten the mood. Ducking his head, he caught your eye and let a smirk play on his lips.

“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asked, his tone teasing, his smirk spreading into a full-blown confident grin when lust bloomed in your eyes, none of it tainted by pity or fear or disgust. It made his cock throb for you. “Wanna ride chef’s cock and make us both feel good?”

“Yes, please, chef. I’d love to ride you,” you purred, pushing him gently back to give you room to move.

You held his gaze as you reached beneath the hem of your dress and wiggled until you’d yanked your panties off, looking at him expectantly. Jack unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free.

He watched your eyes dart down, then widen when you took in the size of his thick cock. His dick wasn’t the longest, but it was fat enough that his three fingers stretching your pussy would feel small in comparison. Suddenly, he hoped you weren’t afraid.

It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure you, to tell you that you could stop this at any time and the two of you could go slow if that was what you needed. But before he could get the words out, your eyes lifted to his and he saw the spark of eager excitement in their depths, in the curve of your grin.

You looked like a sultry creature feral with lust, your pretty, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a sensuous smile as you hopped off the counter and prowled closer to him, only wobbling a little in your heels. Jack reached for you at the same moment you spun him around and shoved him onto the counter so you could climb on top of him.

“I’m gonna make us feel sooo good, chef,” you promised, settling your knees on either side of Jack’s hips and rising up, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. Jack’s hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up so he could see your bare pussy where you rubbed the tip of his dick through your slick folds. “Gonna ride your cock until you’re coming hard in my cunt. Tell me you want it, too—please, chef.”

For a moment, all words fled Jack’s mind. All he could do was feel the teasing warmth of your pussy kissing the tip of his cock, hear the soft wet sounds of your desire, smell the scent of your arousal. All he could see was you, looking like a goddess above him, promising him pleasure.

Fuck, Jack Abbot really was in heaven, and he hoped he never had to leave.

You were right where you were meant to be.

You couldn’t explain what had come over you—whether it was simply the lust you’d felt at the sight of the older man’s thick cock or if it was everything about the chef—but you had the sense that everything you’d been through that night was worth it because you’d met Jack Abbot.

He was everything you’d been looking for in a partner—kind and capable, charming and funny—and plenty that you hadn’t known you’d wanted, like the way he could talk just as dirty as you, and cook way better than you ever could. He’d been gentle when he’d kissed your injured wrist, but hadn’t held back when he’d fucked you with his fingers, giving it to you as rough as you needed to get off.

Jack had made you feel safe and desired. He’d taken care of you in every way you’d needed throughout the night, and you were in serious danger of falling for him. If you hadn’t already. It might’ve been a little crazy, but you might’ve fallen for him already.

The weight of your feelings were too heavy to tell the chef just yet, so you focused instead on the moment, on the feeling of Jack’s broad tip teasing between the lips of your pussy, of the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and the heat of his eyes as he watched you tease his cock.

It was intoxicating, seeing the unrestrained lust in Jack’s face, darkening his hazel eyes and twisting his mouth into something feral and hungry. The thought crossed your mind that you could try to tease him until he snapped, the last remnants of his patience falling away as he yanked you down on his cock. But just the fantasy had you pulsing with need.

You needed Jack’s cock inside you. Immediately.

But before you could start to lower yourself down on Jack’s bare length, you remembered yourself. You paused, hovering above his thick, throbbing cock, and took a breath to steady yourself. Still, your voice was a little shaky as you spoke.

“I’m on birth control; I’ve been tested, and it was clear,” you rushed to say, hoping Jack could understand your words even as they tripped over each other to fall off your tongue. You braced one hand on his shoulder and looked dead in the older man’s eyes. “I want you bare, Jack, please.”

“Jesus,” he cursed, letting his head fall against your chest. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and it took a moment for the man to get himself together to look at you. You wanted him without a condom too badly to rush him. “I’m all clear, too, angel,” he rasped, staring into your eyes. “It would be the honor of my life to fuck you raw, baby.”

Your heart soared, battering against your ribs like a caged bird wanting to take flight. You were so overcome by emotion, by your desire for this man, that you couldn’t think of doing anything else but kiss him. Jack cupped your face while your fingers sank into his steel gray curls, both of you holding each other tight as you kissed, hard and deep, with all the wild, unfettered emotion you felt.

Before the kiss even ended, you were already pressing down on his cock, only pulling away from Jack’s mouth when the tip pushed inside your body, the stretch making you gasp. He was wider than anything you’d taken before, and it sent a filthy shiver sliding down your spine as you felt your body straining to take him.

“God, Jack, you’re so—fuck, you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, your eyes crossing a little as you lowered yourself another inch, grateful that he’d already finger-fucked you to orgasm once, since it made the slide slightly easier. You shuddered with the effort not to impale yourself all at once, knowing it would be a mistake if you didn’t go slow.

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself,” Jack warned, but there was a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone that drove you wild, your pussy clenching around and suckling on the tip of his cock. His words devolved into a pleasured groan that trickled down your spine like warm honey. “Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me already—you’re so tight and warm and wet. Jesus.”

“Uh huh, uh huh, so wet for you,” you babbled, bouncing a little on Jack’s cock to take him deeper. Your pussy stretched to accomodate him and the feeling of fullness stole the breath from your lungs. “You’re splitting me open so good, Jack, fuck—fuck, chef.”

“Mm,” Jack hummed, his hands kneading your ass and sliding up your spine beneath your dress, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses to your skin that had you shivering in his arms. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t ya, baby,” he rumbled into the hollow of your throat, “because you’re such a good girl for me, huh?”

You couldn’t explain it, but Jack’s words had a ridiculous effect on you, making your pussy gush even more while your heart soared. Your hips rolled, pressing down determinedly and taking his cock nearly to the root, the stretch dragging a gasp from your lips while you clutched the older man close, reveling in the feel of his mouth on your neck.

“Yuh huh, your good girl,” you moaned, feeling Jack’s cock deep in your body. It filled you up so good, stretching you nearly to your limit, but you’d gone slow enough that it didn’t hurt—just made you impatient to have all of him.

You squirmed in his lap, lifting up and pressing back down, taking more and more of him with every downward thrust. Jack chuckled darkly as his hands hand returned to your hips, groping you with those thick, skillful fingers of his while he helped you bounce on his cock.

“That’s right, my good girl,” Jack rumbled, the possessiveness in his voice making your whole body clench, wringing a desperate groan from his mouth. He pulled you closer at the same moment when you spread your knees wide, and the result was your body being finally fully impaled on his cock.

The sudden, complete fullness was a delicious shock to your system and you wrapped yourself tightly around Jack, your arms circling his shoulders while you trembled and adjusted to the size of his fat cock buried in your cunt. It took you a breath to return to the moment, feeling Jack’s hands smoothing over your bare thighs in soothing gestures.

“Atta girl,” Jack praised, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Feels like you were made for me—made to take my cock.”

A soft, breathy laugh burst from your lips, because those words were exactly what you wanted to hear, and it surprised you to hear them from Jack’s mouth. It made you feel like you weren’t alone in the big, overwhelming feelings you were having too soon for the chef, and you pressed your face into his shoulder to silence yourself before you said something too soon.

Instead, you focused on the feel of Jack. Every little movement of your body had his cock shifting inside your tight channel, his heavy length dragging against your sensitive inner walls, making your surprised laughter turn into a helpless moan.

“You feel sooo good,” you murmured, rocking your hips and getting lost in sensation. With your head fuzzy and full of pleasure, you sat up enough to look into Jack’s face, staring deep into his eyes. “If I was made to take anyone’s cock, Jack, I’d want it to be yours,” you said, not realizing until the words were out of your mouth just how revealing they were.

But instead of the depth of your desire scaring the chef, his gaze turned more intense, and a flicker of a smile played around the corner of his mouth. He drew you closer, until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth away from his. His eyes were hot and dark as they stared deep into your soul.

“I’m so glad you came into my restaurant tonight, angel,” Jack rasped, so much genuine affection in his tone, it made you melt further into him, your knees squeezing his hips while you clung to his shoulders. “Meeting you has made this the best night of my life—I hope you’ll let me see you again.”

“Oh, Jack,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes, not from sadness but a boundless happiness. You tried to blink them away, embarrassed to be crying while Jack’s cock was still buried in your body, but the older man didn’t seem to mind, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and brushing away the few tears that fell. “I’d really like to see you again, too.”

“Good,” he said, his voice so decisive that you knew it was settled. Your heart soared in your chest, and a smile broke across your face. You couldn’t have said which of you leaned forward first, closing the distance so your mouths came together in a kiss, a promise.

The kiss was slow and sensual, one of Jack’s hands cupping the back of your head while you explored each other. It was a delicious kiss, made all the more exquisite when Jack’s tongue licked into your mouth, drawing needy sounds from your lips as he kissed you deeper, like he wanted to remind you that he was buried in more than one of your holes.

You barely noticed when your hips began to rock, fucking yourself on Jack’s big cock. But when his hands dropped to your hips, urging you on, you had to pull away from his mouth with a gasp.

Tossing your head back, you focused on riding your chef, lifting up onto your knees and slamming back down on his hard, thick length. It was dizzyingly glorious, the heat and hardness of him filling your tight hole, punching the air from your lungs until you could do nothing but let out mindless sounds of pleasure.

“That’s my girl, fuck yourself on my cock,” Jack murmured encouragingly, his hands on your ass helping you lift yourself up and slide back down his stiff shaft. He groaned, loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of your pussy and the soft clap of your ass hitting his thighs. “Fuck, angel, you feel so good—such a good girl, riding chef’s cock like a fucking champ.”

A shiver raced down your spine at his praise and your fingers tangled in Jack’s hair, bracing yourself so you could bounce harder on his cock. Every thrust of his dick deep into your cunt was driving your pleasure higher, until your head was filled with clouds and your body was tingling, balancing on the precipice of your release.

“Yes, yes, yes, your girl, your good girl,” you panted, your eyes heavy-lidded but still open as you watched Jack’s face, his skin flushed red, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. “Please, chef, I’m so close—please, I need…”

Your words devolved into a moan as Jack took control of your body, changing the angle of your hips so your clit was grinding against the base of his cock. All you could do was gasp and whimper and whine and try to hold on to him while he helped you ride him.

“My sweet girl, my perfect girl, my gorgeous girl,” Jack cooed, punctuating his words by pulling you down on his cock over and over and over again, making sure your clit rubbed against him with each thrust. “I know what my girl needs—come for me, pretty girl. Wanna see you let go, wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, please.”

Jack’s words and the way he guided your body, helping you find your pleasure, were your undoing. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core until it suddenly snapped. You were sent tumbling over the edge of your release, every muscle in your body pulling taut before you exploded with a wailing cry, pleasure crashing through you in violent, euphoric waves.

A groan tore from Jack’s mouth and his arms tightened around your body. He held you crushed against his chest, moaning his own pleasure into your neck while his hips jerked between your thighs, fucking you through both your releases.

You clung on to him, your body writhing on top of his as you eked out every bit of bliss from each other, until the waves of your release began to recede. With a sated sigh, you collapsed against the older man’s shoulder, fingers raking idly through his hair while his hands stroked everywhere on your body he could reach—your hips, your thighs, even down your calves and up your spine beneath your dress.

Between your thighs, you could feel his hot release beginning to leak from your hole, and you squirmed a little at the strange feeling of loss that settled in your gut. Jack pressed one of his palms to your lower back, urging you to settle on his lap, and you let yourself relax, reveling in the feeling of his softening cock still filling your pussy.

After giving you a few moments to recover, Jack’s fingers trailed down the side of your face where your head was laying on his shoulder. He curled a finger around your chin and tilted your head up enough so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Alright, angel girl?” he asked softly, his voice so low and raspy, it sent little tingles dancing down your spine. You smiled against his mouth.

“Sooo good,” you answered, your mouth quirking into a smirk as you continued. “Or should I say, ‘Thank you, chef, that really hit the spot’?”

Jack huffed a surprised laugh, squeezing you tight in his arms as he shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you, baby girl?”

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Jack that what he should do was take you back to his place and keep you forever. That thought was so surprising—you’d only known him for one night!—and felt so right, that instead of answering, you kissed him.

You could feel the smile on his lips before he kissed you back, and that little expression had you realizing just how fond you’d grown of the chef in such a short time. It was so astonishingly easy to picture yourself going home with Jack, sleeping in his bed, cuddled up in his arms, then having breakfast together in the morning.

The night had started with you not expecting much from your date. You thought maybe you’d hit it off and see him again, but you hadn’t dared to have much hope.

And now, the night was ending with you kissing a different man, one you’d only just met, and wanting so much more with him. You wanted to get to know Jack Abbot and see if your initial compatibility and attraction could lead to something more.

For the first time in a long time, you had hope. It felt like everything that had happened earlier in the evening was fate conspiring to bring you and Jack together—and you were all too excited to see where things would go.

The best part, you realized, as Jack kissed you back, his mouth moving sensuously against yours, was that he seemed just as excited to get to know you, too. He’d shown you nothing but green flags all night, and had even already asked to see you again. It felt like something close to magic to know that the man you liked, liked you back.

A smile fluttered at the corner of your mouth as you let yourself focus on kissing Jack, knowing there’d be time to overthink everything later. For the time being, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with your chef, because you were certain it was the beginning of something beautiful.

For a long while, the two of you were making out just for the fun of it, for the enjoyment of being with each other, until Jack’s soft cock slipped from your body and made you shiver. He grabbed his leather jacket from where you’d tossed it on the counter and wrapped it around your shoulders, giving you one last kiss before he began to ease you off his lap.

“I’ve got to clean up here,” he said, tucking his cock away and zipping up his jeans before he helped you straighten your dress, his eyes wandering shamelessly over your body, like he hadn’t yet had his fill of worshipping you. “Once I’m done, I can take you home. Sound good, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you said, your fingers snagging in the hem of Jack’s white t-shirt, preventing him from moving too far away. You weren’t usually the clingy type, but you couldn’t bear to be away from him just yet. “Are you gonna take me back to my place, or yours?”

The older man’s gaze darkened and his hands settled on your hips, pulling you close again. Your arms wound instinctively around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair in a way that already felt so comfortable and familiar.

“I was planning to take you to your home,” Jack began, a smirk curling his mouth when you pouted up at him from under your lashes. “But if you’d like, I can take you back to mine.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, his smirk melting into a smile. “I’d love to cook you breakfast, sweetheart.”

The depth of the affection in Jack’s gaze and his words made you feel suddenly shy, and you ducked your head a little. “I’d like that,” you murmured, sneaking a peek at him and finding the chef grinning like he’d just won the lottery. It gave you the confidence to lift your head and give him a confident smirk. “Be careful, though, if you keep making me such delicious food, you’ll never get rid of me.”

Something devilish flickered across Jack’s face and his smirk was all smug confidence as he swooped in and stole a kiss from your lips, leaving you breathless when he pulled away a moment later. “That’s the plan, angel girl—I’m gonna keep you around any way I can until you get sick of me.”

You were already shaking your head before he’d even finished talking, your fingers tugging lightly, admonishingly, on his hair. “That’ll never happen,” you said, your tone more serious than you’d intended. But your honesty was rewarded with Jack’s mouth twisting into a smile and him kissing you again.

It was such a privilege, you realized, to be with someone who wanted you just as badly as you wanted them—who liked you just as much as you liked them. From the moment you’d met him, Jack had made you feel safe, had taken care of you, had shown you that you were special simply for being you. And you hoped you’d done the same for him.

When Jack finally pulled away from the kiss, you whined a little, making him chuckle. “C’mon, baby girl, let’s clean up and go home,” he rumbled, kissing each of your cheeks, then your nose, before giving you one last kiss on your mouth.

His words and his sweet kisses had you smiling and giggling, and you nodded, your heart warm and light as you let Jack move away to begin cleaning up his workstation. As he did, you fetched your things from his office, turning off the light and closing the door.

By the time you’d returned, Jack was done, and he held his hand out for you to take. You did so happily, handing off your jacket and purse for him to carry when he offered.

Stepping out into the brisk, spring evening, a breeze sweeping through Pittsburgh and making you glad to have Jack’s jacket around your shoulders, you felt like you were leaving the little bubble you and the chef had created. But as you watched him lock up the back door of Night Shift, using only one hand so he could keep holding yours, you knew you didn’t need that bubble.

You may have had to endure the date from hell to meet Jack Abbot, but it felt like fate had designed the night so that you ended up right where you were meant to be—with the hot, older chef who looked at you with so much awe and affection, it made your heart pitter-patter in your chest.

Jack walked you to his car, pushing you gently against the passenger door to kiss you some more before he helped you into the seat. He held your hand as he drove you back to his place, kissing your knuckles every few minutes, then leaning across the center console to kiss your mouth after he’d parked in front of his house.

The two of you didn’t talk much as you got ready for bed, but you didn’t need to. A comfortable silence had fallen over you and Jack, and you didn’t feel the need to fill it, especially with how tired you were. You changed into one of his t-shirts, brushed your teeth with the extra toothbrush he had on hand and cleaned your makeup off your face.

When you slipped into bed beside Jack, he was still massaging his leg, easing the pain he’d felt from wearing his prosthetic all night. You hoped he’d one day let you do that for him—help him to relieve the ache of the day’s grind from his leg, his shoulders, and anywhere else that might pain him.

Before you could gather the courage to offer, though, Jack turned and slid under the sheets beside you. He wrapped you up in his arms, and both of you let out little sighs of contentment. You didn’t know what exactly Jack was thinking, but you suspected it felt just as right to him as it did to you to be in his bed and in his arms.

You fell asleep knowing in your heart that you were right where you were meant to be—with Jack Abbot.

thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡♡♡

[yournamesnob]

I like you too ☘︎ mohabbot x fem!roomate!reader

Pairing: Samira Mohan x roommate!reader x Jack Abbot

Word count: 6.2k

CW: nsfw, mdni, 18+, threesome, mean!dom!jack, good girl!switch!samira, brat!sub!reader, punishment, oral m and f receiving, unprotected piv sex, overstim, aftercare, confessing feelings

Summary: You’ve had a crush on your roomate Samira for the longest time, so what happens when she makes it official with Jack who…well…is also very easy on the eyes.

a/n: this is hella self indulgent and all for meee

The first time you meet your roommate’s new boyfriend you’re in your underwear, in the kitchen, right in the middle of fixing up your pre-shift dinner when the front door bursts open, their laughter making your heart sink into your stomach.

“Shit!”

You don’t even think about it before you throw yourself down against the floor behind the counter…a little too aggressively.

The thump is loud, especially for two emergency department doctors who know just how bad that sounded.

They’re on you in seconds, Samira giggling at your silliness as her date looks between the two of you, picture perfect professionalism.

Maybe you shouldn’t wear lacy, see through underwear anymore.

And you should definitely start wearing real clothes while in the common areas of your apartment from now on.

“Are you okay?” Your roommate asks in between fits of laughter.

“Shut up,” you shove her a little, enough to let them both know you’re fine.

“You should ice your knee before it bruises.”

His voice is rough and thick, like he knows he shouldn’t be speaking right now but he simply can’t help himself.

It’s the doctor in them, they can never just observe.

It’s only then that you notice the red mark.

Mohan shoots you a stern look to which you simply roll your eyes.

“It’ll be fine,” you flex your knee, no pain. “Now if you’re done playing doctor, may I please put some clothes on before pretty boy becomes convinced I’m depraved?”

The man cracks a smile. “Just Jack is fine.”

God that fucking rasp.

You snort. “Alright, just Jack.”

Samira helps you up, subconsciously shielding you from his gaze when she notices just how sheer the tiny bits of fabric truly are over your body.

“‘m sorry,” she sighs in disbelief. “Thought she’d be gone by now.”

You can hear her whisper as you limp back into your room.

It’s only when the door closes behind you and their hushed voices fade from earshot that your heart drops right back into your stomach.

Of course secret doctor boyfriend is hot. Hot people always find each other, it’s the way of life, how the universe should always function.

And of course she’s into him, broodingly gorgeous with soft hazel eyes that genuinely offer nothing more than support and understanding…even to an almost naked, overreactive mess of a roommate like you.

And of course he likes her. Samira is goodness incarnate, beautiful and kind, smarter than anyone you’ve ever met before, compassionate and caring and…she will never be yours.

You leave them alone as quickly as humanly possible and desperately try to forget that awkward first impression happened as you pour all your energy into keeping up with the overwhelming amount of drink orders coming in.

Once you’re in the flow of it it’s easy to just do.

You definitely don’t think about how they probably sat down on the couch for a night cap. How she offered him a beer and he declined, wanting to be sober for this because of course he’s that type of guy.

The line works on Samira, of course it does, and she’s practically throwing herself at him, pressing her lips down on his own with a neediness that’s so gentle he may just lose his mind.

He would take her to bed then, would never fuck her on the couch because she is a lady and deserves to be worshipped on a bed.

No, you’re definitely not thinking about anything else as you move to grab the bottle that was just to your right a second ago and instead slam your palm directly over a piece of sliced glass from a cup your coworker just broke.

The pain is only a dull ache as you sit at the PTMC waiting room, hand wrapped in a thick bartending towel.

It’s nearing two and you're starting to get sleepy, the lack of having to move and be alert giving way to the annoyance of having to deal with this now.

You can already picture the lecture Samira’s gonna throw your way the second they call her as your emergency contact. You’re lucid enough though, maybe they’ll let you get yourself home so that she can keep sleeping uninterrupted.

You’ve only been waiting about half an hour when the doors open up ahead. You don’t pay it much mind, a lot of people have been coming and going. That is until you hear your name being called, and not by the nice lady that signed you in.

This seriously cannot be happening. Isn’t he supposed to be in your apartment sleeping next to the woman you’ve been harboring feelings for after making sweet love to her and satisfying her to the point where she falls asleep soundly?

“Hi, just Jack,” you greet him, trying really hard to chuckle but at that point you’re so tired you simply cannot bother to put in the effort.

He crouches in front of you, making quick way to fold back the towel so he can assess the damage.

“We really have to stop meeting like this.”

Well at least one you is awake enough to crack jokes.

“Tell me about it,” you sigh. “Thought you had the night off?”

“Nope, just a few hours.”

You hum as he inspects your hand, finger tips barely ghosting over your skin and yet you still shiver.

He cracks another half smirk at your reaction.

“Good, you’re reactive,” he soothes.

Yeah, totally. Reactive. Not totally feeling like a disgusting pervert for all the ways you’ve been imagining him between Samira’s legs.

He wraps the towel around your hand again, ties an even tighter knot which finally causes you to grunt in pain.

“Ah so you do feel.”

“Shut up, I feel just fine.”

“High threshold?”

“Just barely.”

“Good to know,” he stands back up. “You can come on back with me now.”

You frown. “They didn’t call my name yet.”

“You’re a VIP, get used to it.”

And then the motherfucker winks and you have to force yourself to not succumb to the arousal clouding your brain.

You need stitches. Just a few, nothing major. Not enough to merit a room, just a spot in triage.

Lucky for you, it’s a clean cut, no debris.

A lovely nurse comes around and helps prep the area, numbing your palm before Jack comes back to suture you himself.

“So,” he settles into the rolling stool beside you. “What happened?”

“You usually chat up your patients this much?”

“Please don’t tell me I look like a cranky old man.”

“Hey, you said it—”

He smirks again, getting to work on your hand.

It’s the gentleness in which he works that pulls at your heart, urging you to be honest, to trust him.

“Hand accidentally landed on a piece of broken glass.”

“Accidentally?”

“Yes.”

“Were you cleaning it up?”

“No.”

He stops then and gazes up at you through his lashes.

Oh my god you are not developing a crush on your crush’s boyfriend right now. Pull yourself together, fuck.

“Coworker broke a glass, I didn’t see it until it was too late.”

“Didn’t hear it either?”

“It’s a loud bar.”

He scoffs. Liar.

You shoot him an incredulous scowl.

“I’m not judging you, I’m simply—”

“Judging me?” you tease.

He smirks, amused. “Samira told me you were difficult.”

The second he says it you can tell he regrets it, his hands flinching for a millisecond.

“Oh you wanna talk about what Samira’s told us now?”

He gulps, visibly and loudly, as he assesses the mischief in your voice and the masochistic sparkle in your eyes.

He knows exactly what you’re referring to. And while you thought it would bring him nothing but embarrassment, you cannot be more wrong.

“All true.”

Your mouth goes dry, your heart does a leap into your stomach.

And the fucker actually chuckles at the sight.

“Alright, all done.”

He practically tears off the blue latex gloves, sinfully so, disposing of them before he rolls back to where you’re still glued to your seat.

“Don’t get it wet for 48 hours, keep it elevated to reduce swelling and come back in a week to get the stitches removed. If it gets really red or unbearably itchy, come back immediately.”

Your gaze meets his then and oh he’s loving this.

Don’t get it wrong, Samira makes your heart go wild because of how well she knows you, how easy it is to let your guard down and feel comfortable around her.

But Jack? He meets you in the uncomfortable, keeping you hostage in your own little games and never backing down. He’s got no shame and you fear you may have finally met your match.

“Thank you, Doctor just Jack.”

He laughs at that, full bellied and genuine, his teeth finally gracing his wrinkled smile.

“I’ll see you around, kid.”

And with that he’s gone back into the night.

Fuck.

Naturally, you avoid them like the plague for the next few days.

Samira's busy working days and Jack doesn't show his face at the apartment again, thankfully, so all you have to do is hide away in your room the second the clock strikes seven.

Which is where you are now, comfortably under a pile of blankets, eating ice cream right out of the tub when your door opens without any preamble.

And there she is, hair down, buttery red dress matching her lipstick, hugging every single curve and making you short circuit.

"Oh god, is it that bad?"

"No! Fuck—” you practically choke, coughing aggressively as you swallow the freezing liquid.

Samira doesn't hesitate to cross into the room quickly, sitting down next to you and rubbing a stern hand over your back.

Oh this cannot be happening right now.

"You're good, just breathe," she tries to soothe but, oh my god.

"I would—” you manage. "But you're gonna have to take your foot off my neck first."

She rolls her eyes, giving your arm a little smack, causing you to smile shyly.

You can already feel the heat settling in your cheeks, your heart beating uncomfortably fast at just how close she is. And unfortunately she doesn't stop there.

Her hand lingers, running down your arm in a gesture you should not think twice about but you simply can't help yourself.

Her fingertips press into your pulse point but they don't linger on the touch, on the thundering of your veins. At least you don't think she does, instead she brings your hand up to examine.

"I'm not exactly thrilled it was Jack who told me you got hurt."

Oh that almost makes you crack. Shame rises in your stomach, there's nothing more soul crushing than disappointing Samira. That hurts you.

"Mira..."

"No, I get why you didn't tell me," she soothes, softly running her fingers over the stitches. "I just need you to know that I would wake up for anything if you called."

You sigh in relief, finally mustering the courage to turn to look at her, eyes round and sharp, like she's searching for something and is unsure if what she's feeling is what she's thinking.

You can't help how you mouth hangs open at the sight, at the little ways she holds you captive under her, reminding you of your place in your relationship.

But then she looks down at your lips and back up at your eyes, and the sting around your heart causes you to flinch backwards.

It's subtle yet she catches it instantly, gaze sharpening.

"I—”

You don't have time to explain, to beg, to tell her that you didn't mean it, that you want her that way, that she's right.

Not when there's a knock on the front door and she's bolting out of your room.

It takes them no time to leave. There's no "please come in, let me get my coat, let me put these in some water". No, they're gone in an instant and all you can do is throw yourself against your pillows and scream.

At some point in the next couple of hours you make your way out to the living room, heavy blanket wrapped around you, mind still reeling.

You can't get out of your head, replaying the motions, desperately imagining what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away.

Would she have kissed you? Would you have kissed her back? Would she set you down on your bed gently and kissed every inch of skin, slowly taking off your clothes when she became frustrated that there wasn't enough flesh exposed?

Would Jack have insisted on his knocking? Would he have gotten concerned with her lack of response and used the key over the door frame to get in? Would he have found you writhing under Samira and yelled? Screamed? Watched?

Your walls clench around the mere thought of Jack watching his girlfriend leave purple marks all over your body.

You kick your sweats off in a huff, legs falling open as your fingers tease your entrance, already sticky and embarrassingly wet.

You run your fingers up to your clit, start to circle over it as the fantasy continues to unfold.

He would not be able to stay out of it, to just watch, he would tell her what to do, test her just like he's done in countless of her night shift rotation stories.

"Fuck..." A jolt of electricity bursts through your body and you remove your fingers from your clit. There's no fun in ending it too soon, so your fingers drag, lazy and lewd, until you sink two of them inside of you.

The stretch is fine but not nearly enough. No, Jack would make sure to fill you up with his fingers while he tells Samira to use her tongue on your clit. God, the pressure would be fantastic.

There's a knock at the door, no doubt the takeout you ordered a million years ago.

"Just leave it on the mat!"

Where were you?

Right, Samira's tongue on you while Jack fucks you with his fingers. Maybe he'll be able to reach your g-spot without having to practically bend your wrist.

The squelching sounds of your wetness fill your ears, the familiar pressure tightening at your core.

You're so close, so fucking close you don't hear the front door opening.

"I don't remember giving you permission to touch yourself."

Your hand stills instantly, unable to hide your fucked out expression as you turn to look to the source of the voice.

Motherfucking just Jack and a giddy Samira stare at you from the door.

Oh this cannot be real. You've finally gone crazy.

But the way he looks at you, pupils blown and chest tight, and the flash of mischief that Samira throws your way, pushing you forward — you simply do not give a fuck anymore.

"I don't remember giving you permission to give me permission."

He smirks, stepping forward. "I'm not asking, I'm telling you."

A rush of wetness shamelessly pours out of you, coating your fingers even more and sucking them further inside of you.

Samira giggles next to Jack and you practically whine, pathetically, head falling backwards against the cushions.

"Please."

It's all you manage, meek and small, exactly how Jack bet they would find you.

When Samira told him what had just happened earlier, it all clicked into place in his head.

He was certain that you wanted her and that you wanted him, but after that he was certain she wanted you too, and damn it if he hasn't stopped thinking about your sharp mouth since that morning at the hospital.

More accurately, filling your mouth and finally showing you who's the boss.

But first things first—

“I think you should apologize to Mira for flinching away earlier, don’t you think?”

The way Samira flushes at his words drag you under. You look up at her, desperate for her to give her consent.

She nods then, breathless, and Jack softly ushers her forward with a firm hand on the small of her back. You stay exactly as you are, afraid if you shift in any way that Jack doesn't like that he'll stop you from getting exactly what you want.

"Up," he tells you sharply. Your body moves instantly, shaky legs barely holding you upright as he gently sits Samira down on the couch where you just were. "On your knees."

You drop to the floor in front of her legs, your baggy sweater pooling over your thighs.

Samira whines, disappointed, and Jack instantly takes offense to the sound. He'll be damned if he doesn't make it a point to never hear it from her lips again.

"Arms up," he barely lets you react before his hands bunch around the fabric, pulling the offending garment off your body.

Your nipples instantly harden at the change in temperature, eliciting a throaty moan from Samira.

Satisfied, Jack finally allows himself to sit down on the couch next to her.

For a second he doesn't do anything, he simply observes you with your head slightly down in reverence and Samira's starving gaze desperately trying to process what she's seeing.

"And you said she was difficult," Jack huffs meanly, strategically pulling at your strings.

Your gaze snaps to his, mouth opening, ready to bite back. But when you see the glimmer in his eyes, daring, you close your mouth, settling back down on your heels, hands crossed over your lap like the picture perfect angel you are.

Samira whines again, this time needy and flustered, and Jack finally moves.

HIs left hand drags up her thigh, deliberate and claiming, making sure that you both know who's calling the shots, who owns who.

"Pull her dress up."

Shaky hands follow his command, featherlight touch gently pulling the red fabric up until it bunches around her waist.

You could cry, you're honestly considering just doing it now and getting the humiliation over with.

Her underwear is yours.

That sinful pair you were wearing the night you first met Jack.

A barely there lacy number that honestly looks so much better on her than it ever did on you.

You try to speak, the words getting caught up in your dry throat. You swallow thickly, desperate, pathetic, and Jack chuckles in response.

The first tear falls from your eye, streaking down your cheek and you can see Jack's cock twitch against his jeans.

Samira puts a hand on Jack's chest before he can even think to reply to you, a silent warning, a reminder that there needs to be a balanced touch with you too.

She leans forward, her soft hands cupping your face as her thumb wipes the wetness away.

Oh you're so far away. She's well aware that you're into this type of thing, one of the many reasons she knows you'll fit right into her and Jack's relationship so well.

"'m sorry," you sob. "I'm so sorry, Mira, I didn't mean to—"

Samira shushes you gently, her touch grounding and soothing as you hone in on her.

"You did nothing wrong, baby," she coos and you're practically putty in her hands. She smiles, leaning further in. "Do you want to kiss me now?"

You almost break your neck with how aggressively you nod, causing the woman before you to giggle and finally close the distance.

The room disappears the second her pillowy lips press to yours. She lets you take charge then, your tongue eagerly requesting access and she grants it to you like a reward.

You push off your heels, hands landing on her thighs to hold yourself upright as she settles back against your couch.

You honestly lose yourself to it all. It's all you've ever wanted for so long, there's no satiating your neediness.

That is until a large hand wraps itself around the back of your neck and practically pulls you off Samira.

You cry out, the tears flowing once more before Jack's sharp voice registers through your head.

"She needs to breathe, kid," Jack corrects, holding you back as you too pant as your lungs demand air.

You blink away the lust filled haze, finally taking in Samira.

Her red lipstick is completely smudged around her mouth, her chest heaves deeply, her pupils dilated to a point where you're unsure if she needs medical intervention.

At least they're both doctors, right?

"Look at me, kid," Jack squeezes your neck to get your attention and you begrudgingly turn to face him. "You only get to cum tonight if she does, so I suggest you get to work."

His gaze lowers to Samira's crotch, still covered by your panties, now damp enough to make you salivate.

He smirks when you're unable to look away, letting go of your neck so that you can move back down.

Samira shudders into your mouth the second it makes contact with her clothed mound.

This is what you were made for, making her feel good, worshipping her.

You waste no more time, one hand pulling the fabric to the side so that your mouth can latch onto her clit, shameless and hungry, sucking on her bud like your life depends on it.

She shrieks, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling deliciously as she presses your face further into her heat.

You moan into her, your tongue quickly rolling over her clit before you move further south, lapping up the juices that have poured from her entrance.

"Give me a taste, kid."

Jack leans forward and you don't even have to think about doing, you just drink her up, gathering her wetness in your mouth before you let it drip from your own into Jack's.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Samira gasps sharply.

Jack only chuckles, a certain ego boost to have two beautiful women staring at him with glassy expressions, as if he's the center of the universe.

He crashes his mouth with yours, another silent reward for listening to him so obediently. His kiss is controlled yet very, very wet. He wants to drink you up too, find your taste through Samira's, take the two and mix them with his own before he swallows.

He releases you quickly, however, causing you to whine softly. His expression shifts for a split second, remorse and a promise, later.

"Make our woman cum, kid."

The task has you feverish once more, your mouth desperate now. You will never be satisfied, not until she's screaming and the only thing she remembers to do is feel pleasure.

Jack watches in awe as Samira fills your apartment with her moans, a choir that's relentless and unashamed, a completely different experience from the reserved and oftentimes shy woman he's gotten to know.

"She likes it when you use your fingers, kid," Jack tells you, gaze taunting Samira into submission.

So you do.

You thrust two fingers into her, moaning against her clit at the sensation of her walls clenching around you.

"Good girl," he rasps, so into the display before him that he's almost forgotten about the tent in his pants.

Samira is so close to losing herself, to relinquishing her control completely, but she still has one card to play.

She slams her hand over Jack's crotch, causing the man to groan loudly. He inhales sharply, through his teeth, deathly glaring at his girlfriend for still being lucid enough.

"Baby, give me your hand."

You do as she says, easy and obedient, lured by a siren song to your certain doom because you know deep in your gut that she's not in charge. And yet you can't help but aid her in her quest to throw gasoline to the fire she created.

By the time your hand makes contact she's pulled his zipper down and has pulled out his raging erection from within his boxers.

Jack lets out a guttural moan as your hand wraps around his cock. He thinks about getting mad, about correcting the behavior before it gets away from him, but it's useless.

And then Samira gently pulls your mouth off her and directs you towards him and he's a goner.

Spit drips from your open mouth over his head, causing him to hiss in anticipation as you lower yourself on him.

You're so warm. So eager to take him all in your mouth. He almost cums right then and there. But then Samira's hand is on the back of your head, guiding you up and down gently, prolonging the torture like she knows he likes it, and he finally settles back to enjoy the show.

You're so concentrated on the task at hand, brows scrunched and gaze firmly on his cock sliding in and out of your mouth...oh he definitely can get used to this.

"Eyes on me, kid."

You blink back the tinge of shame in the back of your mind, that ugly little thought that has you reeling. But when his palm connects with your jaw, hard enough to sting but not enough to hurt you, your eyes snap up to his.

You're expecting to be met with a gloating smirk, but instead his eyes are soft, actually caring.

He checks in with you, no words necessary, and your heart blooms with renewed purpose. He wants you here, you're not taking anything away from him, away from them, you're a part of this now and they both want you just as much as you want them.

You give up on trying to look pretty, mouth and throat relaxing as you allow for spit to flow freely, coating him lewdly. His moans only grow louder and louder, his resolve crumbling with every swipe of your tongue over his leaking head.

It's only when you feel him twitch that he snaps out of the haze you've put him under, grabbing Samira's hand around your hair and pulling you off him entirely.

"Take off your dress," he tells her, his tone leaving no room for pushback.

Samira shifts back to her side of the couch, her hands swiftly discarding the fabric over her body.

Just like when you took off your clothes, your eyes are stuck on Samira's almost entirely naked body, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth as you stare.

Jack chuckles, gently grabbing Samira's hand and pulling her to settle over his lap, her back to his chest and her legs straddling his own.

With one hand he lines his cock and with the other he pulls her panties to the side before he sinks her down.

She moans loudly as her walls get stretched around him, enough wetness for her to take him all in one try.

Your eyes widen at the smallest hint of a bulge on her lower stomach and you're unable to fight the urge to lean forward and place a kiss over it.

Samira moans, her head falling back on Jack's shoulder as he begins to move her up and down.

"Remember kid, you don't get to cum until she does," he beckons you forward. "I want her milking my cock."

You get right to it, your mouth back on her clit, sloppily matching his thrusts.

You quickly lose yourself to it. The sloppy sounds of their thrusts, the breathiness from Samira, Jack's little grunts that have you going insane with an eagerness to please.

"Touch yourself for me, kid."

You do, bringing one hand down to your entrance and scooping enough wetness to swirl over your clit. You barely get one swipe in when his other hand shoots out, fingers motioning for you to hand it over.

You're so far gone you don't argue, you don't try to give yourself what you want. Instead you pull your hand out from your pussy and hold it out for him.

He grabs it by the wrist, bringing it up to his nose first, inhaling your scent deeply. A shiver courses through you at the sight, intimate and just for the two of you as Samira's still lost to the pleasure of Jack's thrusts.

It's then that he brings the digits into his mouth, tongue lapping your wetness like a man starved. Your tongue stops its movements on Samira's clit, causing her to finally look at what's happening in front of her.

You're barely able to take it as you watch him turn to her, his mouth eagerly clashing against hers, messily kissing her all to spit your spend into her mouth, his own saliva combining with it in an action that should've definitely given you a heart attack.

Samira hums contently, bringing Jack's lips on her own the second it hits her tongue, sharing in the spoils of their planned assault.

He releases your hand just so that his own can tangle back into your hair, pushing you back down onto Samira's clit.

His grip is tight but loose at the same time. He's distracted, they both are, so you shift downward, your mouth licking up her entrance where his cock and her meet.

The action surprises them both, their moans getting tangled up in their kiss as Samira cums unexpectedly.

Her entire body clenches, thighs quivering in pleasure as a gush of wetness pushes Jack's cock out of her pussy.

She clings to him as you finish him off, your tongue lapping over his tip, teasing the slit until he's cumming into your mouth.

You feel him tense beneath you, his hips jerking upward, seeking your warmth and burying himself deep down your throat before his spend coats it white.

You swallow dutifully, eyes half lidded and fighting exhaustion, all because they deserve to be taken care of.

You only pull away when Samira urges you to do so, tugging you up on the couch with her.

Her arms wrap around you tightly, her voice repeating praises into your ear like a prayer while she kisses down the side of your face.

You hum in acknowledgement but ultimately sleep pulls you under before they can get you to come back up for them.

You blink awake as a body shifts next to you, strong arms pulling you against a tight torso.

"Jackie?" you mumble, head twisting to confirm your thought and you're met with his blissful face resting comfortably on the crook of your neck.

He shushes you. "Go back to sleep, kid."

"Where's Mira?"

"Work."

You groan, trying to wiggle your way out of his embrace but it's no use.

"Stop fussing," he nips at your ear. "Just keep me warm a little longer."

You huff, resignation flooding your body as you try to settle down once more.

But you can't.

No, there's no going back to sleep when images of what happened the night before flood your brain and make your blood boil.

Not even Jack can hold you down as you spring into a sitting position, hands desperately clinging to the comforter over your definitely still naked body like a lifeline.

He sits up after you, concern now replacing the blissfulness he'd been experiencing.

"You're okay, kid," he whispers, his arms wrapping around you once more, trying to ground you, to prove to you that this isn't a cruel dream or a sick prank.

But you practically push him off you, hiding your face in your hands.

It definitely breaks Jack's heart, but he understands.

He swallows his pride, reaching over to the bedside table for his phone and quickly calling Samira.

She answers instantly, the two having discussed how this could most definitely happen when you woke up.

"Jack? Is she okay?"

You instantly open up at the sound of her voice, meeting his gaze like a little wounded doe.

"Go on, baby," he encourages. "I won't be mad."

You shift in the bed, moving towards him. "Mira..."

You try to start, you do, you swear, but no words come out.

What the fuck are you even supposed to say?

You don't even know what you need! It's so stupid. You're so stupid.

"Baby," her tone is soft yet stern. "You're not stupid."

You blink away the tears of frustration that have begun to swell. Did you say that out loud?

"I need you to take a deep breath for me. Can you do that?"

You nod.

"Big girl words, baby," Jack corrects.

"Yes."

"Good," you can hear her smile on the other end. "Okay, just follow my lead."

She inhales and you try to copy, a choke breaking halfway.

Neither of them comments on it so you simply keep going.

Exhale.

You follow.

And so does Jack.

Wide eyes land on his, eternally thankful for just how open he's being in that moment.

"Again."

You do. Jack does as well.

After a few breaths you're feeling much better.

You don't even notice that you've practically settled yourself over Jack's lap, not until his arms wrap around your back and his hands begin to draw lazy circles over your hips.

"Good girl," Samira praises and you hum contently, body melting against Jack's chest. "I'll try to get home earlier, okay?"

"Okay," you whisper. "Thank you."

"Of course, baby."

Your eyes close again, sleep pulling you under against Jack's steady heartbeat.

"Jack, are you still there?"

He swallows the lump in his throat. "Yeah."

Samira giggles. "I told you."

"You did."

She sighs. "We're in so much trouble, aren't we?"

"Oh I am never letting either of you go now."

"Good, because I don't think I can go back either."

He hums in approval, settling you both back against the pillows.

The second time you wake up is because you feel an annoying hardness pressing against your stomach.

Ugh. You don't even think, you just shift against the torso you're laying on, hands pushing you up in your sleepy haze.

Jack groans under you, snapping you awake instantly, clearing the fog as you take in the sight.

He's still sleepy, not fully asleep, not fully awake. But you know what is?

His unapologetic erection.

You giggle to yourself as you watch it twitch before you, precum leaking already.

His brow scrunches deliciously. He must be having a very fun dream.

You scoot yourself forward, devilishly lowering yourself over his cock, your folds wrapping around him as you begin to grind down, hips moving back and forth slowly.

For a second he doesn't awake and you become cocky, pressing further down, movements becoming haphazard.

It's when your clit flicks against his purpling head that his eyes snap open, his body reacting on its own volition and sitting up to fight before he can even register it.

His hand wraps around your neck, tight, and you can only moan before he blinks away the confusion and retract his fingers before they purple your skin.

"Fuck kid," he hisses. "You can't do that to me, could've hurt you."

You blink at him, picture perfect innocence.

"I like it when you're rough with me."

His cock twitches in between your bodies and the two of you instantly devolve into devilish smirks.

"Oh yeah?" his hand slides up your body, fingers barely teasing your nipples on their way before it settles back around your neck, pressing the sides enough to have your head becoming fuzzy from the lack of air flow. "You like it when I'm mean? Gets you so hot and bothered, huh?"

You nod, your hips intensifying their movements from before, the new angle hitting your clit over and over again.

“I guess that’s to be expected,” he groans into your ear. “I wonder how far I can go before you feel it.”

You moan as his other hand smacks the side of your thigh roughly. Your hips jerk forward, his tip pressing slightly into your opening before it slides back against your folds.

“Jackie—”

He groans into your ear, pressing a searing kiss over it before he can’t take it anymore.

“Just the tip, kid,” he concedes. “Gotta get you checked out— Jesus fucking Christ!”

Just the tip your ass.

You try, honestly. But it just feels too good, your body acting on its own volition as you sink down on him until your ass is flush with his thighs.

His hands fly down to grab your hips, aggressively using them as handles as he grins you against him.

“I owe you an orgasm, don’t I?” He murmurs against your skin, lips leaving a trail of nibbles on their way down to your breasts.

You nod against him, your own hands settling back on his calves so that you can present your chest to him openly.

He chuckles against your skin before his mouth latches onto your nipple.

You scream, picking up the pace as his tongue swirls around your bud, teeth quickly joining the equation as he alternates between that and tugging.

You don’t notice the bedroom door opening.

You barely feel the dip in the mattress next to you.

No, you only notice Samira when her hand snakes around your abdomen and her fingers start rubbing your clit.

You moan, glassy eyes taking her in as she settles behind you, giving you support and pushing you further into Jack’s mouth.

You’re well aware your chest will most likely be a crime scene by the time he’s done with you, but with her hand between your thighs and his cock hitting that perfect spot inside of you, nothing matters anymore.

This is exactly where you want to be.

Jack removes his mouth from your chest for a second so he can give Samira a proper kiss over your shoulder.

You’re entranced by the sight, so taken by their display that your orgasm creeps up on you and bursts out of nowhere.

“Oh fuck!” You scream, your core tightening, legs shaking, walls clenching around Jack so tightly it sends him spiraling right after you.

He doesn’t have time to even think about pulling out, not when Samira’s hands keep you pressed against him, milking him for all he’s worth, filling you up until he reluctantly falls back on the pillows.

He pants, dramatically, as Samira runs her fingers up and down your arms, her own body keeping you up as you come back down from your high.

“Feeling better, baby?” She coos into your ear.

“Much.” You turn to face her, a dopey smile on your face.

“Good, cause I kinda like you like this.”

You press your lips to hers. “I kinda like you too.”

She kisses you back, soft and slow.

“I like you too, if anyone cares,” Jack huffs, pushing the two of you into a carefree fit of giggles.

Yeah, this is definitely what you’ve been missing.

a/n: god this was so much fun to write

dividers by @/enchanthings

[tenseoyong]

Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x J’sFriend!Reader

Some people might find Pope’s behaviors freaky and off putting—but not you—you kind of like the creepy attention J’s uncle pays you

Masterlist

18+ age gap, PiV sex, unprotected sex, creampie, slight exhibition (J catches you), marking, potential non-con due to alcohol consumption, maybe pain kink if you squint

The party at the Cody residence was in full swing.

Since you’d started hanging out with the youngest Cody, you quickly learned these parties had the same rinse and repeat formula.

Liquor bottles littered the pool area. The smell of weed clung to the air. Dozens of nameless girls in various states of undress surrounded the pool. Music played so loud the air felt like it was vibrating around you.

Unless you were joining in on doing copious amounts of coke—which, you weren’t—the novelty wore off quickly.

J had long since abandoned you, trailing after Nicky wherever she’d disappeared to. Leaving you clutching a lukewarm beer, feet dipped in the pool, bored out of your mind—but you figured it beats being at home doing coursework.

You mindlessly surveyed the crowd, scrunching your nose at the naked rando that jumped from the rooftop, egged on by drunken cheers, before you finally looked towards the kitchen.

The sliding glass doors were shut, in a poor attempt to keep the rowdy party goers outside.

Pope stood behind the glass, like a sentinel.

Silently daring anyone to leave the ‘safe’ area of the pool.

But he wasn’t watching any of the party attendees.

The older man’s eyes were locked on you.

Unblinking, hazel eyes watched you through the glass barrier. With no shame, Pope didn’t look away even after you’d caught him staring, and wiggled your fingers in a half-hearted wave.

He never did care when he was caught, and you’ve caught him staring at you a ridiculous amount of times since becoming acquainted with J.

Enough times that J had noticed too, and warned you to steer clear of his uncle.

“He just got out of prison,” J had whispered to you the first time Pope had found you in the Cody’s’ kitchen. Blocking the doorway, eyes glue to you, like a shark watching its prey. J had spit out some excuse, that you’re his friend from school and Smurf said J should invite you to dinner. “He’s a little…unstable—just, make sure you’re around other people. Don’t be alone with him.”

You didn’t disregard J’s warning—but you didn’t exactly take it seriously either.

For whatever reason, you liked feeling the older man’s heated gaze on you.

A small thrill ran through you when you used the bathroom, and Pope just happened be exiting his room at the exact moment you were finished. An immovable wall of muscle, Pope didn’t budge, blocking the hall and forcing you to brush against him when you squeezed past, stuttering out a quick ‘s’cuse me’ and scramble back to J’s side.

Sometimes, you wondered if Pope knew that you knew he watched you during the days when class was over and you had the pool to yourself. You’d occasionally see the dark curls peaking in the bathroom window, feel your skin prick as you floated in the pool under observation, while wearing the skimpiest bikinis you could find.

What J didn’t know, wouldn’t kill him. Besides, he had Nicky to occupy his time. Why couldn’t you have Pope?

With that immature reasoning, you abandoned your spot beside the pool. Under Pope’s watchful eye, you weaved through the drunken bodies until only glass separated you. He didn’t drop his gaze when he slowly reached for the latch. Cool air conditioning hit you as he slid the door open, silently welcoming you in.

Pope didn’t move an inch as you stepped inside, the space between you shrinking significantly, barely a breath apart.

Silence.

Dark eyes traced over you.

“Shouldn’t you be with J?” The question caught you off guard—you honestly didn’t expect him to speak at all—but the rough, low tone Pope spoke in made your skin tingle.

“J’s busy.” You replied. “Are you?”

“Should I be?”

“Do you want to be?” You took a minuscule step towards him, mischievous in your voice.

Pope looked like he was weighing something mentally—trying to decipher if you were being playful, or outright teasing him, being cruel to the ‘weird Cody’—he seemed to find the answer he was searching for, something shifting in his posture.

His guard dropped, if only by a fraction. Turning, he didn’t look back at you before commanding, “C’mon.”

You obeyed easily, eagerly following as he drifted through the house until he reached his unspoken destination.

Pope’s room—now J’s—was empty when Pope pushed the door open, claiming his spot in the middle of the room and finally turning back to you.

You quietly observed the area. Small hints of J were scattered about—a pair of jeans discarded in the corner of the room, text books piled on the bedside table, his scent lingered.

“It was mine.” Pope stated, forcing you to look back to him. His broad frame looked out of place on the small room. Arms hung limp at his side, hands clenching by his thighs, like he was aching to touch but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet anyways. “It was my room first.”

“And now?” You asked, carefully approaching like he was a skittish animal. You tentatively reached for his twitching fingers, slipping your hand into his rough palm. “Where do you stay now?”

“The couch.” His nose scrunched up, displeased. “Or hotel.”

“Mean.” You frowned, sweet breath fanning the stubble on his cheek.

“We shouldn’t.” Pope stated, though every part of his body was disagreeing. He tracked your every move, eyes soft with desire. His erection already pressing against your thigh as you lean into him. Gripped your hand firmly, as though you might slip right between his fingers, and be gone. “J—we shouldn’t.”

“That’s what makes it fun.” You grinned softly, and then leaned up, capturing Pope’s lips before he could reply.

He folded instantly, strong arms wrapped around your waist and squeezed you against him. Pope’s lips were surprisingly soft, his kisses both desperate and hesitant—as if he expected you to suddenly part from him and reveal this was all a cruel joke.

Lulling your mouth open to welcome his curious tongue, humming happily at the pleasant taste of toothpaste and faint beer. Day old stubble scratched against delicate skin, your fingers glided over his clothes chest, feeling the hidden hard muscles to grip at the collar of his shirt, leaning your weight into him until you were walking Pope backwards towards the bed.

Pope’s knee’s buckled as soon as they hit the frame. You followed as he sat on the mattress, straight and stiff, even as you crawled into his lap. Your legs parted, Pope’s stiffness pressing into you as you settled in his lap.

“Pope.” You broke your kiss, muttering against bruised lips with a light roll of your hips. Pressing your weight down against his trapped cock, shuddering from the deep groan forced from Pope’s throat. “Touch me, Pope.”

Pope took directions easily, hands dropping from your waist to dig his fingers into the plush flesh of your ass. He guided you to rock against him, controlling each roll of your hips. Long digits curled under the flimsy shorts. Warmth spread through you when Pope brushed the pads of his fingers across your pussy, touching you in tune with your grinding.

Every sound Pope made was music to your ears—every groan, every grunt, every shaky breath followed by muffled cursing—sent shock waves through you, made you more and more desperate for the awkward man. Squirming in his lap, wetness soaked his fingers until Pope decided he was done waiting.

In a flash, Pope flipped your position. Your back met the soft mattress as Pope caged you in, raised up on his knees to shimmy your shorts and bikini bottoms off in one fluid motion, tossing them unceremoniously over his shoulder.

“Don’t.” He commanded, voice heavy with lust, when you attempted to shut your legs. Childish shyness had you squirming under his greedy eyes. Strong hands curled around your thighs and kept you spread open for him to ogle. “Wanna see you—see everything.”

Then he was diving in, nuzzling his nose against soft, youthful skin. Brushing over your soft folds. Crudely inhaling the naturally feminine scent he’d been deprived of for three long years.

Pope dully noted the whimper you let out as he nudged the tip of his nose against your little aching pearl, the tentative touch enough to have your hips flexing against his face. A desperate, needy ‘Please’ clawing its way from your throat—and Pope was happy to oblige.

He ran the flat of his tongue through your folds, taste buds singing at the tang of your slick. A pleased hum vibrated through him. Pope pressed you into the bed, unwilling to let your wriggling and whining prevent him from burying his face in your pussy.

Your nails dug into his short hair, he pointed his tongue, drawing the tip around your clit in sharp circles before sucking the little bud, until your shrieks filled the air, “Oh fuck—Pope, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Pope held you steady as you thrashed against him, damn near bucking him off, feeling your core tightening with each precise lick.

“Cum f’me.”

The command barely registered in your mind before Pope bit down, catching your overly sensitive bud between uneven teeth. Blindingly hot pleasure shot through you. Your back bowed off the mattress as you flooded Pope’s face, while he happily drank down everything you offered.

Lazily running his tongue over you, Pope soothed the pain as you came back down to earth, a puddle of limbs and heavy breathing.

“Still with me?” He asked, pressing soft kisses to your pussy and thighs, drawing your eyes down to him. Face shiny with your slick, and pupils blown wide like he’d consumed the most powerful drug known to man.

Beautiful. You thought, absentmindedly while he waited for a response. “Mhm—still here.”

Twisting your fingers into his collar, you drew Pope back up to you. You tore at his button up, pushing the fabric from his shoulders, exposing thick muscles and freckled skin. Then, your hands dropped to his belt, working the metal free, zipper to his jeans down, and frantically pushing the harsh material from his hips. Nimble fingers found the throbbing length barely concealed by his boxers.

“This for me?” You grasped his cock, feeling the heat through thin boxers, feeling him pulse in your palm.

“All for you.” Pope replied, shucking his boxers down his thighs, fitting his wide frame between your legs. Heavy cock settling against your pussy.

“You gonna fuck me, Pope?” You wormed your hand between your bodies, grasping the thick cock and teased the head through your slick folds, covering it in your wetness while you cooed against his lips. “Gonna fuck your nephew’s friend on his bed?—ah!”

“My bed.” Pope grunted, the air punched right out of your lungs as he sunk into you. “It’s mine. My room—my bed—my girl.”

“Oh my god!”

Pope didn’t stop, didn’t pause, just kept pressing on until every inch of him was sheathed in your tight walls. Hips flush against yours, Pope held you as you spasmed around him, body protesting the sudden stretch.

But you were a greedy young thing, that much was obvious to Pope.

The deep pressure. The feeling of being so full. You preened against his throat, hiked your legs higher around Pope’s waist, blunt nails dug into his ass as you pulled him against you, “More.”

Wet sounds filled the room. His hips met yours with a rhythmic slap! as he picked up the pace, driving his thick cock into you with so much force it had ypu scooting further up the mattress until there was nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do but cling helplessly to Pope as he caged you in and used you.

“That’s it—again, wanna see it again.” Pope growled, a rabid look clouding his eyes. “Cum—wanna feel it.”

Breathless whimpers when Pope buried himself deep, grinding his pelvic bone against your clit until you were crying. Wiggling helplessly in his arms as he forced you over the edge again, you sobbed and tried in vain to push his stone wall of a body away from your sensitive core, to no success. “Too much!”

“You can take it.” Pope dismissed. Manipulating your jelly-like limbs with ease. Pope pinned your knees to your chest, folding you open, strong fingers digging into the back of your thighs as he held you.

He felt so much deeper now. Your eyes rolled back, his balls kissing your ass with each thrust. Being filled so, so deep, you swore you could feel him brushing your lungs each time he bottomed out. Pope’s rhythm faltered, hips twitching against his will the closer he was to spilling.

“Gonna cum in you—then they’ll know.” He panted, face laxed in utter pleasure as he chased his release, fucking into you in shorter, harder thrusts. Deep, masculine groans mixing prettily with your shrill cries and pleads. “They’ll know—oh, fuck—know you’re mine.”

His abdominal muscles tightened, thick vein in his neck bulging as he reached his peak. Pope bowed, body covering yours as he collapsed down, tucking his face against your shoulder.

Your head lulled, lazily against the pillows until dazed eyes wandered over to the bedroom door.

The cracked open door.

Cracked enough to catch J standing in the hallway. A look of indifference on his face despite seeing his uncle naked, folded over his friend, fucking you in his bed.

Pope shuddered as he came—full body shakes and soft whimpering—burying himself deep as warmth filled you.

Sharp teeth found your shoulder, in an attempt to quiet himself, to ground himself. You yelped at the bite, attention drawing back to Pope before shooting back to the doorway—now empty.

You tangled your fingers in Pope’s sweaty locks and pulled, hard.

“Ow, Pope!” You swore, wiggling your shoulder away from his mouth. “That hurt!”

“Sorry.” He whispered, and you believed him. He soothed his tongue over the sore sport, pressed a singular kiss to the bite mark. “M’sorry—they’ll see. Now they’ll see. All mine.”

[andrewmiinyard]

— masterlist.

all my writing is nsfw and contains smut. mdni

— jack abbot.

heat.

a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone, right? you've been on jack abbot's mind a little too often lately and he's starting to suspect the feeling is mutual. after a late night out at the bar, you're determined to show him just how mutual that feeling is.

behind closed doors.

you took over jack and robby's spare room a few months ago and now you and jack are constantly at each other's throats. robby has finally had enough and he's hoping some forced proximity will do the trick. seems like it works a little too well. (med school!jack x reader)

— pope cody.

fate.

the three times you decided to flirt with pope cody and the one time you decided to take it one step further.

— drabbles.

pope's birthday

[suprsnupi]

𐔌 . ˚ HUNGRY HEART ┆ jack abbot ₊ ꒱

synopsis. well-timed as always, jack abbot swooped in after you called your sous job quits. except, you accidentally blew his brains with a mulberry gastrique, and now he's handholding you through your journey as the pitt's new CDC. it doesn't help that he looks like aged wagyu personified.

wc. 14.7k+

tags. 18+ mdni, fem reader, big dick big dick, cunnilingus, unprotected piv, praise kink, come eating, overstimulation, he eats it from the back too, he's a big softie who is #Whipped, dissertation on nourishment being love, stressful workplaces, having an ethical dilemma over crushing on your boss then saying fuck it we ball, porn no plot

notes. title from bruce springsteen <3

10 Blade is not a benevolent kitchen. 

Work is brutal. Grueling. It gnaws and needles and savors every increasing ounce of misery sitting on your shoulders, just begging to pounce at a wrongly angled knife or a misplaced microgreen. 

It’s the third time your CDC has berated you this hour, satiating his unending ego with cruelty toward the sous. This isn’t the first time; it probably wouldn’t be the last, but the next petulant fit won’t be directed at you. 

You’d call it “beating a dead horse,” but you feel more like a pile of bleached bones in the desert. 

“What the fuck is this,” he demands. Your chest aches, heart about to explode and lungs tight on air. The fork is thrown against the stainless-steel counter, and it bounces onto the spotless floor with a pathetic clatter. “Bullshit. Wasting my time.” 

Loose in his careless hand, he shoves the dish into your chest. You scramble to grasp it—you do, thank god, because a broken plate would have the entire kitchen bracing—and he only sneers when the sauce smears on your white coat. 

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen!” 

Shit. 

There’s no point in protesting. Face burning, you stalk to your locker. You tear your backpack out so hard that the force slams the door shut by itself—one of the commis jumps—and stomp toward the exit with a scathing remark on your tongue, but. 

The CDC just stands there, contempt glimmering in his narrow, beady eyes as he watches you try to edge around his frame with a sick, shit-eating smirk that tells you he’s getting off on bullying you. 

“I quit,” you blurt instead. 

You shouldn’t mean it, and your stomach roils with shame after you phonetically cross the ‘t.’ 

God, you desperately need to keep a stable living, and the sous market is already so saturated that the only job you could get quickly is at some chain or fast-food restaurant where you’d have to follow a boring, corporate-developed recipe. 

You’re going back to cooking to live. 

“Good,” he spits, but the faint lift of his brows rages at your defiance. “There’s a million other people who’d want your job.” 

Your exhale hisses, jaw wired shut and molars aching with how hard you’re biting down.  

Because no one wants to catch or press charges, you grit your teeth and go out of your way to avoid checking his side with your elbows as you cross from the harsh, sterile LEDs of the kitchen to the gentle night. 

Your face tingles in the cool air, kissing away the irritation scorching your skin. The metal doorframe shudders after a bang, followed by a slew of furious commands and pots being thrown to the floor. 

Parking lot gravel and cigarette stubs crunch beneath your sneakers, followed by smooth concrete accompanied by the slow trickle of Pittsburgh nighttime traffic.  

There’s a bench right along the restaurant wall; the side is eclipsed in shadows and invisible to your CDC’s scrutiny, who probably expects you to come crawling back like a desperate ex. 

But you’re committed. If you quit, so be it. He’s the one who said a million people could take your job, anyway.  

The plate is still clutched to your chest, duck breast now frigid and sliding from the original composition, yet thankfully intact.  

So, you sit on that hard bench, and shiver, and stare at the smudged swirls of mulberry reduction until you can’t tell the colors from the dusty pinks and purples fading from the sky. 

Should have stuck to cherry, you lament, setting the plate to the side and burying your numb face into your colder fingers.  

Shoes scrape on gravel. 

A voice you don’t recognize says your name as a question, set to sharp wit and gravel tones. “That is you, right? Unless Santos used LinkedIn to trick me.” 

You part your fingers and glare up at the unfamiliar man standing over you. 

He’s…handsome. In a way you can’t exactly describe with one word. Fairly tall, cropped greying curls that must have been dark brown at some point, silvery stubble, and lines that tell you he might be kind. 

His face is somewhat round yet defined where it counts. Looks like he lifts, out of necessity rather than to reach an aesthetic. 

Navy-blue bootcuts hug his thighs and fold up over a pair of hiking shoes, one more worn-out than the other. A black tee blends into the quickly settling night, hinting at a solid torso. 

Freckles. All over, from the splash right around his hazel, crow-footed eyes, down his tan and wiry neck, to his defined arms that are propped on his hips in a manner you would place between ‘stern’ and ‘adorable.’ 

“What?” is all the astuteness you can muster. 

“I’m looking for a sous, name of—” 

“That’s me.” 

He claps his palms together with a dry grin. “Great. I’m Abbot.” 

You drag your hands to your chin as an inkling of recognition flickers to life. “As in Everblue Abbot and Robinavitch?” 

Abbot clicks his tongue, tipping his head to the side in faint humor. “Got it.” 

Dumbfounded, you only stare at him and slowly work your jaw back and forth. Everblue was still on your list when it closed. You even tried to replicate their dishes from blurry Instagram photos ten years ago. 

“That’s mulberry, isn’t it? Stain’s more vibrant than blackberry.” Abbot nods at the dried gastrique on your chef’s coat, then gestures to the ruined plate beside you. “Do you mind?” 

“Take it.” You turn your face, dejected. If your ex-CDC despised it, you don’t want to be around when Abbot from fucking Everblue tastes it. “I was planning to toss it, but that’d be a waste of duck. Just don’t eat it ‘round me.” 

Too late. 

Whipping your head back up—there's Abbot, licking grease and mulberry sauce off his thumb with a light hum, no doubt chewing on a slice of duck with a look of intrigue that makes your gut lurch. 

“Interesting,” he says after he swallows. Abbot sits on the opposite end of the bench, stretching out his right leg with contemplation (and relief?) swirling between his scrunched eyebrows. 

Oh god, he’s going to obliterate you in the politest way possible— 

“Shahtoot mulberry,” is what he decides on. He chuckles, almost derisively at himself. “Never thought of that.” 

You frown. “How’d you know?” 

“I’ve worked on a mulberry gastrique for years. You’re only—what, still in culinary?” 

With indignation: “Thirty-two—” 

“—and already perfected it.” 

Stunned silence settles. Your breaths come shallow, blinks quicker because this has to be a fever dream. The owner of fucking Everblue just complimented you. 

You scoff, trying to deflect. “That’s subjective.” 

He holds up his index finger, “Objection: objective. How did you know?” 

You consider him—the relaxed posture, the outstretched leg. Plate balanced on his knee, hazel eyes flickering between the sauce and your troubled face. 

“Used to have them growing up,” you admit, reluctant. “Local mechanic’s Vietnamese wife had a courtyard in the back with all these fruits.” 

Pink-skinned dragon fruit hanging from thick vines of cacti, and brown-shelled pitted things with translucent, sweet flesh. Mulberry tree in the corner, dark leaves and long berries dangling from the boughs. 

The memory brings a small smile to your lips. “After school, I’d go with my friends, and we’d compete to see how many stems we had after ten minutes.” 

Blunt teeth scraping the bulbs off the stem, until the green tapered to white, speckled with vibrant burgundy juice. Sticky fingers with big, toothless smiles, and the warm sun reminding you that there was a place where worries didn’t matter. 

“That’s good,” he remarks, nodding slowly. “Can I ask you a question?” 

You make a dull sound in the back of your throat, “You just did.” 

“What’s your dream job?” 

The answer should be easy, but you find yourself hesitant. “...Eleven Madison?” 

A quiet snort, the slight shake of a head. An expected, basic answer. “What makes a dish popular?” 

Gnawing on the lining of your cheek, “It’ll taste good and look pretty.” 

“Now, what makes a dish excellent.” His tone, now gravel and earnest, suggests that this is less a question than it is a demand. A test. 

“The...” You blink at the plate sitting in his lap and think about the childhood friends you don’t talk to anymore but still hold close. No one has friends later on like the ones you have at twelve. 

A good chef masters technique and flavors, your mentor once said. A genius elevates those. A genius takes their life experiences and conveys it via... 

Wistfully: “An excellent dish communicates with nourishment.” 

Abbot makes a soft, almost pleased sound through his nose, setting the plate back onto the bench. You hear denim shifting, then he’s standing up with a light grunt.  

“Care to teach an old dog some new tricks?” 

You train your attention on the smooth concrete beneath your shoes instead, heart stammering in your chest. “Is this a poach?” 

“Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to know why you roasted that duck instead of searing it.” 

You’re starting to get him; you realize with a stuffed-down chuckle—Abbot is one avoidant bastard. Never meet your heroes. 

“Crispy skin, tender meat,” you say, glancing up to meet his eyes. He peers at you with all the sincerity in the world, and that knocks your breath loose. “Who doesn’t love that?” 

“Ha,” he scoffs, enjoying the cat-and-mouse. “You’re good.” 

“When do I start?” 

“Tour is at ten tomorrow. We’re a block south of Allegheny Hospital—you can’t miss it.” 

— 

The Pitt. 

You can’t miss the closest restaurant to the hospital. It’s a small thing—from the front, a painted window sign set into charming raw brick. From the interior (lock code: 1221), the simple yet cluttered dining area runs deep, and the kitchen runs deeper. 

You learn a lot during orientation. 

The house is split into two rotations. The day shift gets three quarters of the hotline during the sun’s course across the sky for sandwich service. It’s...unorthodox, doing prep and sharing a kitchen with a whirlwind of beef trimmings and clashing characters. 

The night shift, meanwhile, sticks to garde manger for mise en place and daily testing in preparation for the dinner service. Later, the tables and chairs are rearranged by the front-of-house staff, shifting and grinding from the charming crookedness of free-for-all seating to the sophisticated fashion of an elevated restaurant. The remaining stoves are reserved for stocks, sauces, and other components in need of heat, so the chefs can taste for consistency. 

For now, they’re doing the day shift’s commis work to keep themselves busy. 

“So far, dinner service hasn’t opened,” Abbot says. “We’re keeping the place afloat with the sandwich business, which Robby loves because he hates mise—” 

A man on the hotline drops a skillet on his foot with a high-pitched whine of pain (you later learn that his name is Dennis) and a woman swears like she’s the one with a bruised toe (Trinity). 

Abbot winces, and in the distraction, a man’s voice calls from garde manger: “Hey, Jack, is that our new CDC?” 

He hovers his hand over your lower back, guiding you away. “C’mon, Shen, I haven’t broken the news...” 

“Oh, shit.” 

You learn a lot that day. 

A) The day shift sounds like being stuck in the fiery pits of hell with your worst uncle and cousins. B) Michael Robinavitch now makes sandwiches for a living. C) You are not the sous chef because Jack Abbot promoted himself to co-executive chef and night-shift-expo, and there’s a vacancy for the job he was supposed to take. 

And D) he had filled the CDC box with your name after one bite of Peking duck drizzled in mulberry gastrique. 

— 

“I met your old boss once,” he tells you that Sunday. 

You’re standing in the otherwise quiet and empty kitchen—peace is a rare commodity in The Pitt, only occurring naturally on weekends—and you’re surrounded by stationary, Pantone color cards, journal entries, and a budget sheet. 

The atmosphere should feel sterile and awkward. The kitchen’s fairly new, the tile beneath you still pristine, and the countertops aren’t dented yet. You haven’t been here for a full month yet. 

But it isn’t, because Abbot is here. It’s your first time doing R&D-ing a menu, and he’s someone willing to listen and provide sincere feedback. 

He’s beside you in an Army green shirt with the collar stretched and laundry-loved, strong and freckled arms occasionally brushing yours as he shifts on his feet. 

You’ve noticed he favors the left. 

What’s strange is how easy you feel with him. Abbot has this natural, almost magnetic charisma, one that makes you susceptible but still willing to push. Comfortable, with room to test the limits. 

You pencil a wide arc on your sketch paper, following the silhouette of a dish you’ve memorized from your dreams. “Hmm?” 

He shoots you a sidelong eye, stubble gone sterling under the fluorescent lights. “Total asshole. It was at a convention and—Jesus, the ego of this guy...” 

Your laugh comes out stumbling and shy and all too real. You use a colored pencil to shade in the details of roe sitting in an oyster shell. 

“You’d think he was a surgeon with how stuck-up he was,” Abbot grins, the side of his mouth crooking just a little, and it lands into your quickly growing file of things you find fascinating. 

“Sounds about right.” 

“You’re tough,” he says, scanning the budget sheet like he’d rather do nothing else. “I knew you’d fit right in with the night crawlers.” 

“With the wild and the weird?” You stop drawing, trailing your fingers over the crude crags of the shell, looping along the spine of salmon sashimi curling around a bed of urchin meat, circling the smooth pearls of ikura. 

“Says the weirdest and the wildest.” He leans over and studies the sketch. He wears no cologne, but the faint scent of clean sheets and soap and natural musk is enough to make you notice the weirdly endearing flat spot of curls on his head. Side sleeper. 

“Brine’s coming on strong, isn’t it?” 

“Salmon’s brushed with a tangerine glaze,” you mumble, jotting down the scent and taste notes on the side. “Hopefully, it’ll layer with the uni nicely.”  

“Deepen but not cheapen,” he quips, nodding as a shadow of dry amusement passes his face.  

“Do we...have the money for this?” you ask, distracting yourself to sidestep the sudden thought of him cracking a quick joke to make you laugh. 

Crunching numbers usually does the job. 

“Yeah,” Abbot says. Clearing his throat, he pins the sheet onto the counter with a hand splayed at the corner. He runs his index finger down the paper until he reaches the dollar figure at the bottom—his nails are trimmed down and clean, digits long...and thick... 

“Uh, that’s what we’re working with, after the lease and utilities and tax and Robby’s insane demand for bougie Choice-grade beef—” 

You stop him before he can lose himself to the laundry list of expenses. A grin of sheer disbelief manifests on your face. “Still, Robby’s the goddamn patron saint of profit.” 

“Low prices and a baker better than Primanti's.” Abbot’s throaty hum is caught between a suppressed laugh and the same surprise you’re feeling. “Capitalism, baby.” 

— 

Fire courses one, three, five. Assemble two and four in garde manger. Leave dessert to the chef de pastries, who are twiddling their thumbs because your brain has bleached itself of ideas. 

Developing a tasting menu is grueling. Two months in, you still haven’t translated your tangerine glaze from paper to plate, and Robby—despite hating prep work—is clearly miffed that his cooks are starting to get comfortable with offloading onto the night shift. 

“Cooking’s not my problem,” Dana, the head of FoH, had said as she leaned against the back wall with a cig clutched between her fingers. “But these guys gotta do this shit themselves. I know for a fact that Ellis won’t stand slicing hoagies for much longer.” 

Course one starts delicately: steamed, silken eggs in a ramekin. As a commis, you made this after long shifts, when your fingers cramped out of exhaustion from peeling and picking greens. 

You fold in the foie gras Parker had seared for you earlier; the buttery scent bleeds into the air, which already smells like tender beef and caramelized onion. From the cooktop, Robby cranes his head to catch a glimpse. 

Then comes the fresh enoki mushrooms you diced this morning, minuscule white squares that release a subtle, sweet aroma. 

The fat of the duck's liver will melt with the smooth custard of the egg for subtle richness, and the mushrooms gently illuminate both the sweet and earthy undertones to round out the mouthfeel. 

You think about the flickering light in your old Hanoi flat, back your mentor pulled a favor so you could stage at a Michelin-star. Orange rays spilled over the worn tiles of the countertop and made the beaten eggs in your bowl glow like the sunset. You used to throw in whatever protein you had on hand, whether it be leftover chicken or even sardines.  

Steam it for eight exact minutes. Beside you on the hotline, Dennis scrambles another order of onion and Portobello mushroom in his pan, then adds a dash of red wine to reduce and caramelize, releasing another wave of umami into the kitchen. Did Robby teach him that? 

A toss of chives and fried shallots, then a splash of low-sodium soy. The sauce doesn't ripple when you tweeze a final spindly garnish atop the custard. 

"That's beautiful, chef," Abbot remarks once you set the dish on the table. His right hand is curled around a blue ballpoint pen and resting on a closed, leather-bound notebook. 

You survey the front of the house—tables set at odd angles, empty chairs pulled out, scraps of sandwich paper on the hardwood floors. 

Abbot looks both right at home and slightly out of place, sitting just outside of the double doors at the only table still aligned to the dinner floorplan. His dark tee is just casual enough to still exude seriousness, but the playful little grin on his scruffy face scrambles your signals. 

The light from outside is bright for a Pittsburgh autumn, and it feels like the sun itself is eating in this simple sandwich diner and blessing Abbot with a diffused, sterling halo around his handsome salt-and-pepper hair. 

“Thank you, chef.” 

He flashes you a warm, encouraging wiggle of his brows, and just thinking about it nearly makes your hands slip in the kitchen. 

Course two: translucent, longitudinal slices of geoduck siphon, rolled so tight that the final shape resembles a cruffin. Julienned cucumber and red pepper burst from the center like stamen, and you painstakingly pipette a dotted ring of Balsamic vinegar where the flower meets the plate.  

It smells clean, slightly floral. The aroma isn’t so overpowering like the foie gras, or the duck you currently have warming up the roaster, but you know that the refreshing temperature and smooth texture will hold its own. 

“Sick,” comes a low croak from Trinity, who flicks her eyes over your knife in a manner too nonchalant to be uninterested. “Is that Japanese?” 

“Nabbed it from a flea market,” you say, using a small quenelle spoon to shape and place a dollop of puréed fermented black bean, pungent enough to clear the sinuses. Then, you smear it downwards, tangent to the geoduck roll. “I liked the grip, then I checked the blade.” 

“Smooth.” She leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Would you say that was fate or luck—?” 

“Where is my au jus?” Langdon’s frustration is hurtled halfway across the kitchen.  

She grimaces. “Shit.” 

Delivery goes without a hitch. Abbot hardly spares a glance when you set the plate down, too fixated on his notes, but something in your chest swells so rapidly at the sight of the empty ramekin—practically licked clean and sparkling—beside him. 

Still, that makes your breaths tremble with anxious vibrations. The way he’s sticking his tongue out in concentration also doesn’t help. 

Course three. Your blade breaks down the Peking-roasted duck easily. The hot, crispy skin separates to reveal fat dribbling from the dark meat and greasing your fingers until the vents are full of savory, smoky spice and star anise.  

You clench your jaw, a reminder to not get lost in the heavenly smell. Butcher the wings and other bony parts for stock, shred the unused meat for Shen to use in his family meal, which won’t be served until you’ve run through the five courses for Abbot. 

The duck settles as you pull a steamer basket off the stove. The stack of flour pancakes inside is hot enough to make your experienced fingers wince—you swear you had burned away all the nerves by now. 

You separate each papery layer and fan them out a half-moon plate, then dip a basting brush into another pan, which is simmering with tart mulberry gastrique. Glaze each piece of duck with two layers of reduced sauce, then pair one slice to one pancake. Blue microgreens and a wafer-like garnish for presentation. 

Out the double doors, and before Abbot. 

He glances up from his notes like he’s been expecting you, grin cocked in a way you’re starting to know so well—he's already got a quip locked and loaded. 

“Masterful knife skills, chef,” he says, pointing at the blank slab of ceramic that used to present your geoduck flower. “I think the OR is calling you.” 

You chuckle, equal parts bashful and entertaining his joke. “Unfortunately, Doctor, the only thing calling is the hotline, because Dennis is watching my tangerine glaze.” 

Abbot flicks his eyes to the ceiling, all playful. “Oh, shame. And that poor kid...” 

“He can keep a lid on it, chef.” 

You push through the double doors again, and the heat presses all around you like a pressure cooker. Trinity has thankfully kept a sliver of the plating counter clear for you, and she’s flitting between wrapping sandwiches and maintaining Langdon’s cursed au jus while Dennis sautés another heap of onions and Portobello. 

Robby shouts out orders of two French dip, four Italian, six cheesesteaks—all day and Samira is...wafting your tangerine glaze with a contemplative furrow to her brow instead of kneading the salt bread she’s been assigned to. 

“Shit, is it burning—” 

“A splash of ginger syrup,” she blurts, already darting back to her station to re-dust the counter with flour. “Maybe a teaspoon!” 

You fan the scent of the glaze toward your nose—she’s right. The tangerine has the zest and the rind’s slightly bitter bite, but it’s been missing the same sweetness and tang Samira identified.  

Ginger syrup. 

You twist the knob until the blue flames in the burner leap and exchange your saucepan for a small pot. While you bring a cup of water to a boil, you peel a stalk of ginger with the edge of a spoon, then divide it into centimeter-wide slices.  

The water roils; you bring it down to a simmer, when the bubbling calms, and the flames hover just below the grate. An equal part of sugar is spooned and stirred until the graininess dissolves. Simmer ginger for twenty minutes… 

No, he would be irked, wouldn’t he? You’ve been taking your sweet time with the menu, but everyone knows that Robby can’t keep The Pitt afloat forever. 

Even though Abbot’s been telling you to take it easy, you know that he’s itching to open. Slow service is no service.  

So, you improvise. Course 3.5, as you’ll call it. 

A loaf of ciabatta fresh out of the oven, radiating with steaming warmth and Samira’s love. The golden crust crackles beneath the serrated knife you grab from the magnetic strip. 

White truffle oil—savory, delicate, a thread of sweetness—brushed over the soft, white insides. Toast it against a sizzling skillet with the crust side facing the smoky ventilation hood. Arrange on a dark, stone slab of a plate. Sprinkle the seared side with freshly minced basil leaves and dried, crumpled thyme. 

Then there are the frozen, shell-less escargots you know are hidden behind the slabs of beef shoulder in the walk-in. Robby microwaves them to eat during his breaks like a fucking weirdo. 

(Seriously, he’s a Michelin-starred chef! Are the fumes of red wine reduction and Langdon’s au jus getting to his brain and convincing him that eating reheated escargot meat atop untoasted sourdough is okay? Unclear.) 

You steal a few caps of Portobello, halved, and sauté them with the icy chunks of escargot in Dennis’ quick fashion. Steam hisses and curls from the pan, flames stretching from cobalt to orange. 

A genius elevates. A genius sees their life and conveys it through nourishment. 

You think of Samira’s kind hands speckled with flour, the way she always helps with the patience of a saint and a gentle smile. Dennis’ nervous grins, the bags under his eyes, the way he carries himself with a burgeoning sense of confidence. Even Robby, with his sharp commands and imposing figure in the culinary world, despite his strange eating habits (sure, he’s a genius, but untoasted sourdough is just not cool). 

Then there’s Abbot. 

Playful smirk, calloused fingers Abbot. Thick arms crossed and neck corded, five o’clock moonlight clinging to his jaw. A dark quip perpetually loaded on his tongue. Abbot, who—last week—pored over your sketches and scrubbed his mouth with those steady, calm hands and quietly guided you through timing for each course. 

This is for him to taste the soul of the day shift cooks, condensed into Samira’s ciabatta, Robby’s escargot, Dennis’ Portobello. Victoria and Mel live in the mellow, earthy tones of the white truffle oil, Trinity in the seared flat of the bread. 

(And Langdon...well, he’s just come back, so you suppose he could be the herbs. There as a humble, grounding reminder that life comes from the earth, like how he obsessively nags Trinity to keep an eye on the au jus.) 

Your hands don’t shake when you painstakingly spread the Portobello and escargot to form a circle around the toast. There’s no embellishing garnish or ceremony to this—there isn’t supposed to be. 

It’s just raw truth and grueling heat. 

You look up to see Dana leaning over the opposite side of the plating counter. She offers a dry little smile and scoops the stone slab into her hands.   

Two breaths are all you’ll afford. Onto course four. 

Your heart is kicking your sternum as you grab the pot of tangerine reduction you set aside. Pour the ginger syrup into it, stir gently as the white wisps dance above the metal lip. 

Slightly dilute the sauce with water, but only when you notice that the edges are beginning to darken. 

You pull it off the heat. By heavenly smell alone, you know that Samira has sent you a gift of a ginger-tangerine glaze, but you still dip a tasting spoon into the still-bubbling pot. 

First contact scorches, then almost makes your eyes roll back into your head. Ripe mandarins bloom sweetly in your mouth, each fruit pierced by a sharp needle of ginger and wrapped in a thin crepe of tartness. 

Jack will love it, you think as you call out a string of behind and corner to the walk-in. 

You bought a two-pound block of sashimi-grade salmon from the local sushi marketplace to save money—you still don’t know if this’ll work, and despite Abbot’s countless reassurances about the budget, you can’t shake off that deeply-ingrained conscience about money.  

“I’ll pay for it,” was the gravelly mumble, fingers landing gently on your shoulder as you weighed the fillets by hand. 

You did not shiver and certainly didn’t flush. At least, that’s what you recall from the past weekend; you mainly focused on the warmth he radiated and freckles dappling his neck. You’ve been…a little spacey as of late.  

You ended up splitting the bill, which wasn’t balanced. Abbot had acquiesced to pay for the salmon with a strangely characteristic frown that brought a fluttering to your chest, and you lightened your wallet considerably for a single tray of gonads and ikura.  

The three are sitting innocently beside each other on the metal shelf. You try not to think about how Abbot’s hands could easily engulf the trays, how the flesh would give so readily beneath his steady, competent hands. 

Your cheeks burn as soon as the door to the walk-in cracks open, letting a sliver of white light into the backlit-blue space. Back into the fray, this time with the ghost of your executive chef’s rough fingers trailing down your spine. 

(Fuck. You tell yourself that it’s because you haven’t been laid in a while. Which is true because your hours run late, and you don’t exactly have the energy for romancing in a sea of petulant manchildren.  

But Jack stirs your stomach in ways unfamiliar to you. It’s how he’s so earnest. Broad and brimming with unspoken guilt and the need to carry on. Gently leaves his mark on you and everyone around him.) 

Just uni is plain. Any other high-end restaurant can slap a gonad onto a plate, splash some coulis, and attach an exorbitant price tag.  

This is The Pitt. You have to keep up and be inventive and match the pace of a house that serves sandwiches by the day and polished plates by the night. 

You pivot to garde manger. Its three counters are pushed together to form a U-shaped space, and two are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with teary chefs and their piles of onions. 

“Behind,” you say, tapping Shen on the shoulder so you can reach for a deli quart. He sniffles, brows pinched as he fights the burn in his eyes. 

You scrape the pliant, golden urchin roe into the plastic container with a grimace for your poor wallet, then pick up the handheld blender with reluctance. Here goes nothing. 

Within seconds, the gonads dissolve into a cream, and all your money has gone down, down, down into the churning whirlpool. The consistency quickly becomes sufficient—smooth enough to not need straining, yet still thick to maintain substance—so you funnel the puree into the espuma siphon and scrape every inch of your tools so nothing’s wasted. 

You hadn’t practiced your aim that much during your tenure as 10 Blade’s sous, but hopefully you have enough experience from your culinary mentee days to perform this like second nature. 

You load the cold metal cartridge of nitrous oxide into the holder, then twist the cap until you feel the tension release with a quiet hiss. You shake the siphon vigorously, so the gas and puree become a uniform, homogenous solution. 

‘Cooking is art, baking is science’ is bullshit. Have you ever seen a complex molecule? —is what your mentor would say, leaning back against the stainless-steel counter with her arms crossed and hawk-like glint in her sharp eyes— Chemistry is art disguised as science, and cooking requires both, all the same. Maillard, protein denaturation, pH...oh, make sure the reduction doesn’t become too diluted, because it too is a solution with a molarity value. 

This seafood dish is scientific. Exact. Innovative. Surgical, but not sterile. No, this has character, just like how the works of Da Vinci married science and art.  

You grab a shallow bowl and pipe the uni espuma into the center, letting the dollop build upon itself till the circumference can comfortably notch within the shell size you’ve eyeballed in your mind, which should (in theory) be approximately the size of your palm.  

Really, everything about this course is theory, just like how Einstein theorized about the relativity of time and how medieval healers mythicized the existence of the vena amoris in the ring finger. 

Which proved to be anatomically wrong. But you won’t be wrong. 

Parker keeps a spare set of knives beneath the counter—you flick the clasp, and the leather unfurls with a satisfying snap. You smooth your fingers around the understated, wooden hilt of the sheathed yanagi-ba, which is a long and thin blade for cutting boneless fish. 

The salmon block is cold beneath your fingers, and the blade’s edge slices the flesh in one fell stroke. That’s all you need. 

You grab a pair of tweezers, which every chef should have hung from the fabric of their apron pockets, and hold your breath as you arrange the sashimi around the golden bed of thick foam.  

It stays. Thank goodness. 

Dip your basting brush into the glaze, coat the sunset-pink meat with it. Crack open the plastic tray of cured salmon eggs, spoon out the brine-rich, vibrant pearls of orange. They make their nest in the espuma dollop without a hitch, closing out the dish you’ve dreaded making for a long time.  

Hopefully, Abbot will agree that a little improvisation never hurts, lest he pretends to be a guest with texture sensitivity or an allergy. If so, you suppose you’ll just have to find a rock to die under. 

“Hands—” Princess swoops in with a breeze of jasmine eau de toilette and swiftly marches through the double doors with the bowl clutched in her hands “—please. Uh, okay.” 

Final course. 

Tacky sweat now pools at your nape, slowly dripping into the collar of your shirt and making your apron rub against the juncture of your neck in an odd way. You’re in and out of the walk-in, hauling the pot of stock you asked Shen to prepare yesterday to the hotline. 

Lotus roots knock against the sides of the pot, along with knobs of pale ginger and crimson goji berries. You flick the burner on high, the familiar series of clicking and gas combusting reassuring your mind. 

This must be what the flow state is like. 

The Pitt renders into background noise like fat dripping out of the creases of an animal. It’s just your hands flying as they dispatch slippery shrimp heads and shells, pulling out the dark veins, mincing the cold, crisp meat.  

Far-away, you hear yourself calling out for ground lamb—it’s on the second shelf, next to the beef—while dicing chives, and blinking to find it already before you.  

Mash the lamb and shrimp together, toss in an approximation of white pepper and garlic salt. Corner, need the—yeah, thanks. 

Rinse a shiitake in the cold, drumming sink. Behind, sorry Cassie! Tear out the stipe with a utility knife, because it doesn’t have to be pretty. 

It has to be humble. 

It has to let the mundane, expected chaos of life seep in. You pack the mixture of lamb and shrimp into the concave underside of the mushroom cap, each press reminding you of the way your flatmate in Hanoi would fold wontons like it was easier than breathing. 

Stick it in a steamer basket, fit it over the lotus-root stock roiling in the pot. Three minutes on the magnetized timer stuck to the ventilation hood. 

You spend it brewing jasmine tea with the water heated to an exact 170 degrees, in a pot you didn’t know was here with leaves you stuck into your backpack this morning. 

You rinse the dish with the tea—ritual purification. The warmed bowl fits between your two palms like a compliment. You only swipe a towel along the exterior, which squeaks with how good the dish crew has scrubbed them.  

The delicate floral notes of the jasmine will lash onto the rich, full mouthfeel of the lamb and shrimp-stuffed shiitake cap, which you’re now lowering into the bowl. You then ladle the stock over it and use a pair of chopsticks to place a final slice of lotus root over the round mouth of the bowl. 

No garnish. The simplicity speaks for itself. 

One metal soup spoon, the edges thin and sharp enough to cut the gummy texture of the mushroom. Place the bowl on a saucer, arrange the spoon to lay tangentially. 

Step out of the double doors with the whirlwind of a month clutched in your fingers, into the light and the cool, air-conditioned front of the house. Pivot on your heels to find Jack Abbot already watching you with a strange look on his face—half pensive and all mysterious—and a quiet smile. 

The dishes have been cleared from the table. It’s just him, honest and grounding, and his little black notebook.  

“What’s your dream job?” he asks as you set down the plate, and you’re reminded of a yellow streetlight and a cold bench outside a scorned kitchen. 

“The Pitt.” No hesitation now. 

You’ve found your place in a galley kitchen, one where the scent of rich, expensive sauces kisses the practical tang of a stovetop griddle and lingers in the grout. No amount of baking soda paste on a toothbrush can scrape you out now. 

He takes a single sip from the broth, pauses with his head cocked just to the left, and sets the spoon face-down on the saucer. With this odd, pensive curl playing on his lips, Jack clicks his pen—the quiet sound deafens the thundering of your heart—and scribbles a couple of words. 

Then he shuts the notebook, places it on the table, slides toward you, letting his touch linger on the leather cover until you reach for it. “Good, chef.” 

— 

Course 1 – steamed eggs. Clever use of foie gras & enoki. Pleasant silky texture, good balance of salt & umami & subtle sweet/earthiness. Notes of “home,” “routine,” “comfort.” Coming home bone-tired & need reassurance that she’s hanging on. 

Course 2 – geoduck. Cucumber & red pepper lend freshness, Balsamic & black bean amazing Sheer beauty, delicate presentation. Like waking up in summer with the fan still on & sun on arms, cold spring water.  

Course 3 – roast duck. Exceptional mulberry gastrique. Honey-sweet, delicate tartness, salty, fatty enough to melt w/ enough substance to fill. Refined & elevated. Prodigious. Nostalgic, berry juice sticky on fingers, stained teeth, heart waiting at home. 

Course 4 – ciabatta, escargot, Portobello. Welcome surprise. Rich, soft, buttery, crunchy symphony (?) all at once. Very Pitt-esque, chaos tamed. White truffle oil masterful reminder of night shift. Must keep in menu. 

Course 5 – uni, salmon. Methodical yet artful. Improvised espuma, very thoughtful. Unmistakable ginger in tangerine glaze—Mohan? Undertone of stinging warmth. Top layers of sweetness, rich brine, airy yet custard-like texture. Foil to steamed eggs.  

Course 6 – shiitake, lamb-shrimp paste, lotus root stock. Broke my heart. 

Dessert - TBD 

— 

“I roomed with another commis in Hanoi—Chau,” you tell him, thumb pressed into the inward concave of the spoon, fisted fingers supporting the back. “Her name meant pearl—that's where I got the oyster idea from.” 

In your hand is a small Oliver loquat, droplets beading on the slightly fuzzy skin. Jack mirrors your hands, but his loquat looks so much tinier in his thick, steady fingers. 

He hums in interest, shifting his weight ever-so-slightly so that it rests mostly on his left leg, and that makes the firm, heavy swell of his bicep brush yours, which sets off a whole rack of misfired signals in your mutinous brain and traitorous belly. 

You would tell yourself that it’s just the dark, nearly threadbare cotton of his laundry-loved shirt stretching over his sturdy figure like an open secret, but you’d be lying. You think that you’ve liked him from the very first day. 

The stem has already been picked off, leaving a little ring of protruding skin around the top, which is convenient for peeling. Mother Nature’s plan, and the whole works. You slip the edge of your spoon beneath it, using your thumb to hold the skin so it doesn’t slip, and drag the soft, ochre peel all the way down. 

“You don’t get your nails all dirty like this,” you say, repeating the soothing, familiar motions until the flesh is bare before you. “She always had cute manicures with art and everything. Always wore gloves too—she liked that they made her feel confident.” 

Your flat is dimly lit but still homely; the various lamps you’ve turned on lend a certain je sais ne quoi to the open floor, like the sense of sweet clementines and your partner’s comfortable body heat. 

Abbot listens intently while curls of yellow skin flutter into the sink. You’ve barely started the heaping bowl of them, which you will press when the prep is done to figure out a dessert that will lean on the succulent, slightly tangy flavors. 

You had invited him over to help with R&D. So far, you’ve collectively thought of jam, ice cream, sorbet, panna cotta...and have exchanged a rough total of twenty quick glances, three quiet giggles, and two full-length culinary tales with each other as you washed each individual fruit. 

You turn the fruit so that the calyx points up, then dig the tip of the spoon beneath it. The pale amber mesocarp parts for the metal, and with a small twist, the shriveled remnants of the blossom pop away from the seeds. 

Feeling his gaze turn heavy—you've become rather adept at detecting his moods, whether it be intuition or just a subtle shift in the air—you tilt your head to meet his eyes, which are as you predicted: lowered, soft, an unnamed yet known thing swimming deep inside those hazel pools. 

He sucks in a hushed breath beside you, the rhythm unchanging save for when you blink expectantly at him. It just—sharpens in a way, like he’s suddenly caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.  

(Jack Abbot supposedly doesn’t do favorites. 

“I’m not playing buddy with you,” he told you himself after the run-through. It was hard to believe; his half-cocked grin glowed with satisfaction. “We just have a naturally harmonious relationship because we’re supposed to work well together.” 

“I believe you.” 

“But I will admit that you are an excellent chef, and it is an honor to be the one who formally invited you to the night shift.” A pause, then a half-sardonic, disgruntled mumble of, “God knows Robby would’ve messed you up...” 

“Heard, chef.” 

His grin had widened, but this time the amusement was stark on his face. Your jaw had feathered trying to suppress the urge to match him. You also didn’t know if you were imagining the tinge at the tips of his tan, freckled ears.) 

For a man you know hides himself behind his knife-sharp observational skills and level-headedness, his shell is starting to become awfully soft around you. 

A sudden rush of confidence washes over you. Prickles at your neck, itches that sweet spot in your brain that always feels gratified when things are set in motion.  

The naked loquat, slick and cold in your grip, trembles as you hold it up to his lips. Pink plush gives in so readily, almost helpless to your urging. And you don’t pull back. 

He captures your gaze through his eyelashes, the lines branching from his eyes all mellow, brows furrowed like he can’t decide between forgiving himself for the indulgence or abstaining to punish himself for letting something so tense get so far—between an EC and CDC, no less. 

But he’s made it very clear that there is virtually no power imbalance between your positions. You’re fully in charge of food stock, menu choices, staff. The only thing he really manages is the expo table—only there to maintain an ever-watchful eye. 

Jack is a line cook, through and through, and a co-executive in name only because Robby would supposedly get all up in everybody’s asses if he oversaw night service. 

You stay, steady and grounding—you're allowed to want, is what your silent motions scream—until the end of the pulp slides into the warmth, until his teeth scrape your nails so softly and hesitantly, until those hazel pools lighten with acceptance and the unabashed want you knew was there and were seeking for all this time. 

He doesn’t look away. You suppose he’s always had a staring problem, anyways. 

Sill, you feel like your sternum is cracking wide open and spilling hot viscera all over your skin.  

Your fingers fall softly, like feathers fluttering to the ground. He chews the sweet, tangy pulp off the seeds till they clack together in his mouth. 

Still, he considers them, working his jaw, lean muscles in his neck shifting as he soaks in the flavor. 

“You…you’re supposed to spit them out,” you say, quiet words harsh on the already-tense mood. 

Jack—when did he become Jack, you wonder—fixes you with an unapologetic twitch tugging at the corner of his scruffy mouth, putting you in the kind of headspin that makes you want to fly to the dark side of Jupiter and live out your days alone. 

He turns around to your cabinets, intuitively selects a door to open, and pulls out a bowl to discard the seeds in. Knowing his way around your very unfamiliar kitchen should not be as attractive as it is, but you’re a chef. 

“Are you gonna keep staring, or—?” 

“Right,” you jump, flicking on the water to rinse your fingers, then reaching for another loquat to work on. You slow as your touch grazes the fuzzy skin, spoon trembling in your knuckle-paling grip. “Just use the edge to dig out the seeds too, it doesn’t have to be neat since we’re processing—Jack?” 

He doesn’t move. 

Just…gazes at you with this strange blend of admiration and fondness and soft, unexplained warmth puddling in his hazel irises. They’re flecked with the same shade as microgreens, the kind that would normally drive you crazy if you had three seconds to plate and your old CDC breathing down your neck. 

But this isn’t 10 Blade. This is just Jack Abbot, the man you’ve become familiar with in just a few months, as if you’ve known him your whole life. As if you’ve been looking for him, for all that time.  

“Nothing,” Jack says, but the way his controlled breath stammers a little makes your heart rabbit against your lungs. 

You must look skeptical, because his mouth thins and flattens dramatically, and he dryly admits, “I’m endeared.” 

It should be accompanied by an eye roll, but he’s holding back on the usual avoidant theatrics. The sincerity almost burns at your waterline, and you duck your head down to sharpen your attention to the task in front of you.  

“Really?” Your mouth crinkles in an effort to hide a smug smile. “By me, out of my chef coat, in…” 

You make a pointed, cursory gesture to your very comfortable clothes— “grey sweats and a swap-meet chemistry shirt that says, ‘I wear this periodically.’” 

 “Yes.” Without hesitation. With the slight, enamoring crinkle of his crow’s feet and the faintest play of a smirk on his lips.  

You swallow, stunned. 

You swear his razor-sharp gaze follows the line of your throat as it shifts, then tries to dart back up to your eyes, only to be caught like a rabbit in the brambles of your lips.  

You’re suddenly aware of how close he’s been standing—practically joined at the hip, the defined swells of his arms fitting against the curves of yours—and how hot his skin runs. 

Eyes flicker down to the slight pout of Jack’s bottom lip. You study the softened creases of his smile lines, rough silver stubble around them. The air feels too thick to breathe. 

“I think we should make that our uniform,” Jack murmurs, voice dipping into gravel as he finally lets that roguishly charming smirk out. “What do you think?” 

You suck in a tight breath, now fighting the unreasonable, sharp need sparking, stirring in your core. “I…think you should do what you want to do, chef.” 

You’re about to rip your attention away to inwardly chastise yourself for falling for this ridiculously witty, stupidly competent, magnetic (and every synonym in any language, really) silver fox of your executive chef (an ethical dilemma you’ve long since given up on). 

You’re about to quash down the rising tide of feelings that play your heartstrings like a fiddle. You want to compress them into a tofu block and dice them and maybe stick them in a blender with garlic and durian, so Jack Abbot can’t identify the slush by taste alone. 

Then, you catch it. The quicksilver, dark smudge of desire darting across the enamoring wrinkle in his brow. 

“Then can I kiss you?” 

In any other situation, you’d perhaps clutch your chest at how smooth he slid his approach into the conversation. 

But your flat is dim in the clementine lamplight, and the quiet, crackling air between your lips smells like the sweetness of loquat. Your heart is melting into a pulp. For once, you aren’t afraid of letting someone in. 

You can have him. 

It must be you who moves first. For a man so assured and grounded in the whirlwind of The Pitt, Jack falters for a second too long, worry and self-doubt apparent in the scrunched set of his growing frown. 

The gap closes with a final, shivering breath and a mountain of relief crashing down on both of you. A strained sound from the back of Jack’s throat escapes, then peters into a deep rumble of satisfaction as he sinks into the kiss. 

His lips are soft. Sticky, sweet, with a hint of the loquat’s tang caught in the areas where his skin is just this side of chapped, and god, the realness lands.  

The spoon in your hand falls into the sink with a dull clatter. Negligible compared to how Jack smoothly maneuvers you so that your lower back presses into the cold edge of your counter, corralling you so tightly that you fear your heart will light up in flames. 

Mouths slide together, finding a rhythm between bashful giggles when noses press to cheeks at odd angles and whispered apologies lost to the pounding of your hearts. A broad, callused hand sears along the curve of your waist, and he slips his hot tongue across the line of your bottom lip before breaking for air. 

You miss it immediately, traitorous stomach flipping on its head. You suddenly want the imprint of his hands on your hips, arousal beginning to tug at the crux of your legs. 

“Thought about this so many times,” he groans, palm meeting your side again with a firm squeeze, right knee sliding just below where your cunt begs for friction. “Wanted you from the very first day.” 

You make a sound, low and shuddering and nakedly sweet in a way you didn’t expect from yourself. Jack looks so fucking pleased and high on his own horse when you paw at the dark cotton of his shirt, leaving behind smears of damp fingerprints, and you know then that you’ll stop at nothing. 

He must know—he's becoming attuned to you now, in the way only chefs and co-dependent partners can be. One look, a glint he catches in the glass of your half-mast eyes when you tip your head just so. 

He kisses you again, sweet and longing. Savors the flavor of your lips, draws his thumbs in soothing circles. Inches his thigh closer, until he swallows your shallow gasps and takes that as permission to slip his hands beneath the back of your shirt. 

“You’re so soft,” Jack murmurs with all the admiration and gentle, yet fierce yearning in the world pouring from the faint quiver of his lips. He pecks the corner of your mouth. “Can I lay you down, sweetheart?” 

Your ribs crack wide open; you can only afford to nod in fear of spilling out and driving him away. 

“Words, please?” 

How could you resist? You’re helpless to the call, tilting your head forward to nose at the hollow of his collarbone; he tilts his head back, exposing the column of his throat—patchouli, green tobacco leaves, cozy aftershave—so thoughtlessly. 

You feel intoxicated. Physically, mentally, chemically.  

Fighting back a groan of desperation: “Want you to touch me, please.” 

The world spins. One breath, Jack’s stealing a messy kiss, smearing spit all over your swollen, nipped-at lips. The next, you’re stumbling backwards, sinking into the cool, plush cushions of your couch as his steady hands pull your hips flush to the bulge in his jeans.  

You moan, quietly, for real this time, squirming beneath the close, solid press of his body in search of more friction. The soft gasp leaves you in one fell sigh—Jack… 

I am touching you, he rasps, voice so gruff and delicate that you’re sent into tachycardia. He strokes the tip of his nose along the line of your clavicle, inhaling shakily as deft, experienced fingers begin to drift under your shirt.  

“Not like that” —nudging his hands lower, until the rough palms graze the softness of your sweatpants— “like that.” 

“Fuck, you’re killin’ me,” he groans, thick lashes fluttering against your prickling goosebumps. “Are you sure?” 

You card your fingers through the feather-soft feel of his grey curls, patches of which still hold that dark, wiry copper it used to be. You guide him to raise his head, and he peers down at you with wide, searching eyes, and you realize that he would be satisfied with anything you gave him. 

He could stand in the corner and come with the lingering taste of your mouth if prompted. You could stay here, dry humping like a pair of goddamn teenagers, and he would think he’s the happiest man in the world. 

“Yeah,” you say, though it cracks in the middle, for the admission is so tender that it could be a bruise. “I want you.” 

He’s silent for a single, disbelieving heartbeat. Two throbs, blood rushing from atrium to ventricle, valves fluttering open then snapping shut, then from ventricle to bloodstream. 

By the next cycle, he’s onto you again, crushing his lips to yours like a man parched, starved, trying to quench whatever need that gnaws on his bones. 

“You’ve no idea,” he grunts out between kisses, “what you do to me.” 

You fumble with his belt, years of meticulous training in immaculate knife skills and plating thrown out the window as hot arousal pools in the gusset of your cotton underwear. 

(Shit, you think offhandedly, should’ve worn the cute lace ones.) 

Jack rucks your stupid shirt up, stopping just beneath your breasts, and lays a scorching path of kisses and nips down the length of your belly. You arch toward him—push and pull; he pins you back down. 

Then he rises, lips all pinkened and swollen, flushed from his cheekbones to his fucking neck (good grief). Pulls off that cotton shirt with a mind-numbing stretch of his corded, unbelievable arms.  

“Sorry,” he pants, scruff catching in the orange lamplight and making constellations shine on his skin, “can you give me a second?” 

You manage a dazed yeah, shutting your eyes for a reprieve. Belt buckles clink, leather rasps against denim. Then comes the sound of a stifled, relieved hiss, and a quiet thud on your carpet. 

You crack an eye open to see half a metal calf plus a foot resting against your coffee table. Oh. So that’s why he favors the left.  

“Does that…change anything?” he asks, fingers hovering beside your knee. It’s said with such undisguised intimacy that it kisses the border of inaudibility. 

“No,” you say, certain. You shift your knee so that the cusp fits over his knuckles, which are crosshatched with little scars from mishaps. Your hands match, in a way. “Just wish you’d told me, so you didn’t have to stand on my tile. It’s hell for flat feet.” 

He chuckles, all breathy, wondrous, and endlessly endeared. 

The cords of muscle in his shoulders ripple when he lowers himself back down, divots phasing in and out of his smooth skin as he kisses your tummy once again, eyelids fluttering shut with every press of his wanting mouth. 

Warm, deft fingers slip beneath your waistband. He helps you shimmy out of your sweatpants and underwear, making this little face where the right corner of his mouth twists in mirth at the sight of the plain cotton. 

(Inwardly, you preen. Maybe not wearing lace panties was a good thing then.) 

The clothes form a neat pile of indeterminate shadows on the carpet. You can’t tell where his garments end and where yours begin, but the thought dissolves when Jack rubs his palms over the bare skin of your ass (you can feel the callouses just beneath his index finger from years of cooking). 

You shiver, caught between the air-conditioned atmosphere of your flat and the body heat rolling off his bare chest. 

He takes your right hand. Exhales tremble—both your lips are parted in anticipation as he guides your middle and fourth finger into the cavern of his mouth with a throaty groan. 

You feel it in your bones, vibrations jumping between the IP joints and traveling up your arm as frisson. Stubble scrubs against your palm. Instinctively, you apply pressure to the roughness of his tongue, and the muscle dips suddenly as he sucks on your digits for a singular moment that feels simultaneously too long and short. 

He releases you with a soft, wet pop—a thread of spit, starspun in the warm light, trails between your fingers and his reddened lips. Whispers like a secret he isn’t supposed to tell: Can you touch yourself? 

Oh god. You’ve died and you’ve somehow done enough good in your life to reach the pearly gates. 

A whimper escapes your lips. You’ve found yourself so helpless to the way his dazed eyes gleam and plead with those blown-out pupils, and you’re giving in to his request so readily, thoughtlessly.  

Fuck, you’re beautiful. The praises dive into one ear and nestle in your hazy brain, feeding the fire growing in your too-empty, fluttering cunt. Keep doin’ it just like that, okay? 

You nod, head spinning at the dull sparks elicited from your slick fingers circling your own clit. 

Rough, scorch. Jack’s nose bumps into your languid knuckles, scruff prickling your inner thighs as he licks a long, firm stripe from your pussy to your stammering fingers. 

Head knocking back, hips jumping in surprise. You loose a harsh, startled moan into the otherwise still air, and the bastard has the gall to smirk against your folds before he dips his tongue into your sex with a wanton moan. 

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, ribs rattling with the force of the pleasured synapses firing in your brain. 

He shudders from between your legs, mouth pulling slick, filthy sounds from your cunt as he presses deeper, closer. Salt-and-pepper curls smart over your knuckles. 

Then comes the tentative, gentle stroke of two thick, coarse fingerpads. 

They swipe through the wet. Join his tongue in their ministrations. 

Slide right into the seam of your pussy, making room for himself in the pulsing walls and fitting so snugly, like your body doesn’t want to let him go. 

The groan he lets out vibrates you to the bone, nudging you closer to the ledge. “‘S tight.” 

You roll your clit with the newfound fuel for urgency, gasping when Jack laves over your wet, frantic digits, when his fingers set a quick, efficient pace against a spot that makes your eyes roll back— 

When his free hand, warm and grounding, grasps the curve of your hip and squeezes just so, reminding you to come back to Earth as your senses narrow to the pinpoint of stimulation in anticipation. 

“Jack,” you mewl, almost a prayer as your rhythm stutters, as everything builds too high, as Jack’s damned tongue flicks over your stalling fingers—presses the searing, harsh flat of it flush to your clit, shit— 

That’s it, he coaxes, curling into that spongy, sensitive spot. The gentle motion makes the filthiest squelch as he bullies his fingers deeper into your still-cumming pussy. Such a good girl. 

You whimper, breathless and basking in your orgasm-addled haze—‘m so sensitive.  

Your ears ring. Your limbs are heavy. There’s a distinct notion that you’ve never come harder. The praises spilling from him swim around you: 

Tasted so sweet. Did so well. Looked so pretty, sweet girl.  

“Mm, Jack?” you croak. 

He’s moved his attention from your cunt to your neck and jaw, worshipping your skin with slow, loving kisses. “Yeah?” 

The hand you used to touch yourself tugs at his waistband, and the other combs his curls, which are gradually becoming curlier with the humidity of exertion. 

Pulling him in, you melt into the cushions as he kisses you back. He tastes like you, lips and tongue and teeth and all.  

Despite the bodily urge to let the heaviness take over, you manage to pop the button of his jeans and unzip him. You swallow his gravel-grit moan at the release in pressure, desire once again flickering in your empty core. 

“Again?” he mumbles, lips curving into a teasing smile against yours. 

You smooth your hand over his defined chest, caressing just to the left of his sternum with leisure. “Want to make you feel good, too.” 

“I’m clean,” he says, lifting himself up to peer down at you, concern and curiosity swirling in his face. “But we don’t have a condom.” 

“Me too,” you sigh, eyes tracing the gentle set of his eyes, the crooked line of his mouth. “Can’t exactly predict this.” 

He hums, the barest tilt of amusement dawning on his face again. “Sorry.” 

Not sorry. The stupidly endearing twitch of his short, silver whiskers tells you so.  

“You could always pull out.” 

Jack pauses, eyes frozen, a purse dawning on his lips. The idea clearly appeals to him, because the heartbeat beneath your palm picks up, and his pupils dilate until you can only see a thin sliver of hazel. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re a chef.” A teasing smile plays on your mouth now, and his attention flickers down to it—rapt and automatic, always responding to your needs. Another coil of affection and desire unspools and tangles itself around your stomach. 

You take the opportunity to reach around and shuck off your own shirt, the collar of which is dampening with perspiration. His gaze falls, following how the shadows of your body morph as you stretch back onto the couch, leaving you in just your bra.  

“You’ve got the timing down.” 

“Trust me that much?” he wonders, but his hand is already urging at your side until you roll over, prone beneath him.  

A rustle, a shift of weight on the cushions, and he returns to you by sliding soft, threadbare cotton beneath your hips—his shirt. The thing in your chest writhes at the attentiveness, squeezing around your heart. 

“Yeah, I do,” you respond, sweet and soft and devastatingly true.  

You sense his fussing around behind you pause, and his breath catches, if only for a moment.  

“‘S a pain to clean couches,” he mutters after that lapse, voice thick as if he’s chastising himself. A brief, silent chuckle shakes you. 

It’s kind of adorable. 

“Surprise dish, chef?” you ask, fluttering your lashes over your shoulder. 

He braces himself against the back of the couch as he shimmies out of his jeans, curses under his breath a little with impatience biting the edges of his words. “Mm, you can say that.” 

Broad hands cusp your thighs to press them together. You can feel the mixture of your arousal and previous orgasm dripping from your sex, tacky; Jack clambers over you, biceps bulging in your peripheral as he slowly spreads his weight over your back. 

His bare chest, flush to your spine, is a furnace. You feel the warmth in your bone marrow, the security within the cage of his arms, which are braced on either side of your head. 

An insistent, scorching hardness presses to your ass, precum dribbling onto the curve of your lower back as Jack scrabbles for the self-control to not rut against you then and there.  

“This okay?” he asks. The question rumbles through you, providing the love needed for that safe, sated feeling in your chest to bloom again. 

You nod, inhale shivering, “Yeah.” 

Jack’s register scoops into the gravelly range: “Good.” 

A chaste kiss to your cheek, one imprinted with the faint grin on his face. Another over your mouth—though the angle is awkward and his nose gets smushed into your face, you can’t help the small, giddy laugh that escapes you.  

All the while, he lifts his hips, skates feather-light trails of singeing fingertips down your spine—you prickle, feel your pussy getting impossibly wetter—until his hand is sandwiched between your bodies, until he stuffs a throaty whimper next to your ear as he guides his cock into your fluttering hole.  

First contact is caught between choking on air and whimpering. The head hitches, smooth glans and hot skin meeting home, stretching you open. 

As he slides deeper, the sound he makes hisses between his clenched teeth. Your exhale shudders, petering into a quiet whine. 

He works himself in with shallow, thoughtful little thrusts designed to help you adjust. You feel so full from the pleasant ache throbbing in your cunt and going straight to your brain. 

Then his hips meet the globes of your ass. The hand that guided flies to your thigh, and he releases a strained, heady moan that tangles with your quiet exhale of satisfaction. 

Fuck, he feels so good in you. It’s all slick walls and pulsing veins, the hefty drag of the head as he rocks deep into your cunt like he’s trying to carve a space for himself in your stomach. 

(You wouldn’t mind. With the nature of your job, you’d keep him well-fed and warm.) 

“‘S like she can’t let me go,” Jack mumbles, day-old stubble rasping at your earlobe. That damn half-cocky, rumbling voice makes another cocktail of pure need shoot straight for your swollen, neglected clit. 

Bastard knows he has that effect on you, all too well. Thick fingers wedge themselves between your pelvis and the covered cushion, wriggling until he can touch the heat of your cunt, cupping where your soaked seam spreads for his fat girth with another tight gasp of arousal. 

You’ve been pliant. You’ve been more patient than a saint. But Jack’s savoring the velvet suction around his cock, and despite your typical reservations against devouring too quickly, you need him to move. 

Tipping your hips up, you find a new angle that makes his fingers slip up to your pulsing pearl of nerves and his cock prod so deep that your eyes roll back with a breathy keen falling from your lips. 

He tsks but finally takes the hint and begins to thrust harder while teasing your clit with slow, reverent rolls between his skillful fingers, interspersed with light, sharp swats to just feel the way your walls tense and jump around him. 

You manage shallow sips of breath between every time his cock teases your g-spot. Pulsing veins drag along the ridges inside your cunt and fill you up so good that you fear feeling hollow after this. 

It’s a call and response, one the both of you are helpless to. 

You moan when Jack crowds right up against your cervix, so deep that you feel the throb in your chest, and he reacts. Adjusts. Makes you involuntarily clench around him again, like he’s memorizing the way your pussy sucks him in. 

And he twitches whenever that happens, a mindless flutter of pressure and new heat pouring into you in waves. You arch back, desperate to sate the sharp arousal pinching in your core, desperate to have him plunge so deep that he steals your breath. 

His comforting, heady scent mixed with the faint musk of sweat envelops you as he drives you closer to the brink. Your head spins, nervous system stuffed to the brim with the friction between your legs, your gut quickly winding with each raw gasp falling from your lips. 

Leisurely, softhearted kisses travel from your jaw to your shoulder. Jack mumbles sweet nothings of so pretty and you’re doing so good into your skin, labored breaths splintering for breathy groans. 

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, hitching your clit between two fingers and rubbing that nub with his calloused touch, “know you got another one for me. Wanna feel you come around me.” 

His name falls from your mouth in wet pants, voice strained beneath the weight of your impending orgasm, head turned to press your forehead to the cushion. “Close, Jack.” 

“That’s it.” Jack rocks into you with newfound urgency, fingers skating flinty over your slippery clit, cock driving the obscenest of squelches from your pussy, which are immediately muffled by the press of his hips against your raw ass. “Eaaasy, I’ve got you, honey—fuck, you’re so pretty like this, so good—” 

Stuffing your pitched moan into the couch, you rut backwards like chasing an orgasm on his cock has been your life’s mission all along. Stubble scrapes your shoulder, soothed by hot, broken breaths. 

You turn your head, fitful, mouth hanging open as you tumble toward the edge, as Jack looks straight into your dazed eyes with his pretty hazels reduced to slim rings, as he sinks his teeth into your fucking shoulder with a possessive shadow flickering over his face. 

Oh— 

You cum again with a loud, choked whine, caught between an exhale and a sob. Ecstasy tremors through your body; your legs quiver, eyelids squeeze shut, ass pressing flush to his pelvis as you contract hard and coast on the waves of pleasure. 

His cock throbs, and in the smudgy haze, you register the faint, yet distinct sensation of his heavy balls tightening where they’re pushed against your thigh before he’s pulling out with a grumbled string of curses and painting your ass with hot, spurting ropes. 

“Shit, fuck,” he snarls, hands jumping to your waist with a mind-numbing grip. You’ve never heard music like the sound of your name escaping Jack Abbot’s kiss-bitten lips with a gritted moan. “God…” 

Fingers loosen from the newly-made dimples in your flesh, smoothing down the twitch in your thighs—the insides are sticky with your slick and cum, and his spit and pre—and stopping at your knees. 

“Thank you, baby,” comes the unsteady, gentle murmur. Jack assuages the ache beginning to burn in your muscles, slowly lowering you back down until your mound has met the shirt-covered cushion. 

Jack brushes kisses along your temple. “You were so beautiful.” 

A long, slow meet of your lips, all languid movements and casual, heatless swipes of tongue. His lips curl up in a way that makes your racing heart skip more beats than it should. “So good.” 

Pulls away, caressing your flushed cheek with fondness shining in his eyes. Continues blazing a path down, devoting himself to your sweaty, still-heaving body. 

Shoulder, “The greatest chef I could ask for—” 

Mid-back. He dips his tongue into the divot of a line running down your spine, whispering,  “—and the sweetest girl—” 

The crest of your hip, “—with the most heavenly sounds—” 

The flat of his tongue glides searing over the curve of your ass, right through the mess of cum still warm on your tacky skin.  

He groans at the taste of it mixed with the salt of your sweat, laps and scoops and swallows until your core tingles with arousal once more, until you can’t feel the splatter of his seed on your ass—only his tongue and teeth.  

Your breathing picks up again, pulse rushing as he reaches his fill of cleaning you up and blazes another path of kisses to your fluttering, wet core. 

You squirm as his exhales hit the slick still shining on your folds. Jack can’t have that, not when he’s still developing your flavor profile.  

Familiar, steady hands plant on either one of your thighs. Thumbs spread your cheeks open, your empty pussy and swollen clit eager for more stimulation, even if tears will swell in your eyes. 

You’re not ready to let go of him just yet. This isn’t a matter of how much you can bear taking. This is about how much he can give. 

“Please…” you whisper, words pitched and so quiet that you fear they’ll be inaudible. His name has become a comforting prayer, a syllabic synonym for reliability. 

Jump, and he’ll catch.  

“I’ve got you, baby,” he rumbles, scruff scratching your sensitive inner thighs as he pecks your seam. “I’ll always have you.” 

Love is at the tip of your tongue as he drinks from your needy cunt once again. 

— 

“Here.” Bubblegum pink flashes in the air, and you catch it out of sheer instinct. Pepto-Bismol—man’s best friend. 

Most, if not all, chefs that partake in service have stomach issues because of high-octane moments like your old CDC blowing a full gasket if someone shucked two lentils below his quota. Multiply that by one and a half turns per six days a week, and antacid producers are forever guaranteed a profit margin. 

You shoot a tight grin of gratitude to Jack, who only dips his thumb and index finger into his mouth to moisten so he can flip through today’s guest list. 

Opening night. You smear your hands down the front of your white coat for the fifth time this hour.  

You’re pacing around the front of the house, which has been closed during the day shift so you could fortify yourself for tonight. Jack’s been parked at his usual table by the double doors to mentally rehearse timing for the turn-and-a-half.  

The late noon light is awfully poetic on his solemn, concentrated expression. The illuminated windows stretch across the swept floor until the rays slant over his face, highlighting the structure of his jaw, the plush shape of his lips. 

His stubble glows half-golden, and you think back—with a quick burst of heat in your cheeks—to how it felt scraping between your sensitive legs.  

“Just drink it now so you don’t shit mid-service,” Jack says, droll and unaware of your sudden turn of thought. His attention flits from the pages to your uneasy face, indecision clear in the lines by his mouth. 

You haven’t…talked about the other night. Not in depth, anyway. 

It’s apparent that you find each other attractive. Obviously, he licked his own cum off your ass and then licked you, but further conversation has been stunted by restaurant prep. 

You still spend your working hours in close, comfortable contact, and he squeezes your waist instead of calling corner, and you cheekily peck his lips if you walk into the freezer at the same time.  

So things aren’t awkward, per se, but things have certainly been left unsaid that you both are trying to say now.  

He puts the packet down, tucks his highlighter behind his ear, which makes your stomach settle for a split moment to feel how endearing that habit has become.  

“C’mon, chef, don’t give yourself an ulcer,” comes the quip, straddling the line between lighthearted and serious. “God knows the Pitt doesn’t need another Robby.” 

You huff out a light laugh, twisting off the cap. “One swig or two?” 

“How confident do you feel?” Slowly, Jack rises and slinks toward where you’re wearing a path into the floor. 

You meet him with your other hand squeezing the firm muscles behind his elbow, fingers slotting perfectly into the divot of the joint, eyes trained on the bottle in your grip. “Like…three and a half?” 

“Alright, that’s a little too much,” he chuckles dryly, shifting so he can fondly snake an arm around your shoulders. “One is fine, because you’re gonna kill it.” 

“Ye of little faith,” you murmur in fake offense. You still raise the lip to your mouth and take a swig, wincing at the thick goop of wintergreen and chalk sliding into your troublesome system.  

“Oh, the lady doth protest,” he fires back, that teasing grin lighting his face. 

Rolling your eyes, exasperated amusement pulls at the corners of your lips. You twist the cap back onto the PB bottle and set it on a nearby table, the plastic soundless against the sun-warmed wood. 

You’re about to turn back to the cold bath of LEDs in the kitchen, shrugging away Jack’s arm, when he hooks two fingers into the pocket of your chef’s coat and tugs you back to him. 

You must be magnetic. When returning to him (like the tide), the edges of his expression tilt upward; fondness softens and glimmers in his eyes, which dart down to your lips, and a faint tinge of a blush colors his freckled cheeks. 

A swallow works through your throat. 

“Need something?” you ask, keeping your voice level, though it’s too casual to mean nothing. 

“Hm” —he studies the far wall, mouth pursing as if he’s hiding a laugh— “maybe a good luck kiss?” 

Of course. 

Craning, you press your lips to his scruffy jaw, the action quick and clean. His skin thrums beneath your touch with heat and excitement, and when you pull away, he’s got this look on his face—all dazed smiles and unfocused eyes. 

You cough lightly, which makes his broad shoulders twitch like he’s just caught himself falling asleep on the job. 

Jack’s faint smile grows until a full-blown smirk sits on his face, and he crosses his arms in the way he knows drives you crazy. “You’re gonna kill it here.” 

— 

Zero turns runs smoothly. 

Under the heavy, watchful observance of Jack, the night shift neatly hits the efficiency and teamwork goals you’ve set for yourselves during the pre-service meeting.  

Garde manger’s geoduck petals are thinner than yours, which allows the crisp flesh to absorb the surrounding flavors easily. They’re doing most of the plating, like rolling up the buds of translucent slices and painstakingly decorating the ceramics with sauce, but you’re stationed at the central counter to oversee presentation. 

That was your biggest mistake. 

Somewhere in the midst of the first-and-a-half turns, you’re craving a menu change and a second swig of Pepto. The hot dishes have suddenly piled up. The colds are following close behind, and now you’re certain that you’ll spend this weekend simplifying the aesthetics. 

And Jack—ridiculously competent, brutally experienced Jack—keeps the energy high, to the point where you dread the next ‘yes, chef.’ 

Ten plates are waiting for your approval, the nearest one emitting the faintest curls of white when the guest should be taking a steaming, scorching first bite. You hate re-firing; you finger the edge of the counter as irritation simmers in your gut at the sudden pile-up of dishes. 

You took it too easy, and now you have so much to do with so little time to do it. Fuck. 

Glancing at Jack, cool and composed and level from his perch at the expo station, you worry your cheek between your molars. Maybe you aren’t cut out for this. Maybe… 

Maybe he made a mistake. 

“Duck for table five, fired!” Parker calls, bent over her own dish and lining up the pieces with the pancakes. 

When she finishes, she slides the plate to join the procession line already waiting for presentation. Your pulse ticks up again, spiraling thoughts slamming the pedal to the metal. 

Nazely chirps, “Need help with plating for pastry.” 

Your breaths feel like they drag against your throat, but your hands and forceps hold fast to steadiness, even as you become aware of the droplets of sweat racing down your nape.  

“Four uni, two geoduck all day,” Shen says, setting glazed porcelain onto the stainless steel counter with a dull thunk.  

You grip your tweezers tighter—the dull hilt digs into your palm, hard enough to bruise— 

You glance back to the expo table. Jack’s already watching you with those characteristic 11s between his brows. 

You should feel guilty for being caught red-handed in your slapstick act of incompetency. But the hazel doesn’t have any fire behind it—just concern, breath-halting and real.  

He scans the chart one last time. Steps off the platform. Your stomach turns with something fierce and sour.  

“Ellis, fire two egg, two duck, four escargot toast—all day,” he commands, his firm voice carrying through the controlled chaos of the kitchen. “You’re doing great.” 

Fingers make quick work of his coat sleeves, which are folded with brutal, practiced efficiency to his elbows. He strides to take his place beside you, still surveying but reaching for the tweezers hanging out of his pocket. 

“Nazely, just a quenelle of yuzu sorbet will do. Three loquat brûlée egg tarts, please.” 

Yes, chef. 

“Shen, keep that pace.” 

Thank you, chef. 

“Chef,” he murmurs, leaning into your side. “I’ll do hot, alright?” 

“Who’s calling expo?” You keep your tone level, but slight tremors still shine through. 

You drop a final microgreen onto your current plate and push it to the side. “Hands, please.” 

“That’s for twenty,” Jack adds, not looking up from his task. Earnesty bleeds into his voice, just this side of intimate. “I’m here for you, chef.” 

God, it lands. 

You push out a shuddering exhale, one that peters into a smooth stream of air by the end. The discomfort and doubt wriggling in your gut ebbs away at the gradual diffusion of his cologne and body heat beside you. 

Somehow, he remembers. Somehow, he’s here to be your guiding light. 

You work in partial silence, hands flying between deli quarts of plucked greens and miscellaneous decorations, tweezers making indistinct clipping sounds with every move. Warm hands brush yours when you both reach for the same container of meticulously chopped cilantro. 

If that immediately bathes you head-to-toe with boiling heat, he doesn’t comment. Or maybe he noticed that you’ve been a little distracted by how commanding he is in the kitchen, and he’s choosing not to say anything. 

(Perhaps the downward turn of tonight’s service is really the work of Jack Abbot. Really, the sight of his arms clad in that white coat is obscene.) 

Between reminders of ‘every second counts’ and ‘hands for table four, fire two escargot and the last uni,’ you can feel the pass of his gaze over your countenance of concentration. And when you glance up, the faint weight disappears as soon as it comes, but you never miss the feathering in his scruffy jaw, nor the miniscule, upward twitch of the lips you kissed hours ago. 

Jack breaks the silence first, voice low and smooth. “Three more tables left, chef.” 

The relief unspools in your stomach. Without thought, your frown splinters into a soft smile. 

You’re both out of the woods. 

— 

“Chef.” 

A startled shiver possesses your body, and you leap off the back wall of the restaurant. The night is freezing compared to the scorching tempers still lingering in the empty kitchen, but Jack looks at home in the dimness with his black tee melting into the darkness. 

He stands to your side, facing you with his hands behind his back. There’s a faint line running down between the muscles of his half-hidden forearms, the one that—anatomically—appears when the fingers are flexed. 

“Shit,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut to still your heart and ignoring the sharp pang lancing through your stomach. “Maybe let the door squeak so I don’t have a heart attack.” 

“Sorry,” he says, though it hardly sounds like remorse. Jack holds out one of his hands, and you almost chuckle. Almost. “Just thought you’d want this after…that.” 

The bottle of Pepto-Bismol, just a swing shy of full, is glaringly bright. Still, you wrap your fingers around it—grazing his skin in the process, and you don’t fight the way your heart skips—and tilt your head toward the steps by the back door. 

Chalk coats your tongue, followed by the strange, warm-cool burn of artificial wintergreen flavoring. As you twist the cap back on, you plop beside him, exhaustion catching up to your body and knocking half the air out of your lungs. 

“Some first service,” you murmur, shutting your eyes and listening to the crickets, the rustle of a nearby tree, the faint rush of nighttime Pittsburgh traffic. 

“You did good,” he says, just as quiet, but not half as uncertain as you are. You feel soft, warm lips pressing to your temple, then the weight of his arm around your shoulders, driving away some of the chill beginning to bleed into the air. “Here.” 

Smooth plastic nudges at your aching hands. 

You look down—it's a tupperware container, one of those rectangular ones you’d often find at Chinese restaurants so you can take the stir-fried noodles to-go. The clear lid is translucent with thick steam, and the body of it is comfortingly warm. 

“Leftovers?” Blearily, you blink again at the tupperware, then to Jack. 

Jack shakes his head, peering at you with pure sincerity pooling in his hazel eyes. “Made it before service. I was waiting because I knew you’d be tired or hungry after.” 

Though the weight is foreign in your palms, the heat is oddly familiar. “Did you...use Robby’s escargot microwave?” 

He snickers, oddly pleased with himself. “Maybe.” 

“You’re terrible,” you say wryly. There’s no bite behind it; instead, you find your voice rather affectionate and tender. 

The lid separates with a crack, and wisps of steam curl from a generous helping of rice, water spinach, and—fuck, that’s the scent prime aged wagyu. The rich, plump slices of meat polarize the image of a humble meal in a takeout box. 

Despite the sudden alarm, your mouth can’t help but to salivate. 

“That’s the same wagyu we used to make at Everblue, just ten days more aged,” he says, producing a fork out of thin air and sticking it into the pile of warm rice. “I remember you telling Santos that you wanted to try it.” 

(Is it possible for a heart to break in a moment of joy?) 

You swallow the flood of saliva and the burning in your eyes, picking up the fork and shoveling a heap of rice onto your fork. “It looks good.” 

A firm thumb circles your arm, tracing the curve of your shoulder and then arcing over the dip where your humerus begins. His chest swells with a sharp intake of air, but pauses for a heartbeat. 

“I actually” —Jack cuts himself off when you swivel your head up to look at him, fork halfway lifted to your open mouth. “I wanted to know if we could see each other,” he finishes quickly, words blurring together. 

“Like—huh, wow,” you start, panting at the absurd temperature of the rice, as if he grabbed it straight out of the pot, “I mean, I’d tell you to buy me dinner first, but...” 

Gracelessly, you stab a piece of wagyu as your stomach reacts to the first taste of nourishment and reminds you that post-service always leaves you ravenous. The aged meat melts on your tongue in smoke and fat and salted butter, and you groan at the pure euphoria exploding in your mouth. 

“I s’pose I’ve already done that,” comes his wry mutter, nose crinkling at the realization before an amused smile breaks on his face. 

You go warm behind your ribs at the endearing sight, at the way he knocks his head back a little boyishly. Your cheeks warm too, stinging in the chilly air, and you’re reminded of that night—months ago—outside 10 Blade. 

“Thank you, Jack,” you blurt, devoting all your attention to the rectangular block of a balanced meal in your lap. “For giving me a chance.” 

“Don’t,” he responds, the shadow of a frown passing over his handsome features. You want to kiss the wrinkle between his brow and trace his crow’s feet. “That was all you.” 

“Convince me,” you quip, a teasing grin dawning on your face. 

“Mm, I have some ideas. Candlelight dinner, maybe at your old restaurant so your boss can see you thriving...” 

Giggling, you bump your shoulder into his, but it only makes the arm around you snake tighter, until you’re snug against his side. 

“Maybe we’ll go back to my place this time, and talk some shit,” he continues. Jack’s voice deepens conspiratorially, scooping into the gravelly range, “And because we skipped dessert at 10 Blade, we’ll have it on my countertop.” 

The innuendo isn’t lost on you. Warmth curls in your belly like the low flicker of a burner’s blue flame.

He meets your eyes, bright and curious and heart-stoppingly eager, and you think you’d make anything for this man. “How’s that sound?” 

You laugh, sweet and flattered. “It sounds like three Michelin stars, chef.” 

notes. part of my much ado about luv event. please lmk if u enjoyed, i'd eat up feedback like jack abbot eating it up from the back <33

[mcthsman]

*FOLSOM PRISON BLUES: a pope cody x reader story.

Pope accidentaly comes across an audioporn app and becomes obsessed with you, a content creator with a roleplaying series about a young woman and her convict boyfriend. He doesn't believe his luck when he discovers that his favorite audio porn star also happens to be Lena's babysitter.

click here for my main masterlist.

warnings: age gap (reader is mid 20s, pope is early 40s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, reader is lena's babysitter, forming a creepy parasocial relationship with your favorite porn star, sex work, audioporn, stalker!pope, pwp, mommy issues galore, no use of y/n, takes place before the ending of season 1, no physical description of reader, mentions of pope having a mommy kink (but it doesn't play out on page), obsessive!pope, dubcon (non-consensual voyerism, f &m masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, unprotected piv, squirting, oral, fingering, size kink, rough sex, improper use of a kitchen counter, hair pulling, eating from the back, cleaning the bowl).

rating: +18.

word count: 4.9k.

fox says: hello friends, thank you so much for reading! y'all have no idea how loud i screamed when i saw that shawn is doing an episode for quinn while having this already drafted. the app mentioned is 100% inspired by quinn, i just don't name it in the fic because quinn itself wasn't created until 2019 and it was going to mess up the timeline. also this is my first time writing for pope so pls go easy on me. as always please let me know what we think!

also available on archiveofourown.

Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out. 

It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story. 

Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life. 

And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out. 

Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years. 

You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection. 

But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that. 

Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks. 

He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app. 

“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone. 

“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him. 

If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys. 

Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave. 

“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”

Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.

He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window. 

Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s. 

Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like. 

You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before. 

He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him. 

You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs. 

Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are. 

He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted. 

Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.

Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him. 

Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter. 

You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy. 

“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.” 

“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”

“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”

“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”

He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle. 

“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.” 

Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way. 

You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel. 

Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter. 

The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more. 

You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs. 

“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt. 

You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing. 

“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”

“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”

The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.

“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.

He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness. 

“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”

His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.” 

Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”

As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.

“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”

He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand. 

“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you. 

You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips. 

“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”

Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. 

“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.” 

Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels. 

“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”

He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face. 

And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure. 

“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”

And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.

Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:

Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.

interest check tag: @mytearsricochetm @that-antler-queen @pearlessance @honey-moon-13 @headcaase @crossfandomslut @slugarchives (i'm not tagging my general list since this isn't a ppcu fic so i just tagged the peeps that showed interest in me writing for pope! no pressure in reading it though 🤍)

[filmetcs]

house tour!

pairings: jack abbot x roommate!reader, baran al-hashimi x roommate!trinity santos, michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x roommate!dennis whittaker

summary: you sneak Jack into your shared apartment space but little do you know, so has Trinity with Al-Hashimi and Dennis with Robby. 

contains: crack LOL, implied smut but nothing explicit, fluff, age gaps with all pairings, cliff hanger? rushed ending?

notes: hey this is insane sorry i came up with this while high and on a walk eating ice cream lmao big day for anyone who ships trinity x al hashimi and dennis x robby i guess? this is also kinda giving that one spider-man meme where they’re all like pointing at each other HAHAHAHA

Jack feels like a teenager again whenever he sneaks into your apartment. you usually spend the weekends at his place but this weekend you insisted he stayed over at yours so you could try a nearby breakfast cafe in the morning.

you’ve been living with Trinity since your med school days and recently Dennis has moved into the third bedroom space that was previously used as a giant storage closet. you liked living with them and despite working the night shift, you were still able to make time for each other. 

though, the apartment has felt a bit off lately. you’ve noticed movie nights have been getting cancelled, Trinity and Dennis stay in their respective rooms more often, and sometimes you hear different voices that don’t belong to your roommates right as you’re about the fall asleep from a long shift. you’ve convinced yourself that the sleep deprivation is driving you insane and those voices were just in your head, maybe they were just remnants of patients in the ER. 

you come out of your bedroom to see Trinity making dinner in the kitchen. she’s got a three course meal laid out on the counter. 

“Woah, who’s the Michelin star dinner for?” you ask, peering over her shoulder as she stirs sauce around. 

“I’m trying something new! Meal prepping, you heard of it?” she bites back. Trinity comes off a bit more defensive than usual. you back away in defeat, she’s probably stressed out over Garcia texting her suddenly, or maybe Dennis pushed her buttons again. 

“Kay, well I’ll see you in a bit.” she turns to look at you and sees that you’re a little more dressed up than usual. your hair is blown out to perfection and your cheeks are extra pink from your blush. 

“Hot date tonight or something?” Trinity smirks at you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” you reply with a similar smirking expression. “I bet Huckleberry’s out on a date with Amy right now.” you change the subject quick to avoid her pressing further.

“He hasn’t been home in days and y’know he’s been kinda avoiding me whenever I see him at work! Like he’s practically running away from me.” she says, turning the stove off. 

“And what about you? Still hung up on Garcia? I sure hope all this is actually meal prep and not you trying to win her back over.” you say gesturing to food she’s got out on the countertop.

Trinity rolls her eyes and you take that as your cue to leave. 

Doctor Al-Hashimi is the first of the three attendings to enter the shared apartment space that night. her and Trinity eat dinner together alone in the empty apartment before continuing behind Trinity’s closed door. Dennis comes home later that night with Doctor Robby. he sees multiple sets of plates by the sink but thinks nothing of it. you probably just ate dinner with Trinity before leaving, he assumes. Robby already knows his way around and heads straight to Dennis’ room. 

a few hours later, you and Jack stumble into the apartment giggling. you had spent a few hours out together at a new fancy cocktail bar you saw on tiktok, then at a dive bar Jack suggested since he wanted to end the night with something “old and classic”

“I hope I get to end the night with someone old and classic.” you remember saying as you winked at him. he knows you’re just joking around but he takes your suggestion seriously. 

by the end of the night, you’re stumbling around trying to get to his car, giggling as you hold onto his arm for balance. Jack is practically sober and just happy to see you let loose after a long week. he takes pride in taking care of you and didn’t mind that you were a little tipsy. 

you slip your kitten heels off before Jack has you against the front door kissing you deeply. you moan into his mouth and wrap your arms around his shoulders. you try to pull away from him for a second, 

“Jack, my room, we can’t out here-” he cuts you off with another kiss before slowly kissing down your neck,

“I know pretty, give me a second.” he pulls away and grabs your hand, pulling you towards your bedroom to finish what he’s started.

𝜗ৎ

Jack is wide awake, staring at the walls of your bedroom. you’re passed out curled up against him, snoring softly. he smiles with pride at the sight. if he wasn’t such a night owl, he’s sure he’d be the exact same, especially after the several rounds you put him through. Jack has seen your bedroom a dozen times now. you’ve got a small vanity in the corner, with an overflowing dresser beside it. for a doctor who spends most her week in scrubs, you sure have a lot of clothes, he thinks to himself. there’s film and music posters all over your walls and a small collection of photobooth strips in a wall corner. Jack makes a mental note to make sure you put up the newest addition to the corner of the wall. 

he slowly pulls himself away from you and sits up to put his prosthetic back on. he looks down at you and sees you shuffle around before laying on your other side. as he exits your room, he makes sure to shut the door as softly as possible before turning around to see Doctor Al-Hashimi with the same idea. she’s completely frozen with a glass of water in hand as she stares back at the other attending,

“I was just grabbing some water.” she starts as she breaks the silence. 

“Me too,” Jack replies awkwardly. he walks towards the cabinet to grab a glass and fills it with water. Baran hasn’t moved and doesn't know if she should go back to Trinity’s room or if she should explain herself. “So you and uh- Whittaker?” Jack questions.

“God, no!” Baran whispers in shock. she almost looks offended at the accusation. Jack raises an eyebrow as the response. The door knob to Dennis’ door starts to jiggle, causing Baran and Jack to look over. The tallest of the three attendings emerge from Dennis’ room. 

Robby’s eyes are wide at the sight. two of his attendings (one of which is his best friend) are standing in the kitchen of his secret partner’s apartment. Robby awkwardly shuts the door, 

“So, do you wanna start first or should I?” Jack starts in disbelief

“I was gonna tell you-“ Robby replies. Jack is quick to cut him off.

“Well, why don’t you tell me all about it over breakfast? We can cook it in the kitchen of our resident’s apartment!” Jack whisper yells back. 

“Oh, as if you’re any better. Y’know I thought Ellis was joking when she said you were giving her special treatment but now I’m seeing it’s a lot more than just special!” Robby says gesturing to your bedroom door. Right as Jack is about to reply, Baran lets out a harsh Shh!

The apartment is quiet again. No one moves.

“I suggest that we all go back to bed and we figure this out tomorrow,” Baran says calmly. Robby and Jack stare at each other, still in disbelief. “Or at least I will.” Baran is the first of the three to retreat back into her girlfriend’s room. Jack and Robby stay, both still confused.

“So, how long?” Robby asks, breaking the awkward silence.

“Six months, you?”

“Nine.” 

“Hm,” Jack acknowledges as he puts the glass in the sink. neither of them push on any further questions for the time being. 

“Well, good luck tomorrow morning.” Jack slowly opens the door to your bedroom. Robby lets out a chuckle. 

𝜗ৎ

the morning sun shines through your sheer curtains waking you up. you slowly open your eyes to a small hangover headache and empty bed. Jack liked to wait for you to wake up so the empty bed made you panic slightly. you grab your phone to check if Jack had left you any messages. usually, he’d leave you a goodbye text or let you know he stepped out if he needed to, but there was nothing. however there were dozens of messages from Trinity and Dennis all along the same premise.

wake the fuck up

why is abbot in our living room

how long has this been going on

explain now

you get up in a rush to explain. you knew you were going to have to tell them eventually, you just didn’t think that they would find out because your boyfriend decided to get up early and watch tv. you open your bedroom door to see Trinity and Dennis eating breakfast at the dining table, eyes wide as they stare at you.

“Morning!” a deeper voice says. you whip your head towards the kitchen to see Doctor Robby, Doctor Al-Hashimi, and of course your boyfriend Doctor Jack Abbot all looking at you with big smiles. 

“So which couple wants to start explaining first?” Jack says with a big smirk on his face. couple? you look back at the dining table to find Trinity and Dennis staring at their apparent partners.

what have you walked into?

[barnesonfilm]

ride, cowgirl

★ summary: under the dim bar lights with lowered inhibitions, months of restrained tension between you and jack finally snap, all thanks to a party city cowboy hat

★ pairing: jack abbot x reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, age gap, alcohol consumption, power dynamics, public sex, car sex, unprotected sex, fingering, squirting, size kink, dirty talk, praise kink, porn with a little plot

★ word count: 7.2k words

★ notes: yeehawww lowkey didn’t proof read

The bar down the road from the hospital had seen all of you ER doctors once or twice in the decades it’s been standing. On good days and the bad ones. Celebrations, anniversaries, and on days when no one wanted to go home, not yet. When the Pittsburgh weather made the park unbearable, you all trudged down the sidewalks. Stethoscopes and badges shoved haphazardly into bags, and jackets were thrown over the worn-out leather barstools. Through heatwaves and snowstorms, stragglers found the hole in the wall a sanctuary. 

It wasn’t even always to drink, not really. There was a whole nonalcoholic seltzer selection that Dana encouraged (threatened) them to start selling after Frank got back from rehab. For the first few years of your residency sometimes the thought of a crisp Shirley Temple was the only thing getting you through the night. It had become a rite of passage at this point, the first night you dragged Samira she stuck her nose up the whole time. Now, you guys had fries and Shirley temples on the hard nights. Whiskey on the harder ones. 

Tonight’s reason for celebration? Michael Robinavitch’s birthday, age undisclosed no matter how many times you all tried to bribe Dana for it. It was one of those rare occasions where a mixture of day shift and night shift could find a few hours to celebrate together, and Princess was determined for it to be a good one. The bar had been unofficially ‘bought out’ for three hours, a few balloons and a banner sat heavy above the dim yellow lights. 

Somehow, through your years in the Pitt, you have never once been to the bar at the same time as Jack Abbot, your night shift attending. You knew his appearances were scarce there, rarely feeling up to listening to old 90s country and hearing the squeal of residents he already spent too much time with. 

Ellis however, swore she had it on good authority he’d be there. There was no way he’d miss his best friend's birthday celebration. Which may or may not have been the reason you slipped on a little black dress that showed a little too much skin and paired it with a pair of tights and heels. A little darker eyeshadow than normal with your hair falling down your shoulders, but you would’ve dressed like that anyway. Right? That’s what you told yourself anyways.

Besides you had the night off, why not dress up? It had nothing to do with the way Ellis had to physically close your jaw some nights to stop you from drooling over your charts as you stared across the hub at the soldier. Or the way Santos and Whitaker had to deal with your tipsy ramblings about the silver-haired fox. So you had a little crush on your much older boss. It was fine, it was manageable. 

You exchanged words over patients, bantered like old friends, and flirted miserably with each other. It all started innocently enough, you were one of the newer residents with a sharp tongue. Rivaling the one the quick-witted attending had. The two of you meshed together well, matching each other's pace perfectly. It was a match made in heaven, or hell depending on what your coworkers had to deal with that night. 

With this in mind, it was no surprise that you’d been unnecessarily giddy as you slinked inside the dimly lit bar. Heels clicking against the sticky floor as you waved to your coworkers. 

“Welcome to the party.” Ellis snickered, grabbing your hand and spinning you around playfully, “You’re gonna give that old man a heart attack, you know that right?” 

You pushed her shoulder playfully, ignoring Mateo’s whistles and Princess’s cackling. “What old man? I have no idea what you’re talking about..” You drag on, giving side hugs to everyone. 

“Yeah, right.” Samira rolled her eyes, pulling you down into the seat next to her. 

“Where is everyone?” You asked, watching a few others trickle in slowly. Whittaker and Javardi came in, but Santos was absent. When you asked he just shrugged, saying she had an errand to run. 

Drinks were ordered, and the music was blaring out of the scratchy speakers of the jukebox. The tables and bar filled out gradually, laughter overlapping as more familiar faces slipped in, Robby finally making his way through the crowd to an eruption of cheers. Mateo grabbed him first, hauling him into a rough hug while shouting over the music, and you followed close behind.

”Happy birthday old man,” You giggled, as he pulled you into his side roughly. 

“Oh, kid,” He sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “You’re getting there. Don’t you worry.” 

“Yeah, right.” Samira piped in, raising her glass to him as he passed. 

“He’s jealous of our eternal youth.” You pouted, sliding back into the barstool you claimed next to her and Ellis. 

You all watched as Robby made his rounds, plopping down in one of the stools next to Whittaker, who was still nervously awaiting his roommate's arrival. 

A drink was slid in front of you with a wink from the bartender, making Samira roll her eyes. “This poor college kid has been flirting with her every time we’ve come here for the past year and she refuses to put him out of his misery.” 

All you can do is shrug, “God forbid a girl likes free drinks.” 

“She’s saving her flirting for a certain old man.” Ellis cackled, making you slap her shoulder playfully. 

Before you could even get out groans of protest Princess was behind you, “She’s even got new underwear on today, I can tell.”

Laughs echo around you, making you roll your eyes. “Okay, okay. Laugh it up.” 

“What are we laughing about?” Robby asked, a beer bottle sat firmly in his hand now. 

“About how hard Y/l/n and Abbot are gonna flirt tonight,” Princess answered. 

“Oooo,” Robby whistled, “Is tonight the night? Everyone put their bets in.” 

Your brows furrowed, “Bet? What bet?” 

Suddenly there’s silence, Princess smiling before she pretended Mateo and Jesse were calling her back to their table. 

“You guys are ridiculous." You huffed, watching Ellis pull her found out typing frantically. “Parker why are you texting Shen-“ 

“Mind your business-“ 

“I hate you all.” 

You barely had a second to brace yourself before Jack slipped in behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your top. His presence was overwhelming, yet you knew it was him by his sandalwood cologne and aftershave. You blamed his time in the military for his silence, or maybe it was the drink you’ve already downed to blame for your obliviousness. 

His hand brushed the bar just beside yours, caging you in without touching you, his head dipping slightly so his mouth was just by your ear.

“Even me, sweetheart?” 

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass as you huffed out a quiet breath, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, desperately trying to ignore how close his face was to yours, fighting the pull of a smile as you shot back, “You’re at the top of the list tonight, actually.” 

His deep laugh made chills appear on your bare skin, missing his warmth as he backed away. 

You barely had a second to recover before he shifted away from you just enough to step around, his presence brushing past as he moved toward Robby, clapping a hand against his shoulder in an easy, familiar greeting.

“Happy birthday brother,” he said, voice low but warm, and Robby grinned, lifting his beer. “Look who decided to show,” he shot back, pulling him into a quick half-hug. 

Ellis leaned down to your ear, a devilish smirk playing on her lips as she murmured, “Let the games begin. I have money down on you going home together, Shen has money on you two slipping into the bathroom at some point,” and you nearly choked, turning your head to stare at her in disbelief as she pressed a playful kiss to your cheek like.

“That’s such an invasion of privacy-“

“Earn your favorite coworkers some money tonight,” she added sweetly, already pulling away before you could form a proper protest, leaving the barstool beside you conveniently empty.

She was leaving you to the wolves, no doubt texting Shen endless updates for their own twisted amusement. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself, but it didn’t do much when you glanced back toward Jack and found his eyes already on you.

He hadn’t missed a thing.

Even as Robby was mid-sentence beside him, even as the conversation continued like normal, his attention flickered back to you. His dark eyes roam shamelessly over your exposed legs, and the way your dress dipped low in the front and even lower in the back. 

This was new territory, there was no safety net of your work-issued scrubs or job hierarchies in place here. Come to think of it, you weren’t even sure if you’d ever seen Jack not in scrubs. His signature, tight black t-shirt sat deliciously on his muscles, with his well-worn blue jeans resting on his hips. 

You didn’t even realize you were staring just as bad as he was until he excused himself from Robby, sauntering over in his usual heavy gait. 

“Miss me?” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

You glanced at him, lips curving slightly despite yourself as you took a slow sip of your drink. “You were gone for like half a minute.”

“Felt longer,” he replied, eyes already on you, already taking you in in that way that made heat creep up your neck again, his thumb shifting lazily against the back of your chair like he had all the time in the world.

”This seat taken?” 

You shook your head, watching him slip into it easily.

You turned just enough to face him, your knee pressing firmly into his, your voice lighter than the way your pulse was starting to pick up. “You’re dramatic.”

”You’ve been working with me for how long now?” He smirked, “Though you knew that by now.” 

Both of you are pulled from your flirting by the front door of the bar flinging open. 

“I’m late, but I came bearing gifts.” Santos whistled, walking in with a paper bag held high above her head. 

There are a few cheers, she's doing a small spin on her heels before stopping at the bar. Robby gave her a short hug, shaking his head, “You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t just get you something. So don’t feel special.” She teased, opening the bag to pull out two black cowboy hats. Cheap imitation leather things, probably bought at some party store. The reaction was immediate, loud cheers and clapping from the group. 

“Absolutely not.” Robby shook his head, a blush going to his cheeks. 

“Come on,” She whined, “For you ER cowboys.” She said, grabbing the second one and waving it towards Jack. He rolled his eyes, ready to protest in the same fashion before you spoke for him. 

“Abbot will wear his? Won’t you big boy?” You smirked, the straw from your drink still hanging from the corner of your mouth. Maybe it was the liquid courage, or just how fucking badly you wanted to see him in that hat. 

His mouth parted for a moment, before he looked down at you. His gaze was intense, and amusing. The whistles are drowned out, too busy eyeing you up and down. 

“Yeah,” He hummed, still not taking his eyes off of you. “I sure will, honey.” 

You could have melted into a puddle, right then and there. 

His thick fingers wrapped around your arm as he passed you, the contact unnecessary but welcome. He grabbed the cheap hat, placing it on his head with a shit-eating grin. It was all you wanted and more. He looked down at you with hungry eyes, his fingers tilting the edge of the hat down at you.

“Come on, Robby. Don’t leave me hanging.” He drawled, watching his ER cowboy counterpart do the same, more reluctantly. 

“Let’s fucking go,” Santos cheered, slipping through the crowd with your hand in hers. 

The music swelled around you, bass thrumming through the floor, and the group fell into it easily, the kind of uncoordinated, half-serious dancing that came from exhaustion and adrenaline finally burning off. Santos spun you once just for the hell of it, laughing when you stumbled slightly before catching your balance, and you leaned into it. Robby eventually gave in too, his earlier reluctance fading as he moved with the rest of you, one hand still occasionally adjusting the hat like he had not fully accepted his fate.

You watched him and Whittaker fall into an awkward dance, making you and Santos fall into a fit of giggles. Samira was behind you, with Santos in front as you all lazily draped over each other. Swaying to the beat of the music that Princess did an excellent job at picking out. 

Jack kept himself perched at the bar, sipping on a Diet Coke lazily talking to Ellis. You knew this, because every few seconds you’d feel his gaze heavy on your neck. 

“Okay,” Santos said suddenly, sliding in closer behind you, her hands settling on your hips as she leaned in. “Hold still.”

“What are you-“, you started, laughing as she pulled you into her arms, pulling your hips flush to hers. 

She dipped her head toward your ear, her voice dropping just enough to cut through the noise. “You know someone hasn’t been able to take their eyes off you, right?”

Your breath caught for half a second, your gaze instinctively flicking toward Jack, and sure enough, he was already watching you, his expression shifting slightly when he realized just how close you and Santos were. You could hear Samira’s laughter from behind you.

Santos' hand went up, waving softly at Jack. He waved back, a small grin appearing. 

“Santos,” you muttered, trying to brush it off, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

“I’m just saying,” she replied, pulling back with a grin. “It’s getting painful to watch.”

You rolled your eyes, but you could not quite suppress the smile that followed, and when you looked back, his eyes were still on yours. 

Eventually, the music shifted, the energy dipping just enough that someone suggested drinks again, and the group moved as one back toward the bar, laughter spilling over itself as you claimed space along the counter. You all had missed Dana, who stopped by, dropping off a small cake, slightly lopsided and already missing a clean edge where someone had clearly tested it early, and it was set down in front of Robby with dramatic flair. 

“I feel ridiculous, like I’m wearing a costume.” Robby groaned, shifting the hat on his head every few minutes, as the small cake was cut into pieces and put on tiny plates to be passed around. 

“You gotta relax into it, brother.” Jack teased. “This is where I thrive.” 

Santos barks out a laugh, “Yeah? When are we gonna see you in that flight attendant outfit?” 

You nearly spit out your drink in a fit of laughter, alongside everyone else. 

“Okay, I feel like we’re missing something.” Mateo cried, ready to get more information on his attending. 

“When he came in on day shift with his SWAT uniform on,” Robby clarified, “Said we should all see him as a flight attendant." 

“When did that happen?” You asked, mouth feeling dry. 

“Uh,” Robby hummed, “About a week ago? Got shot at while performing a crike in the field.” 

The crowd laughs, a short, “He got shot?” From Javadi, her eyes wide. 

You tune all of that out, too lost in the thought of Jack Abbot sidling through the halls clad in his SWAT uniform, sweaty and covered in blood. 

“You okay, Y/n?” Samira asked, waving her hands in front of your face. 

“No,” You whine, almost like a petulant child. “I fucking missed it?” 

“Told you!” Santos giggled, “Especially when he took off the vest and was in that slutty little t-shirt. All I could think about was how pissed you’d be knowing you called out.” 

“I’m gonna be sick,” You sighed, “This is the worst day of my life. Did no one take pictures?” 

Joy rocked forward a little, flipping through her camera roll aggressively. “Let me look.” 

“Even the interns saw this and I didn’t?” You grumbled, setting your now-empty drink on the bar aggressively. 

“I took a picture.” Jack’s voice spoke softly into your ear, making you flinch for the second time this night.

“Jesus Christ," You breathed out, your hand on your chest. “Have you been here the whole time?” 

He just hummed, “I can show you my uniform if you wanna see it that bad, darling.” 

“You offering to put it on for me, cowboy?” You bite back, gaining your confidence back easily from the startle. 

You’ve flirted a lot with him over the years, and you’ve thought you’ve seen all the flustered looks Jack Abbot could muster. But this one? This was new. The moment the word cowboy slipped from your lips, his eyes got dark. You pocketed that piece of information and leaned back in the chair. 

“What if I am?” He hummed, blocking out the whistles of your friends all around you. 

“S‘long as you promise to have nothing underneath it.” 

A wolf whistle pulls you out of your bubble, Robby groaning playfully. “Keep it in your pants, God, you guys are worse here than at work.” 

“But Robby,” You pouted, “I’m very clearly trying to get something out of his pants.” 

A loud, “Someone call HR.” pulled the crowd into tipsy laughter again, making you nearly fall out. 

Jack’s shoulders brushed against yours again, as he pushed a small plate of cake towards you. “Eat, I know you’re drinking on an empty stomach.” 

You jutted your bottom lip out, “No, I’m not.” You lied, watching as he grabbed a plastic fork anyway. 

“Do I have to feed it to you?” 

He didn’t miss the sparkle in your eye at that, “If you’re offering.” 

There’s no hesitation as he scoops up some of the sugary concoction, holding the fork up. “Open up.” 

You widen your jaw, letting him slide the fork into your mouth as you bite down. Letting your lips stay wrapped around the utensil for longer than necessary, your eyes never once leaving his when you pulled off of it. 

“Mmmm.” You moaned almost obnoxiously, wiping some of the frosting off your lip. “Good cake.” 

“Yeah?” He managed the grunt out, before he placed the fork down on the plate.

If he had to watch that again, he’d have to explain to everyone why he had to throw his jacket over his lap.

You entertained him by finishing off a few more bites, before various hands were dragging you back out onto the floor. Like a magnet, you still found yourself waltzing back to the bar after your heels began to ache.

He was ordering yet another soda, when you slipped beside him.

“You not drinking?” You asked, your mouth feeling like it was full of cotton as you used the bar to keep yourself upright. 

The attending shook his head, “I’m on call in case Shen needs me.” 

You pouted at him, “No fun.” 

“Oh,” He shifted on his leg again, “Don’t worry about me. I’m having the time of my life watching you out there.” 

Your skin buzzes again. Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip before you speak up. “Do you wanna join me?” 

His warm eyes looked down at you in amusement, “You want me, to dance with you?” 

Your teeth pulled your bottom lip into your mouth, nodding up at him. “Come on, just one song?” 

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was weighing something out, something heavier than the question you had just asked, and then he exhaled softly through his nose, a small smile pulling at his mouth as he shook his head at himself.

“One song,” he agreed.

You barely gave him time to reconsider before your fingers curled around his hand, tugging him away from the bar and back into the crowd, laughter spilling out of you as he followed. The music had shifted into something slower, heavier, the bass rolling through your chest as you turned to face him, your hands instinctively finding their place on his shoulders.

“This your big plan?” he asked, one brow lifting slightly. “What are we slow dancing at the bar?” 

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” you shot back, swaying closer. “Would you rather I grind all over you?” 

His hands hesitated for half a second before settling on your hips, firm and warm, as he had finally allowed himself the contact after months of carefully avoiding it. 

“You’re trouble tonight,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it barely carried over the music.

“Just tonight?” you teased, tilting your head. 

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his fingers flexing slightly against your hips, and you felt it, the shift in him, the control he usually held so tightly starting to slip at the edges. You leaned in closer, letting your body move with the rhythm, slow and deliberate, your hands sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck. 

“Careful,” he warned softly, though there was no real bite to it.

“Or what,” you asked, your voice just as quiet. It didn’t help that the drinks made your lips loose, or that he looked so dangerously good in that fucking hat it made you want to jump his bones.

The question hung there between you, charged and unanswered, and instead of stepping back, you moved closer, letting your body brush against his, your legs slipping in between his. His grip tightened immediately, a sharp inhale slipping past his lips as you shifted against him again, slower this time, more intentional.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his head dipping slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours.

“You could stop me,” you replied, your breath catching just slightly.

Instead, his hands slid just a fraction higher along your hips, steadying you as you moved against him, the fabric of your dress riding higher with each slow shift, your pulse thundering loud enough you were sure he could feel it. 

The space between you disappeared entirely, when he spun you around. It took a second for you to catch your balance, before you pressed your ass into his hips automatically.

 “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, one hand dragging slightly as he adjusted the hem of your dress where it had ridden too high, the motion lingering just a second longer than necessary.

You tilted your head back, just enough to take a look at him. “You alright?” 

“You’re so fucking-“ He cut himself off, as another sway of your hips grinding against his made his knees lock up. You could feel the bulge forming in his pants, it was undeniable.

You weren’t sure what it was, if it was the buzz running through your veins or both of you finally succumbing to this cat and mouse game you’ve been playing, but you couldn’t care less that you were practically dry humping in a room full of coworkers. All you cared about was how warm and heavy he was against you, the scent of his cologne that made your chest twist. 

“I’m what?” You asked, voice breathy as you threw an arm up around his neck, giving him a front row view to look down your already low-cut dress. 

This seemed to be his last straw, losing what little control he had left, as he pulled his hands away from your skin as if they were burning

Before you can process what’s happening, his hand is gripping your wrist, tugging you harshly towards the bathrooms. You’re following happily, a bounce in your step as he pushes you into the single bathroom. Locking the door aggressively behind him. 

You don’t even get a shaky laugh out, before his hands are gripping your face, pulling his lips onto yours. His lips are warm on yours, the subtle stubble of his cheeks scratching against your face. His hand on your neck, your hands pulling him by his shirt. 

The stupid cowboy hat gets thrown onto the bathroom counter, as your hands reach up to get a handful of his salt and pepper curls that you’ve been dying to get your hands on. 

“Do you have,” He pants into your open mouth, his tongue still swiping against yours with each breath, “Any fucking idea, how long I’ve wanted this?” 

He gives you no time to answer, his tongue assaulting yours. All you can get out is jumbled moans, as your back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud. He slots his leg between yours, one of his hands reaching down to squeeze at the thick flesh on the outside of your thigh, gripping your tights in between his fingers. 

Your dress is practically pushed up against your hips already, his lips leave yours for a moment, leaving a trail of spit behind. 

“These fucking legs,” He groans, his eyes darkening. “Not a single man out there deserves to see these.”

”Wore this for you,” You manage to croak out, pretending like his thick thigh wasn’t pressing against your throbbing cunt. 

“Did you, sweetheart?” 

You nod frantically, your fingers still tangled in his hair, while your other hand grips his shoulder like a lifeline. 

He leaned his head down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on your neck. “Do you have sentimental value in these tights?” 

“N-no.” 

A loud rip echoes in the bathroom, as he rips the flimsy tights with his bare hands. He shreds the fabric on your upper thighs, pushing them down with such franticness that your head is spinning. 

His callused hands brush against your bare thighs now, pushing his thigh deeper into your spread legs. You moan at the contact, head lolling back on the wooden door. 

“Look at you, grinding out there on me like a bitch in heat.” He spat, “Now you’re begging to get off on my thigh, aren’t you?” 

“Fuck, p-please.” You didn’t even know what you were begging for, arousal sat heavy in your gut. Every nerve in your body was on fire, aching to be quelled. 

“What do you want, hmm?” He asked, still slowly dragging your underwear-clad cunt against the rough fabric of his jeans. The friction was delicious, and feral. 

“Touch me,” You gasped, feeling him pull down the thin strap of your dress to mouth at your exposed tits. 

“I am touching you.” He hummed, taking your hardened bud into his mouth with a lewd pop. His tongue flicks against it sloppily. 

“You’re such a t-tease,” You tugged at his hair softly, “I want you to make me cum, please. Fuck me, something.” 

“Good girl,” He cooed, and the words made your legs tremble as his hand slipped between your thighs. The pads of his thick fingers pressed against the wet patch on your underwear, making a dirty smirk grace his lips. “You gonna be good for me?” 

“I’ll be your good girl.” The words were leaving your lips before you realized, knowing you’d do almost anything he’d say if it meant he kept his hands on you. 

Your underwear was roughly pulled to the side, his fingers coming into contact with your bare cunt. You nearly cried tears of relief when he began to circle your throbbing clit. 

“That’s all you needed, huh?” 

“Yes, m’your good girl.” You whined, feeling him spread your folds open, prodding your entrance. He slipped two fingers inside in one fell swoop, his thick fingers stretching you so wide you had to press your nails into his skin to quell the delicious ache. 

His fingers were perfect, thick and long and they knew exactly how fast to go. With his thumb brushing against your clit with each thrust. 

“Did you ever fuck yourself on your fingers thinking about me?” 

His fucking mouth was going to be the death of you. 

You forced the words out of our mouths, unwilling to give him a reason to stop. “Y-yes. All the time.” 

“Dirty girl.” He curled them even deeper inside of you. ”Do they feel as good as you thought?” 

A shrill laugh escapes before you can stop it, “F-fuck, they feel so much better.”

”You’re never gonna be able to fuck yourself again, I’m gonna ruin you huh?” He kept fucking going, “Your poor little fingers can’t reach this spot can they? No?”

Suddenly he was pressing against a spot that you’ve never felt before, white-hot pleasure licking down your spine. You were practically gushing around him, the wet sounds of him crooking his fingers against that perfect spot. 

“Breathe,” He cooed, watching your mouth fall open in pleasure. He held you up, feeling your legs trembling around him. “Just breathe. I’m gonna make you cum, gonna make you feel s’fucking good.” 

He was slurring over his praises, with each moan that gasped from your lips. There was no warning when you came, just your eyes rolling into the back of your head and the lewd sounds of your cunt squirting your release around his thick fingers.  

“-fuck my pretty girl.” He was still whispering, when you came to. Your forehead pressed against his shoulder, bite marks evident on his bicep from where you bit down while coming around him. 

Your mouth was dry, body lax against his as he slowly pulled his fingers out from you. There was a wince at the loss of contact, but he kept his thumb on your clit. Leaving featherlike circles on the sensitive bud as you came down. 

“You okay?” He asked, his voice louder, a little steadier now. As if he almost didn’t cum untouched in his pants at the sight of you coming undone on his fingers. 

“You’re insane,” The words blubbered out, a dopey smile on your face. “Absolutely fucking insane.” 

That got you a grin from him, “I thought you knew that?” 

He saw you gain your footing, running your hand down to his belt before he stopped you. You were just about to drop to your knees, mouth watering at the prospect of returning the favor with his cock in your mouth. 

“..wait-“

”What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” He assured you, pushing your now soiled underwear back in place. “I just wanna take you out of this filthy bar.” 

“You gonna take me home, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, your voice still a little breathless, a little unsteady as you leaned back against the sink.

“That sure is the goal, Dr. Y/l/n,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting as he reached for you, tugging your dress back down into place with careful hands that lingered just a second longer than necessary.

It was only then that you both paused, your attention dropping to your legs at the same time, and the reality of what had just happened settled in with quiet amusement. Your tights were completely ruined, torn beyond saving, thin fabric hanging in uneven strips where he had lost patience.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he said under his breath, like he wasn’t even going to pretend to argue it, his gaze flicking over the damage before he crouched down in front of you. “Hold still.”

You started to reach down, but he stopped you with a light touch to your wrist, already working the remaining fabric down your legs, his movements slower now, more deliberate.

When he finished, you took the ruined tights from him, turning toward the trash without much thought, but he caught your hand before you could toss them.

“Hey,” he said, pulling them from your grip and shoving them into his back pocket with a casual shrug that didn’t quite match the look in his eyes. “A reminder.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, heat rising to your cheeks again as you turned back to the mirror, doing what you could to fix your hair, smooth your dress, make yourself look even slightly presentable. It was a losing battle, but you tried anyway, fingers working quickly as you caught your reflection, flushed and a little wild-eyed.

Your gaze landed on the ridiculous cowboy hat sitting on the sink, and without thinking too much about it, you picked it up and placed it back on your head, adjusting it with a small, satisfied tilt.

“There,” you muttered. “Much better.”

Behind you, Jack let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, his hands settling briefly at your waist as he leaned in just enough for his voice to brush your ear.

“Come on, cowgirl,” he murmured, his fingers pinching lightly at your ass as you moved past him.

You squealed under your breath, shooting him a look over your shoulder, but the smile tugging at your mouth gave you away as you reached for the door and stepped back out into the bar.

All things considered, you should have realized everyone would have noticed your disappearing act. Especially when Ellis spotted you two walking back in with your hands intertwined. 

“Oh, Mama is taking the money home.” She yelled, causing a few people’s necks to turn. 

A chorus of reactions followed, laughter, whistles, someone shouting something you chose not to fully process, and you felt your face heat as you ducked your head slightly, squeezing Jack’s hand.

“Don’t,” you muttered under your breath, half laughing. “Don’t entertain them.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, completely unfazed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

Santos leaned against the table, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered across her face. “About damn time,” she called out.

“Shut up,” you shot back, though there was no real bite to it.

“Be safe,” Robby added, shaking his head but smiling anyway. “And for the record, I want details later.”

“You’re not getting anything,” Jack cut in smoothly, already guiding you past them.

“Liar,” someone called after you, and it sent another round of laughter through the group.

”I’ll get the details.” Samira called out, very sure of herself. 

You offered quick goodbyes, half distracted, your attention already shifting elsewhere, and Jack didn’t slow, his hand steady in yours as he led you through the crowd and toward the exit despite their protests to stay longer. 

“Let her get laid!” You heard Santos yelling, before you were hit with the chill night air. 

“Still with me?” Jack asked, glancing down at you as he guided you toward the parking lot.

“Yeah,” you said softly, looking up at him. “I’m with you.”

His truck came into view a few rows down, and that familiar ache began burning up your spine once again. 

“Good,” he said, quieter now, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer before he reached for the passenger door. 

Now, Jack Abbot was a responsible man, everyone knew this. Despite his affinity for dangerous and adrenaline-seeking hobbies, he was very safe and responsible with everyone but himself. So when his knuckles were turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, while your hands were slipping into his pants, making it impossible for him to focus on the road, he had no choice but to pull the car into the PMTC back parking lot. 

He worked there for long enough to know that the cameras stopped working back here a decade ago, and no one even bothered with the desolate corner. 

As soon as the car was pulled into park, seatbelts were off and he was pulling you onto his lap. 

“Greedy little girl, just couldn’t fucking wait.” He groaned playfully, pushing up the fabric of your dress up your stomach. 

“Please,” You huffed, shimmying out of your underwear above him. “You’re the one who couldn’t wait. I barely got my hands on you and you almost pulled over right then and there.” 

“Can you blame me?” His mouth watered as your tits spilled out, your glistening cunt hovering above his lap. 

“Get these, off.” You whined, your hands tugging at his jeans. 

He felt like a horny teenager, his old bones aching as he tried to maneuver around in the front seat of his truck. It took a few unsexy moves and leaning the seat back for his boxers to get pushed down his legs successfully. 

“S’fucking big.” Your eyes were wide, watching his heavy cock fall against his stomach. Barely unable to hold itself up from the sheer weight. The thick vein that ran up the side of it pulsed under your gaze. 

“Yeah?” He smirked.

”That’s gonna break me in half,” You laugh nervously, despite your cunt merely dripping at the idea of taking him 

“You can take it,” Abbot says, so sure of you that it makes your heart skip a beat. “Ride me, cowgirl.”

A series of cockdrunk giggles leaves your lips when his hand comes down to slap your ass, as you straddle his hips. You’re thankful for his filthy mouth making you wet enough that when his thick tip catches on your entrance it slips in with no hesitation. The burn on the way down makes it grit your jaw, tears prickling in the corner of your eyes. 

“There you go,” He whispers, lips leaving kisses on your shoulder. “S’fucking tight, just gotta let me stretch this pussy of yours, m’kay?” 

“F-fuck,” You’re shaking by the time your hips meet his, you’ve never been this full in your life. He’s taking up space in your chest as you try to catch your breath, with each coo of praise he’s whispering into your ear. 

“You okay?” He asked, concern filling his eyes as he pressed small kisses to your lips. 

“Yes,” You whined, kissing him back harshly, “You’re just fucking huge.” 

“Does it feel good?” 

“Yes.” Tears were nearly streaming down your cheeks from how good, how overwhelming it was. 

“Shhhh, I got you, sweetheart.” He promised, and you believed him as he alternated between kissing and sucking wherever his lips could reach while your body adjusted to the stretch of him. 

The first rise and drop of your hips nearly had you passing out, 

“Oh m’god,” you mumbled, both hands gripping his shoulders. “Oh, so good, so fuckin’ good.”

“S’tight.” He said through clenched teeth, watching as you slowly worked up the rhythm. He watched his cock, covered in your slick slide slowly in and out of your cunt. The sight alone had his balls tightening. 

It didn’t take much longer for the pain to turn to pleasure, and for you to find yourself riding him so hard it was taking both of your breaths away. It was the combination of the months of sexual tension exploding into this one moment. 

Wet, lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echo through the truck, the windows fogging up almost immediately. 

His hand is on your jaw, as he forces his thumb between your lips. You took it greedily, sucking his thumb in your mouth as you continued grinding against him. Each heavy drag of your clit against the gray patch of hair on his pelvic bone brought you closer and closer to the edge. 

“You’re so beautiful." His eyes meet yours, unable to pull away. He takes each expression to memory, the desperate moans leaving your mouth, the curve of your tits as they bounced, the furrow of your brows each time he hit just the right spot. 

Jack’s hips buck up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time grinding down on him. You gasp, tightening your hand on him, your nails digging harshly into his chest.

“Just like that, oh fuck. y'r gonna make me cum, shit," You manage to cry out, as he fucks up into you with all the strength that he can muster. He knows he’ll be sore tomorrow, but none of that matters with how good you feel wrapped around him.

“F-fuck me too, baby you gotta cum first.” He stutters out, slightly panicked by how fast his orgasm has crept up on him. 

“I’m so close.” You nearly sobbed, your mouth wide drooling into his shirt as his cock hit the same spot from earlier that had you making a mess on his hands. 

“I’m- fuck-" his mouth opens on a guttural groan as he pulses hot inside of you, holding you down on his cock so hard that you have to lean forward and bite into his shoulder to process it. 

This is all it takes for you to cum with him, your second orgasm hits you like a fucking train. More satisfying than the first as you squeeze around him, your cunt suckling in every drop of his release. 

You’re too sore to move once his hips still, both of you clinging to each other like a lifeline. The air is thick with sweat and sex, and you can only imagine how his truck looked from the outside. 

He’s drawing soft circles on your back with his fingers, as you catch your breath. 

“I can’t believe we waited so long to do that.” You broke the silence, causing a chuckle to escape his chest. 

“S’your fault.” 

You faux gasp, “Is not!”

”Is so.” He teases, with no real heat in his tone.

”You should have bent me over the gurney and fucked me that one day I did a pigtail cathedor without you and you came back with stars in your eyes.” You admitted, feeling his softening cock twitch inside of you despite itself.

He pinched your hip playfully, “You’re lucky I’m not 20 years younger, or I’d flip you into the backseat and fuck that mouth of yours.” 

“Nah,” You lift off of him with a wince, immediately mourning the loss of him. “I like you just how you are, old man.” 

“Old man.” He grumbled, helping you back into the passenger seat. Thankful he’s overprepared, he cleans you up with a clean towel as both of you redress. 

The truck rocked just enough to make you both pause for half a second before dissolving into quiet laughter, the kind that came from adrenaline finally settling and the sheer ridiculousness of it all catching up at once. Your head tipped back against the seat, breath uneven, the cowboy hat taunting you both as it sat on the dashboard. 

You nudged his arm lightly, still smiling. “So-“

He turned toward you then, one arm resting along the back of the seat, his gaze steady but warm in a way that made your chest tighten just a little.

“So,” He mimics you, “This is the part where I realize I should’ve taken you out on a proper date first.”

You raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Should’ve?”

He leaned in just slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him again, but this time slower, easier.

“Will,” he corrected. “Definitely will.”

You smiled at that, softer now, reaching down blindly until your fingers found the cowboy hat and placed it back on his head with a crooked tilt.

”You think you can handle me, cowboy?” 

“God knows I'll die trying.” He smirks, pulling your lips back to his. 

[annsfics]

♡ dinner's on me ♡

♡ pairing: grant reilly x fem!reader

♡ synopsis: grant reilly. authoritative head chef of the infamous michelin-star restaurant north & vine, army vet... and middle-aged man who's hopelessly in love with you, who he only knows from his employee's—your roommate's—instagram posts. then the fateful night arrives when grant finds you standing inside his kitchen and the two of you finally meet in-person.

same as any other chef, once he gets a taste of something sweet, he can't help but want for more.

♡ content: age-gap, pining & yearning, kinda insta-love, sugar!daddy grant, feederism (he likes cooking for & feeding you occasionally), he instructs you while cooking & it's erotic, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, creampie

When you sweep inside, past the polished glass entrance of North & Vine, it's to the welcome sound of silence. When the double-doors slide shut behind you, the bustling sounds of the city are left muffled behind solid red brick walls and deep-set windows.

You find the space to be rather comforting. You trail your eyes along richly colored hardwood floors, dim lighting which low-hanging bulbs provide overhead, and booths of burgundy that line the windows at the far wall while high-top tables litter the rest of the space.

By appearance alone, your wallet is already screaming in protest.

But you're not here as a patron.

Wandering past the hostess station, you catch a glimpse of a red plaque out of the corner of your eye, so you turn on your heel to study it. Your roommate, Andrea, had mentioned something about North & Vine having finally earned themselves a Michelin star some time ago.

The symbol looks more like a flower to you, though.

Either way, you're proud that the local establishment is now held in such high regard; particularly since you know the accomplishment means so much to so many.

You swing back around and continue on to the wooden door that'll lead you to the kitchen where your roommate should currently be.

Grant glances up from the assortment of ingredients he's currently considering for a taste test if he can combine them just so, when the kitchen door unexpectedly swings open and a strange young woman practically welcomes herself inside the private space.

He finds himself taken aback for a moment—someone barging into his kitchen with seemingly no hesitation is a first—before he springs into action. Tossing down the sharpened gourmet knife he holds with a clatter, he advances on you. "Excuse me! What the hell do you think you're doing back here?"

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off short before you can start pleading for a handout.

"The sign out front clearly stated closed. You're trespassing in a private establishment. You're lucky I don't call the police."

Grabbing you roughly by the forearm, he ushers you back out to the dining area.

You sputter all the while in an attempt to try and provide explanation. "I was just—my friend. She works here. My roommate. Andrea wanted me to—"

He turns you back around to him. "Andrea? My commis chef?"

You nod fervently and blink back the tears that're brimming in your eyes from fear. "She asked me to meet her so we could walk home together. I'm so sorry." You stumble back a step. "I'll—I'll go wait outside. Please don't be mad."

Just as you swivel on your heel to flee, Grant takes you firmly by the hand. "No, I am."

You still, then hesitate before finally turning around again.

"Sorry," he continues. "I should've given you a second to explain. It's just..." he shakes his head with a sigh. "Been a long day," he finishes while running long fingers through salt and pepper curls.

"I'm Grant. Reilly. Head Chef," he states with an extended hand, now that he's finally released your own.

You wait a moment then shake it—ignoring how yours still trembles.

It sends a wave of regret through him that he made you fearful in the first place.

"Y/N," you supply quietly. "I can just," you point a thumb over your shoulder, "Go wait on the bench outside."

He shakes his head, then wraps a steady arm around your shoulders and leads you over to a corner booth. "I'd rather you did so here. Safer for you than on the street."

Once you've plopped down in a plush seat, you tuck your bag away and consider a menu off to the side to give yourself something to do. Your phone is an option, but he's standing right there. Perusing their selection of wines will at least make you come off as interested in his flourishing business.

"Are you thirsty?" Grant asks with a far more gentle tone than the one he had a moment ago. "I could bring you a glass of water."

You shake your head, then pull a bottle from your bag and hold it up for inspection. "I've got it covered, but thank you."

Considering for a moment, Grant surveys your glittering eyes and soft lips. "Make yourself comfortable. We're prepping for tomorrow, so it may still be awhile yet."

You wave a hand dismissively, then toss a paperback novel from your shoulder bag onto the table. "I'll keep myself occupied," you remark with a reassuring nod.

He turns and leaves you to your reading material.

Once he's securely hidden away behind a solid stainless steel door, Grant rests calloused hands upon a gleaming metal countertop in an attempt to steady his heart. With his head hung heavily between his shoulders, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.

You're here. For the first time, you're here.

And he nearly blew it.

You've never met—don't know one another from Adam, truthfully—but he's seen photos of you before on Andrea's lockscreen during the times she's pulled her cell out to check for notifications during her fleeting breaks. That, and in photos she's uploaded to her Instagram.

It was the only reason he followed her back to begin with: to be able to appreciate the sight of you, even from a distance.

He's not some infatuated stalker, though. No, just an admirer. The first time he ever saw you—ever heard your soft-spoken voice—had been in a short video she uploaded to her... What is the feature called again? Story? Reel?

They're always changing things.

Andrea had hidden behind the camera while she snuck into your room and filmed you hunched over a tiny desk. You'd been wholly oblivious not only to her presence, but the rest of the world it seemed as you typed furiously away on a laptop.

He'd assumed you were a college student, until she announced your name with gusto, followed up by "the next New York Times bestselling author!" You had tried desperately to hide your face from the camera in adorable mortification, but failed miserably when she tugged one of your hands away, revealing your warm smile beneath.

He's watched that video at least a dozen times. Has observed your towering bookshelf that was clearly organized with thoughtful care, and the trinkets you have arranged on small floating shelves above your workspace.

How did he fail to recognize you in person?

So much for first impressions...

Grant felt how your delicate hand trembled in his. As such, he needs to make this right.

"What's your friend's favorite food?" Grant demands with crossed arms while peering at Andrea from over the bridge of his nose.

Removing her attentions from a stack of carrots she's working her way through with a slicer, she blinks up at him. "What? Wait. She's here? Shit," she curses while making to tug her apron off.

He clicks his tongue. "I still need you to finish prepping. I want to make something for her, so give me a dish. Any dish. Now."

Her brows wrinkle together. "From the menu, or—"

"What does she eat a lot of at home?" he inquires.

She snorts quietly. "You're not gonna like the answer."

"Well, unless it's moldy bread—"

"Easy Mac," she retorts. "Rice-a-Roni, Ramen, frozen pizzas..."

He raises an incredulous brow. "She lives with you and that's the kind of..." He shouldn't judge. He's had them all himself. And he'd be lying if he claimed to hate every bite. Depending on the brand and flavor, they're not half bad. "That's what you let her eat?'

She rolls her eyes and returns to slicing carrots into thin strips. "I don't let her do anything. She's a grown woman. And I eat 'em, too. Makes for an easy meal sometimes, y'know?"

He rolls his eyes. "So, she likes macaroni."

"She should take stock in Kraft," she mumbles. "I've told her a hundred times to just get the damn boxes because she'd be buying more for less, but she likes having the little cups so that she doesn't have to wash a pot or bowl afterward."

Like a little kid, he muses with a smirk.

Fine. Dad will just have make you something filling to eat, then.

Turning a burner onto medium-high heat, Grant gets to work on preparing you the best damn macaroni you've ever had in your young life.

He boils a large pot of water first, then gets to work on whipping a bowl of cream cheese into smooth perfection. He follows it up with hand-grating three separate cheese blocks while the water heats. Once bubbles start popping on the surface, he pours a container of elbow pasta in and stirs until the noodles are al dente.

Once Grant has strained them, he pours the cream cheese into a pan, followed by noodles and more cream cheese and a couple cups of shredded cheese, along with a few odd spices for taste. He tops it off with a final thick layer of shredded cheese on top, then slips the dish into the oven with a tin foil cover to bake.

A very basic dish, yes, but one that will still hopefully serve to impress and endear you to him.

As the macaroni sits in the oven, he peers through the glass window at the top of the kitchen door and watches you flip through your novel.

Perhaps he should be embarrassed by his behavior. And not just that which he has and is currently exhibiting tonight, but the fact that he's already mildly infatuated with you.

He doesn't know why, really. He's never been able to place his finger on it.

Love at first sight?

But does that really count when it comes to curated social media?

Maybe he's just lonely in his latter years and has projected onto you. It's not that he has some great expectation in mind of who you are or what you're really like. He's just...enchanted by what little he's already seen.

But it's easy to fall for a mysterious stranger just by their looks.

A timer rings, and he returns to the oven to pull out a dish of golden-brown perfection.

You wrench your book back when a ceramic deep dish full of what appears to be baked macaroni is slid in front of you.

With your book clutched to your chest, you gaze up at Grant. "Oh. Hello again."

The corner of his lip twitches; wanting to verge into a smile on your account. "My way of apologizing," he explains with a nod toward the steaming dinner he's presenting you with. "For being an ass," he mutters as he takes the booth across from where you sit.

"No," you chirp, setting your book back in your bag. "It's okay. Really. I should've never barged in like that. It was inappropriate."

He purses his lips and shakes his head. "You did nothing wrong. My reaction was way out of line. So dinner's on me."

You study the melted golden-brown cheese on top. It's so incredibly kind that he took time out of his already late night to do this. "Well... It's your kitchen. Would be like someone barging into your home. Would you give them time to explain their motives before you jumped into action?"

He glances toward the ceiling in faux contemplation while bobbing his head back and forth, like he's silently debating with himself. "No," he replies while looking at you once more. "I'd probably grab my gun."

Your brows shoot up. "You have a gun?"

He chuckles while handing you a small plate. "I was in the Army some twenty-odd-years ago. So I have a few."

You take it from him and your cheeks warm when your fingertips brush against Grant's. "What did you do when you served?"

He glances to the steaming macaroni, then to you again in answer.

"You were a cook then, too?"

Grant nods. "Was where I got my start, in terms of making it into a career."

"Did you always know it's what you wanted to do?"

Pulling a silver fork out of a cloth napkin, he taps the end of it against the table. "Yes and no. I've always enjoyed cooking and baking. But it took me finally doing it for others—a lot of others—for me to realize that it was my true calling."

He stabs the fork into the mac and cheese, then lifts it toward you. "Blow," he instructs.

You do until steam disappears.

When you open, he eases the tines into your mouth, the sets the fork on your plate. "D'you like it?"

You take your time chewing and tasting before swallowing.

When you lick your lips, he feels a stirring below his belt.

"It's really good," you say with a grand smile that he can't help but return.

He's made you happy. And that fact makes him so very glad.

"Yeah?" he asks with a laugh.

"It's delicious," you say while scooping a heaping portion onto your plate. "What did you put in it?"

"Besides sugar, spice, and everything nice?" he asks sarcastically, which earns him a bubbly giggle. "Cream cheese, three different cheeses which I shredded by hand, and a few dashes of various spices."

He took care when making this for you.

"You did all this to say sorry?" you ask quietly.

He rests his shoe next to yours beneath the table. "I did."

Grant pulls out another fork. "So, am I forgiven?"

How odd for a stranger to care in the least what you think or feel. It's a welcome change, though, even if it's only temporary. Taking his fork from him, you return the gesture from earlier and feed him a bite as well.

Grant barely manages to keep his mouth closed long enough to chew because he's smiling so much.

"You are."

"Hey," Grant says, catching you and Andrea at the door before you head out for home.

He rests an easy palm against your back and you turn to meet his searching eyes.

"Come back and see me again some time," he encourages. Dropping his hand, he instead squeezes your fingers. "Next meal is on the house, just like tonight."

You smile, and nearly kiss him on the cheek for his kindness. "Thank you," you reply with a nod. "Have a good night, Grant."

His breath catches in his throat at you having finally said his name, and he watches you go—only turning back to the interior once you've disappeared.

What started as a hectic, nightmarish day has ended in perfection.

It's been almost two weeks and he's not seen hide or hair of you. Was the meal he prepared for you not as good as you let on? Was it him? Did he do too much, or not enough?

The two of you had only just met, so there's always a chance that he came on too strong; made you uncomfortable.

Living with the not knowing, however—his stomach squeezing painfully each time the restaurant door opens, only for him to fill with disappointment a moment later because it isn't the face he wants to see—is pure fucking torture.

He wants his girl back... Just one more time.

"Any reason she never took me up on my offer?" Grant questions with a low, gravely tone.

Andrea finishes tugging on her jacket before grabbing her purse and turning to look at her superior. "Huh? What?"

"Your roommate," he explains. He feels, for whatever reason, that using your name would make this seem too personal—would give him away too easily. As if pouting over your lack of presence doesn't already. "I offered her a free meal and—"

"Ah," she replies with a nod. "She's been busy. Picking up extra shifts at the library on the weekend."

And downing Easy Mac on the go, he presumes.

You deserve better than a microwavable snack.

He takes a step back while tossing a dishtowel over his strong shoulder. You're being an adult; working more for a bit of extra cash. And here he is, pining after you like a lovesick teen.

He's learned something new about you, at least: your occupation. Makes perfect sense with your passion for reading and apparent storytelling.

Suits you, Grant thinks.

Swiping up a ripe tomato to return to its rightful place across the kitchen, he nods. "Got it."

"Hey, so, you need to go back to the restaurant at some point," Andrea remarks from your apartment's dimly lit entryway.

Leaning back against the couch behind you, you pause your typing on a Bluetooth keyboard. Crappy makeshift computer set up—it, coupled with the small glass screen of your phone, that is—but you don't have much of another option right now with your laptop being away for diagnosis. And given it can be saved, subsequent treatment.

"What?" you ask while turning to face her with crossed legs.

"Grant," she explains while hanging up her jacket, then purse. "He asked about you tonight and why you haven't been by to take him up on his offer for free food or whatever."

Oh.

You'd nearly forgotten about that, you've been so preoccupied with other things.

So he was serious? You'd thought he was, of course, but the question being just how much? Had it just been meant as a passing comment in kind, or was it a genuine invitation he intended on you fulfilling your end of?

"Does he..." you begin hesitantly. "Feed a lot of girls for free?"

She plops down on the couch behind you. "Not that I'm aware of. I spend a lot of time staying late to help clean up and prep and this is the first I've ever seen of such behavior."

You glance back to the cheap LED keyboard.

"Was surprised he made you mac and cheese that night, tell you the truth. He's a great chef and a good boss—even if he can be a hard-ass—but he's never gone out of his way like that before."

She playfully taps your shoulder with her toes. "Must really like you. Probably wants you back there and bent over every surface he can find while you cry yes, Chef! yes, Chef! all the while," she thinks aloud with a snigger.

You quickly turn around to hide your embarrassment. "He's a little old for me."

She snorts while rising and padding toward her bedroom for a change of clothes before she showers. "That's what makes it all the hot-ter," she finishes with a sing-song voice. "Oh, turn up the heat, daddy!" Andrea cries from an open doorway.

You bury your face in your hands.

Once you're within the safe confines of an empty North & Vine again, you stand awkwardly near the door. You don't want to ambush Grant again by waltzing into the kitchen unexpectedly, so you finally opt to seat yourself at the same booth as last time instead.

You're sure he'll emerge eventually and catch sight of you.

Just when Grant pushes past the kitchen's heavy swinging door, he halts in his tracks.

You came back again.

Andrea must've said something.

He hopes you didn't feel pressured to return; to humor his boyish fancy. Letting things go might've been better for everyone, but he can't seem to get you off his mind no matter how hard he tries.

Coming nearer with slow, steady strides, he frowns at the sight of you so unhappy while you stare down at your cellphone. He never did ask if you were single. But if that's the cause for your displeasure tonight—some young asshole who doesn't know how to treat you—then he'll do all he can to set things right until you're content again.

"Everything okay?" Grant asks quietly. "Seem distracted tonight."

Quickly locking your phone, you glance up to him with a forced smile and a nod. "Oh. Yeah. It's not a big deal."

Grant considers for a moment while chewing the inside of his cheek. "Boyfriend problems?"

You snort. "Stopped bothering with those a long time ago."

Which is either very lucky, or very unlucky for him.

Taking the seat across from you like last time, he folds his hands together. "Anything I can help with?"

You shake your head. "No. It's just my laptop. Got a quote back from a repair shop for how much it'd cost to get it working again." Your eyes flit to his. "Might as well just buy a new computer," you grumble.

He wants to ask about your writing project, but then you'll wonder as to how he even knows about it in the first place. "Do you use it for work?"

"Not really," you reply while toying with a sea salt shaker. "Writing, mostly."

"You didn't lose anything—"

"No, thank God. I keep everything backed up on a cloud drive." You sigh and return the condiment to its rightful home at the back of the table. "I've been using a Bluetooth keyboard so I can write using my cell, but I hate having to use a smaller screen. And because the keyboard is, too, I keep making tons of typos."

You grow quiet for a moment.

He wants to offer to run out and get you a new one right now—whichever you'd like—but fears that such a gesture would make him come off way too strong.

He'll figure out another method to help his girl.

"Anyway," you say, now wanting to change the subject from your technical woes. "Andrea said you asked about me?"

He actually fucking flushes. Only because he's made his damn crush that apparent. "Just wanted to see you again," he replies with a casual shrug and a smile. Pulling a menu from a wooden holder, he drops it in front of you. "Choose whatever you like and I'll make it."

You blink a couple times in surprise. You knew it's what you were coming here for, but you still have yet to understand it. His wanting to cater to you must stem from an attraction, but it doesn't make this any less unconventional.

Should you consider this a date? Does he? What precisely are the two of you doing here?

Flipping the laminated menu open, you begin to peruse various hard-to-pronounce dishes. "Why, um... Why did you want me to—"

"Maybe I just like watching you eat," he interrupts with a smirk.

Shyly, you peer at him from over the top of the menu you hold before hiding behind it again.

He chuckles quietly at your adorable antics.

A cheeseburger.

You're a simple girl, he'll give you that much, but he was hoping for something that would require a bit more effort on his part than a seared patty and brioche bun. But as long as you leave here with a full belly and a thankful smile, he's content.

He did invite you back into the kitchen so that you could observe him in his element, though. All rolled-up sleeves, an apron which clings to his muscled chest, and sharp knives which slice through tomatoes as easy as a guillotine are the attractions he provides for your viewing pleasure.

"So," he begins while adjusting the gas burner on the stove with pinched fingertips. "Andrea tells me you work at a library around here."

"I do," you reply simply. "At the Boston Public Library. It's really nice there."

He hums in interest while patting ground beef into a plump, round patty. "But you want to be a writer," he states.

You shift on your feet from where you stand behind him. "If I ever manage to finish the book I'm working on." You shrug while toying with a loose string hanging from the hem of your top. "It gives me something to do in my spare time, at least."

He hates how defeated you sound—like you've resigned yourself to never accomplishing your dream. Is it because you're losing interest in the project, or because you don't think you're good enough and have what it takes?

"I'd love to read it," Grant says while placing the patty in a lightly oiled non-stick pan before stepping over to the sink to wash his hands. "Whenever it's finished."

You shrug. "You don't even know what it's about."

He turns back to you while drying his hands. "Do I need to? It's something you're passionate about. That's enough for me."

Your eyes flit between his until he turns back to the stove.

You watch as his shoulder blades shift beneath his thin white t-shirt as he flips the burger over.

"This is just something for you to keep in mind, but being in the culinary business, I know journalists—people in publishing. So if you're ever looking to get your foot in the door, I can help with that."

You're surprised by how selfless he seems. Thoughtful.

You understand then why Andrea has stuck around so long, despite the stressors of being in hospitality.

He's a good man.

"Thank you," you whisper.

Placing the medium-rare patty on a crispy bun, he lays a slice of cheddar cheese on top to begin melting, a tomato, pickles, and a bit of garnish, followed by the top bun. "Anytime."

He watches with utter satisfaction as you chow down. Had Grant had a bit more time to prepare, he would've made you up a plate of hand-cut seasoned fries as well, but given the size of the burger, he hopes it'll be enough to satiate your appetite.

"Good?" he asks while dragging a finger along the edge of your plate to gather a drop of mustard before popping it in his mouth.

You nod fervently while chewing.

"Have to give me an actual challenge next time. Comfort food is your favorite type of cuisine, though, isn't it?"

Another nod.

Could whip up some fried chicken next time. Not necessarily difficult to make, but rather to perfect. Just the right amount of crisp on the outside with a balance of seasoned sumptuousness on the in can be a difficult combo to achieve.

Honestly? Grants wants to make you everything on the whole damn menu.

Would certainly keep you coming back to him time and again if he did.

It's a tempting thought: feeding you every night when you come home from work. Especially from his own hand. He's replayed you taking a bite of macaroni from the fork he held the first time you met repeatedly.

He briefly considers how he could get you to suck melted chocolate off his fingers.

"What's yours?" you ask while dabbing at your lips with a freshly laundered napkin.

Grant leans back. Resting his tanned forearms atop the table, he thinks. "If you can believe it, I don't have one. When it comes to food, I make an effort to keep my options open. There's always something new to try. To make or taste. Guess I worry that if I develop a 'favorite' I'll start to limit myself by getting too comfortable with one particular food or handful of meals."

Makes sense to you. Hence your appreciation for cheap microwavable or oven-ready boxed food.

"Favorite thing to make, then?"

He grins. "Sort of the same answer. Convoluted dishes give me a challenge, but I still have an appreciation for the simple things in life," he states with a nod toward your slowly emptying plate.

"Seems like you enjoy keeping an open mind."

He leans in close while studying your lips with a smile. "I definitely do."

You're reticent to ask what tonight was. Why Grant seems to so enjoy watching you eat.

It's flattering, at least. A welcome change from past dates from long ago where you always wanted to order a salad, or turn away altogether so you couldn't be watched with a scrutinizing gaze as you ate.

Rocking onto the balls of your feet, you look up at Grant with a smile. "Thank you again."

He runs a rough palm down your arm. "Here to serve," he replies with a lopsided smile.

"Well... Goodnight," you chirp with a quick nod.

Leaning down, he brushes his lips over your soft cheek. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Sooo," Andrea drawls from the doorway of your bedroom. "Have you checked your email today?"

You pause Netflix and turn to her with furrowed brows. "This morning like I always do. Why?"

"Might wanna check it again," she states. "Grant asked me for your email today. Didn't say why, though," your roommate relays.

"Maybe it's just a recipe," you ponder. Grabbing your phone from the middle of the bed, you navigate to your email, find one from not quite two hours ago from the man in question, and when you open it, your jaw drops.

"Oooh, what is it? Dirty pictures involving whip cream and stacked donuts?"

You slam a palm against your forehead. "Oh God. He can't just—"

She pads around the side of your bed and takes the device from you before barking a ridiculous laugh. "A fucking grand?!" she cries.

You take the phone back from her. "It's for a local tech store." Your eyes scan the attached gift message. "For your time & your new computer. Remember that I get to read it first. — Grant"

Andrea folds her arms and frowns. "Does he mean your novel? Promised that privilege to me..." she pouts.

You stare at her. "You—Yes, you still can. But I—I have to send this back." Tossing off a throw blanket, you stand and begin to pace.

"Man, he wants that cookie bad."

You level her with a glare.

"Alright," she relents with raised palms of surrender. "No more food puns."

"Do you think it works like a check? Like, unless I use it the money stays in his account?" you ask while looking at her.

She shrugs. "Maybe. Sure wish he'd give me a damn thousand dollar bonus. What'd you do the last time you went a week ago?"

"I told you!" you shout hysterically. "He made me a cheeseburger. I ate it, then came back here. That's it."

"I eat in front of the old man every day. He's never wanted to reward me for it." She pinches her stomach, then shrugs. "Probably a good thing or you'd be rolling me out of here before long."

"I have to make him take it back or undo it," you say while heading in the direction of your closet so you can get changed. "This is too much."

"So he wants to be your sugar daddy—"

You narrow your eyes and jerk your head back in her direction.

"Not intended to be another pun. That's just the name for it," she mumbles. "As I was saying: I fail to see how it's a bad thing."

"I've been saving up. I don't—" You toss a loose ankle-length dress onto the bed. Something simple. You don't need to dress up. No, you need to get going before he locks up for the night. "That isn't me."

"Grant?" you shout into the empty restaurant. "Are you here?"

A smile curls lips lined by silver stubble and laugh lines bracket his mouth. Hanging his apron on a hook, Grant emerges from behind the kitchen door. Greeted by the sight of you in a simple, soft black dress that almost looks more like a comfortable nightgown, he grins. "Got your attention, huh?"

"You... You have to take it back. Cancel it or something," you plead.

Crossing the room to reach you, he reaches forward and brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek. "No can do," he replies with a shake of his head.

"But—"

"You don't need to feel guilty," Grant tells you. "Guess just feeding you dinner wasn't enough for me." He shrugs. "Wanted to help take care of you another way."

Before this moment, you've only been around each other twice before. Two times. You absolutely refuse to believe that you made enough of an impression to justify him gifting you one thousand dollars!

You open your mouth to continue insisting, until he rests his palms heavily atop your shoulders. "You wanna repay me?"

You waver. "Yes..."

"Then let me teach you."

He begins tugging you along behind him toward the kitchen, and you gulp nervously.

Time for you to set the damn place on fire, apparently.

"Slow, sweetheart, slow," Grant mutters quietly against your ear. "Don't want to get it all over yourself or you'll be soaked."

After leading you back into the kitchen, Grant gathered all the ingredients required to teach you how to make an excellent traditional southern fried chicken recipe, which he said the pair of you could eat together.

At current, you're whisking together milk and lemon juice to prep your own homemade buttermilk.

With Grant pressed against your back, and his hands leading your own while he croons encouragement and instructions in your ear, you fear that this cooking lesson may soon end in disaster if you don't get yourself under control. And soon.

"Good," he coos. "Nice and smooth. Good girl."

You nearly whimper when you feel a fluttering start up between your legs.

"Alright, set that to the side, then grab the chicken next and we'll dip each section until it's dripping and coat them in flour."

You swallow thickly, nod, then slide the bowl across the counter to keep it far from you, lest you knock it over and make a mess. Grabbing a sheet of raw chicken, you pick up piece after piece and dip them in the liquid mixture, followed by dropping them into a thick paper bag and shaking until Grant tells you to stop. You then place each prepped piece of poultry onto a new sheet until you've completed the current step.

"Alright, wash your hands and I'll guide you on what to do next."

Without the heat of his body stationed behind you, you're made very aware of how a thin sheet of sweat has coated the back of your neck. As such, you take your time washing your hands. Enjoying the cold water, you don't stop scrubbing until your palms and fingers are sudsy and clean.

Grant motions for you to rejoin him once you've shut the faucet off.

Assuming your previous position, he stands impossibly closer. "Here," he whispers before pulling an apron on over your head. "Should've done this before we started. Sorry."

You stay silent as his hands trail just beneath your breasts to grab the ties at the front of the acorn-brown apron to circle them around your waist.

"There," Grant says while pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head. "I've got you covered."

"Now," he says while adjusting the burner. "Fill your skillet with vegetable oil. About a third of the way. I'll tell you when to stop."

Grabbing a glass bottle, you start to pour, but slowly. The oil spreads across the cast iron skillet, and after a beat, Grant speak again. "Alright, that's good. Plenty slick enough to cook with."

You draw in a deep breath, then eye the chicken. "How long do we—"

"Awhile," he interrupts while sliding his hands from your shoulders to your upper arms. "It needs to get hot." He turns his head. "Very hot," he rumbles against your ear. "Once the pieces are browned, we'll turn down the heat and let them simmer for awhile. About half an hour," he explains.

"What'll we do while we wait?" you ask breathlessly.

He chuckles. "Anything you like."

"Oh."

"I like this," Grant says while pulling the chicken closer for when the skillet is finally ready to be filled. "Teaching you. You're a good student."

Testing the waters, you lean back against his sturdy chest, and he doesn't move an inch. "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm right here."

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. The silence is deafening—interrupted only the sound of his steady breathing, yours which has turned ragged, and quietly popping oil on the stovetop.

"Something I can do to help you while you work, besides leading you?" he asks.

Touch me, you think while rubbing your thighs together from beneath your dress.

"Hm?" he hums with a kiss at your temple.

"I dunno," you whimper.

"Grab your tongs and start arranging the chicken around the edges until the whole skillet is full," he directs.

The sheet of raw chicken is half empty when Grant finally brushes his thumb along the side of your clothed breast.

He notes how you forewent wearing a bra tonight.

"Your apron too tight?" he asks while tugging curiously against the front.

"M-Maybe," you stutter.

Moment of truth.

Cautiously, he slips his hands between your dress and apron and cups both your breasts in his large palms. You gasp sharply and nearly drop the utensil you're holding.

"Keep going," he orders. "You're almost there."

Yes, Chef, you muse.

Circling your nipples with his fingertips, he doesn't stop until they're pebbled. Grant begins to gently tug against their hardened peaks. "Good girl," he purrs. "You did perfect. Now, go ahead and flip the pieces over."

With vigilant determination, you turn the poultry from one side to the other.

After only three pieces, Grant maneuvers a hand past the neckline of your dress and grabs your naked breast with his bare hand.

"Oh God," you whine and your hips buck back against him.

"Just a few more and then we'll cover it and let it cook. Go on, sweetheart. Do what chef tells you to."

Unable to help yourself, you do as Grant says. But you sigh and whimper all the while as his callouses scratch pleasantly against and between your breasts.

Settling a lid atop the pan, you reach for a timer. "H-how long?" you pant.

"Half an hour. Should be enough time for us to finish."

Winding the dial, you point the arrow at 30, then set it down.

"Do you like this?" he rasps while shoving a second hand beneath the neck of your dress. "Does it feel good?"

You nod slowly. "Yes."

"Do you want more?"

"Please," you moan.

You almost sob when his hands retract. Until he gently spins you around to face him.

"How much more?" he asks while cupping your cheek comfortingly.

Your lips slightly part, but the thought of saying it... You don't always know how to be forward about your own desires.

"Because I want to taste you," Grant utters. "I have from the first."

Guiding you by the hips back to a sprawling, empty surface, he grabs you by the waist and hoists you up. "Is this okay?" he questions while trailing a palm from your calf to your knee.

"Yes," you whisper.

He goes higher, only stopping once his fingertips are prodding against the thin, slick material of your panties that're now sticking to your pussy. "Fuck," he curses. "You're so wet for me."

Rolling your dress up past your thighs, Grant hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Kneeling on the floor, he stares up at you with reverence. "Do you want me to stop?"

You shake your head, then wiggle your hips. "More."

Leaning forward, he presses a firm kiss to your damp panties, drags his speared tongue along the soaked material, then tugs them down in one swift motion. Tucking them into his pocket, he encourages your thighs over his shoulders and swipes his tongue through your slick folds.

God, he's in Heaven. Here, with you now, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

You suck in a sharp breath, then tangle your fingers in his silver hair to keep him close.

When you begin to rock your hips, he swirls his tongue over your swollen clit while easing two fingers between your warm, fluttering walls.

You taste better than he could've ever imagined. Are softer, wetter, and more needy than he anticipated you would be.

"You're so perfect," he mutters while kissing your inner thighs before returning to your fluttering cunt. "Better than I thought," he grates.

And he has one hell of a palate.

Planting a sweaty palm atop the cool countertop, you lean back and prop a foot atop it. You're sure the two of you are committing at least a dozen health-code violations right now, but you couldn't care less.

"O-oh my God," you stammer.

"Come for me," he demands while craning his head back. "Come on my tongue. Now."

Shoving his head back between your thighs, you squeal quietly when he returns to teasing your clit. When your walls begin to clench around his thick digits, he refuses to come up for air. You're so close and he needs to be the man to give you this.

Sucking your labia and fingering you with rapid abandon, your pussy squelches and leaves his palm and your ass both covered in arousal. Not even the finest fucking wine could compare to you. If he could bottle and drink you, he would.

Swear to God he would...

You bite your lip, tug against his sweaty curls, then shudder violently as your orgasm wracks through your body. "Oh my God, Grant," you cry while your mind circles and your arousal crashes through you.

He whimpers against your slick, swollen opening while palming himself over his black slacks.

Grant moans while kissing your pussy in thanks for what it's just given him in return.

Once you finally calm, you slide your leg back over the edge of the counter and go loose—your limbs now feeling weakened; like jelly.

Grabbing your face, Grant crushes his lips to yours. He makes wet smacking sounds while he fucks your mouth with his tongue—his saliva and your own slick pooling beneath your tongue. "You should know how good you taste," he pants.

Trailing kisses down your neck, you clutch helplessly at his chest as his coarse stubble scratches your sensitive skin.

"I wanna be inside of you," he rumbles while nudging your thighs further apart. Tilting your chin back, he stares into your eyes with feverish hunger. "Please let me have you."

Your jaw falls open and you grasp for words to explain. "I... I don't just—"

It's as if he can read your mind before you've even completed a thought. "After this, you're mine. I'm too old for playing games with the woman I want and have been waiting so long for."

"We'd be—"

"Together. Unless you ordered me away," Grant explains. "Fuck, Y/N, please. I'm begging you."

Reaching up, you tug the top of your dress down and let it pool around your waist, exposing your breasts to him.

And Grant drinks you in greedily.

Dipping his head, he sucks a taut nipple into his mouth, then laps at the opposite with his warm, wet tongue.

Grasping at his belt, you suddenly still.

Grant lifts his head and cups your cheek cautiously. "Do you wanna stop?"

"I'm not...on anything anymore. And I'm—" you gulp. "I'm ovulating right now."

He chuckles. "I might've guessed."

You raise a brow, questioning whether you should be offended by whatever he's implying.

"How wet you got for me," he continues. "I loved it. It was perfect."

You smile.

"I don't exactly keep condoms here in the kitchen," he says with a knowing look.

"I could... Wind up—"

"I know," he whispers while cupping the back of your head in one hand and wrapping the other securely around your naked waist. "And if that did happen, I'd take care of you. I—I want to anyway. I've been... I've been too married to my work. I don't regret it, but there are things I've missed out on." He kisses you tenderly. "Now here you are. Finally."

He pops a tine on his belt loose. "Do you want us to keep going?"

You nod slowly.

Grant unbuckles his belt, pops the button at the top of his pants, then unzips them. "Do you want me inside of you?" he questions while running a certain hand down your side.

"Yes," you sigh.

"If I do this, I can't pull out. It... It's you. I just can't, Y/N. I need you to understand what I'm telling you."

Wrapping an arm around his neck and another around his side, you cling to him. "I understand."

Shoving his pants and briefs down to his ankles, Grant takes himself in hand and pumps his cock a few times, runs the pad of his thumb over the leaking tip, then eases its girthy length between your slick, accommodating walls.

Once Grants has bottomed out against your perfect cunt, his hips stutter and he whimpers close to your ear while holding you suffocatingly close. "Fuck, sweetheart, I don't know how long I'm gonna last like this," he mutters while slowly rocking his hips.

Burying your face against his neck, your shake your head. "Do what you need to. I want you to finish."

Besides, you already have.

Pumping his thick, veiny cock between your stretchy walls, a whine crawls up Grant's throat, and halts there, until he gasps for air, and the breath his releases sounds more like a quiet cry.

Cradling the backs of each other's heads, his arm circles your waist while your hand claws at his covered back. Grant's naked skin slaps against yours while your legs gyrate on either side of his hips where they dangle over the edge of the counter. "O-Oh fuck," he moans. "I'm already close."

You kiss his neck. "Please, Grant," you whisper.

His cock twitches. "Feel's good?" he asks while thrusting his hips.

"So good," you mewl.

His testicles begin to tighten.

"Almost there," he rasps. "You're doing so well for me. But, baby, I'm—fuck, it's gonna be deep."

You nod. "It's okay. It's okay, you can cum inside me."

He sniffles quietly. "Thank you for finding me," he mutters.

Planting a palm against his naked ass, you encourage him to keep rocking his hips.

Rolling them to get impossibly deeper inside you, his thrusts become hard and fast. So fast that a metallic pounding begins from where his thighs are knocking against the steel countertop. A bowl clatters to the floor, but Grant holds firm when you jolt. "Don't," he barks. "Stay still." He shudders. "Good girl. That's my good little girl. Almost—almost—"

A container of utensils falls over next, but it doesn't even phase him.

Meanwhile, you keep him close. His arms have tightened like coils now. You're surrounded by his muscled limbs.

"Fuck!" he shouts suddenly. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna cum. Fuck, I'm gonna cum so deep inside you, baby girl."

"Please, Grant," you plead. Your clit is so overstiumlated that with only a few more thrusts—

"Oh God," he groans. "Oh God, sweetheart."

Pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, his cock spasms between your walls and his balls twitch as he empties a load of built-up semen inside of you. Scooting closer, he angles his hips upwards toward your cervix while thick, hot ropes of cum spurt and coat your fleshy walls.

You twitch repeatedly in his arms while your cunt contracts tightly around his member. Your orgasm is silent, and less eventful, but feels just as good as it washes over you.

Once it's all over, you continue holding one another. "Did you cum again?" Grant asks quietly, while massaging the base of your scalp with trembling fingers.

"I did," you murmur before yawning.

"Good," he says with quiet relief. "Such a good girl."

He stays inside of you, but leans back just enough to capture you in a slow, passionate kiss. "Tell me you belong to me," Grant demands between brushes of his lips over yours.

"I'm yours," you assure him. "I'm yours, Grant."

He swipes a thumb over your sensitive clit—just above where he still has you stretched open. "Yes, you are."

Dinner is mostly silent. Grant sits close to your side as the two of you steadily snack on a mountainous plate of delicious fried chicken. Between your thighs, you can still feel his cum leaking out of you.

Lying your sleepy head atop his shoulder, Grant kisses the crown of it. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you," he states after taking a sip of ice water. "And heard your voice."

You snuggle against his side. "Really?"

He grins while remembering that fateful video that brought you into his life. Holding up a thin strip of chicken for you to eat, he smiles. "Really."

[ididcrytoday]

𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 ಇ.

pope code is addicted to your scent. so addicted that he can sniff out when it's...different.

mdni, 18+, panty stealing and sniffing, scent kink, ovulation kink, cunnilingus, semi-public, didn't go in detail with scents because i know we all smell different hehe, season two andrew cody in a button-down, pope is a bloodhound who can smell when you're ovulating loll

listen ♬.ᐟ

pope cody is addicted to your scent.

not in the way people say they love the smell of coffee in the morning or the way clean laundry smells. nothing casual about it. it's the kind of addiction that rewires something primal in the back of his brain, something hungry and absolutely feral.

he craves it like a drug, indulges in it every single moment he gets.

when you’re laying in bed in the dark, safe and warm, his toned arms wrap tight around your torso and his nose is buried in your hair. right at the nape of your neck, where the scent is strongest. he sniffs that powdery soft smell of your shampoo like he's inhaling crack, chasing a high, letting it overwrite the smell of gun oil and anxiety that clings to him like a second skin.

when he hugs you after a long day of one of the solo 'jobs' smurf sends him out to handle. the ones that leave him coming back to you all bruised and beaten down, knuckles split and raw, a darkness behind his eyes that wasn't there when he left that morning.

he doesn't just hug you. he clings. buries his face in the curve of your neck, nose pressed right over the pulse, to make sure you're still alive. still real. still here and his and not another thing the world has taken from him. and then he breathes you in deep. lavender soap. shea butter cream. the faint, clean musk of your skin underneath it all. his eyes flutter shut. his shoulders drop.

and on the nights he can't come home, the nights he feels too filthy, too stained by the shadows of the crimes he committed, by his own sins. too ashamed to drag all that darkness to your doorstep and let it taint you. on those nights, he sits in his car, the engine cooling in the dark silence of an empty parking lot, and he reaches into his glovebox.

he pulls out the lace panties he stole from your hamper three days ago. the pretty pink ones with the little bow on the trim. they’re delicate, too soft on the rough, calloused skin of his palms. he brings them to his face, pressing the fabric against his nose, and he inhales.

deep.

the scent is sickly sweet, a hint of musk and entirely an essence of you. it makes his eyes roll back, his head falling against the headrest. he unbuckles the belt of his jeans with a hurried but shaky hand, pulls down his jeans and his cock springs free, slapping hard against his belly. he’s already achingly hard. the shaft curved and heavy, an angry, throbbing vein running down the length. the tip is an blushed pink, swollen and desperate for you.

he gathers spit in his mouth, thick and shameless, and lets it dribble down over the head. then wraps his calloused fist around himself and twists the slick down his shaft all while pressing the panties tighter against his face. breathing you in with every stroke.

he groans your name into it, and it comes out all whiny and wrecked, a desperate, broken sound he'd never let anyone else hear. never. pope cody doesn't beg. pope cody doesn't whine. pope cody holds his shit together with duct tape and sheer fucking will and doesn't let anyone see the cracks. but alone in this car, with your scent flooding his senses, he's whispering your name like a prayer and a plea all at once. repeating it. "please, please, please—" not even sure what he's begging for. forgiveness? repentance? or maybe just to be inside you. to be good enough for it.

his hips twitch up off the seat, fucking into his fist in short, desperate rolls. he's pretending the cotton against his nose is your skin. pretending his hand is the wet, clenching heat of his sweet girl's pussy. pretending he's buried between your thighs where he belongs, where the only smell in the world is you, raw and unfiltered, nothing between his mouth and your pussy.

it's pathetic. depraved. and, oh, he knows if he could crawl into your skin and live there, he would. he'd shrink himself down and burrow into the warm, soft space behind your sternum and never come out.

now you're both at smurf's place.

the noise of the pool party is a distant static hum buzzing through the sliding glass doors into the dim quiet of the living room. smurf's shrill laugh cutting through the splashing, the sizzle and pop of the grill, craig hollering at someone about something stupid, glass bottles clinking, music too loud. all of it muffled and far away from the little bubble you and your boyfriend, pope, created in the living room.

he's dead weight across your lap.

sprawled flat on his stomach on the big red lounge couch, long legs hanging off the end, one arm tucked under his chest and the other holding his phone above his face while his head is pillowed on your soft thighs. your skirt has ridden up, the soft cotton bunched at your hips, exposing miles of bare skin to the cool air. his cheek is pressed against the warm inside of one thigh, his auburn curls spilling across your lap.

he's scrolling through his phone. aggressively. irritated by a stream of texts — people his brothers ripped off, loose ends he has to tie up because god forbid craig or deran handle anything cleanly. you can see the tension in his jaw even from this angle, brows in a mean furrow, the hard set of his mouth, the way his shoulders are drawn up tight. he's been like this since he walked through the door forty minutes ago. coiled, wound, a spring waiting to snap.

"you're getting worry lines, andrew." you look down at him from the book in your hand and frown.

then you reach down and push at the deep crease between his brows with the pad of your thumb, smoothing it out.

"m'sorry it's just that have to fix this mess these idiots left and—" he doesn't finish his sentence as your fingers card slow through his auburn curls, scratching gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly over the warm skin of his nape where his hair is shortest. it pulls a low rumbling sound from deep in his chest, something that vibrates straight through your thighs and settles hot and low in your core. you feel him physically relax at the contact. the tight line of his shoulders drops a fraction. his jaw unclenches.

"we're here to relax. now relax and put the damn phone away."

"hmm. fine." he obeys you easily, always does, almost like he physically can never say the word 'no' to you. he abandons the phone, letting it drop face down onto the cushion with a thud. his arm flops down beside it, limp and defeated, and he exhales — long and slow, the last of the tension leaving his body in that single breath.

you're both quiet for the moment, not the awkward kind. but in a way that feels comfortable, calm. nothing pope is used to but longs for desperately.

his dark eyes flutter open. he watches you from below, chin tucked against your thigh, face tilted up. he looks at you the way he always looks at you, like you're something he doesn't deserve and knows it and is terrified of anyway.

he studies the deliberate, unbothered calm of you. the way you're reading a fucking paperback like his ticking time bomb of a family isn't less than twenty feet away, like the man currently using your thighs as a pillow hasn't got blood under his fingernails that will take hours to wash out, like the world isn't constantly on fire around both of you.

he wonders how he got this. how he got a girl who holds his violence in her lap and tames it with only her fingers in his hair. who accepts him as is, doesn't flinch when he comes home with bruised knuckles and dead eyes. who just wants him safe, whole, and in your arms before the end of the night. who makes him feel like maybe the rot inside him isn't terminal but something you can fix.

his calloused thumb rubs absent circles into your bare thigh — rough pad dragging over your soft skin, back and forth, back and forth.

then he turns his face.

you feel the hot wet exhale of his breath against your inner thigh — closer than before, higher— before his nose drags slow along the soft skin toward your center. your thighs clench. your thumb stills on the page. he inhales, deep and shameless, pressing his face into the crease of your thigh like he's trying to breathe you directly into his lungs and bypass his respiratory system entirely.

"you smell..." he trails off, the words muffled against your flesh, his lips moving against your skin. "different."

"really?" you hum, not looking up from your book. "just my usual body mist though. you know the one you like..."

"yeah, i can smell that." he says, voice low, he rolls his head deeper, nose pressing into the warm crease of your thighs. "but there's somethin' else underneath it. somethin'…" he trails off, searching for the word, and settles on: "sweet."

and then, god help you, his nose twitches. actually twitches, like a dog catching a scent on the wind, and you would laugh if you weren't so busy trying to keep your composure because his nose is dangerously close to your pussy. and you've been hypersensitive all day and–

and something clicks.

the dull ache in your lower belly this morning. the tenderness in your breasts when you pulled your shirt on. the way you've been running hot all day with an aching need for him. you were–

"oh."

"oh?" he breathes out, like he already knows. of course he does. "you ovulating? aren't you early?"

you want to scream. the man is ridiculous. how could he possibly have known you were ovulating before you did? his nose is pressed against the inside of your thigh and he's casually sniffing out your pheromones, tracking your menstrual cycle like he's got your flo app memorized.

"what the fuck, andrew. how did you even ah—" he buries his face into you again — deeper this time, closer, nose dragging right over the seam of your panties right above your pussy folds — and the question leaves your mind.

you forget to care in that moment.

don't care about the science or the logic or the frankly alarming acuity of his senses. because instinctively, traitorously, your thighs fall open for him. an invitation your body makes before your brain can catch up and stop it, before you can remember that his family is quite literally right outside.

he makes that sound again. that pleased, hungry hum that makes something molten pool down to your core, as he accept the invitation, and sinks his head deeper between your parted thighs until his hot breath is ghosting right over the thin cotton of your underwear.

he groans and his whole body shudders against you.

"yeah. fuck. 's right here." his voice is wrecked already, barely above a whisper, vibrating against your pussy through the fabric. "this is what i— this is what i've been smellin', this is—" he breaks off. can't finish. doesn't need to. he buries his face directly against the slit of your pussy and inhales over the cloth, long and filthy and shameless, over and over, running the hard bridge of his nose between your folds, bumping against your swollen clit through the cotton until you jolt and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.

"smell really fuckin' good, baby," he mumbles, nose pressed so flat against the damp fabric you can feel the shape of it. "all musky and soooo fucking sweet." each word is muffled, spoken directly into your pussy, his hips jerk against the couch cushion, involuntary, and you feel the hard length of him press against your leg through his jeans. "christ."

"andrew." you hiss, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging which makes things worse because he love love loves when you get rough with him. "your family is right outside."

but he doesn't move an inch. "they're outside." his voice is calm, too calm, like he doesn't have his face buried between your thighs, nose pressed right against your clothed pussy. "they won't bother comin' in."

you should protest, say or do something logical like push his head away and slap him silly. but he keeps inhaling you. shameless and deep, nose pressed flat against the cotton that's growing damper by the second, and god help you, your hand is already pushing his head in deeper, fingers curling tight in his auburn hair.

because maybe you're just as bad as he is, a huge perv, maybe worse.

he loves when you use him like this, when you get greedy and desperate and stop pretending you're too good for the filthy things he wants to do to you. when your fingers twist in his hair and you grind against his face and all that careful composure cracks open and he can see the messy, wanting thing underneath. that's the real you, he thinks. not the paperback-reading calm. this. the girl who'll let him eat her out on his mother's couch knowing anyone could slip in and catch them any moment from now.

and you're dripping already. soaking through the thin cotton just from him sniffing you like a dog, and the fabric is clinging to your folds now, outlining every detail, and you know he can see it, see what he's done to you with nothing but his mouth and his nose and those big dark eyes looking up at you from between your thighs.

so without warning, his broad tongue drags a flat wet stripe right up the damp spot on your panties. slow. deliberate. the full width of his tongue, warm and rough, pressing the cotton between your folds as it drags upward.

you throw your head back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, the book slipping from your fingers and hitting the floor with a crack you don't even hear. your spine arches off the couch cushion.

"oh my god—"

he does it again. and again. long, slow, filthy laps over the soaked fabric, tasting you through the cotton, groaning low in his chest with each pass like he's savoring it. the friction of the wet fabric against your swollen clit is maddening —too much, but nowhere near enough — and your thighs are trembling on either side of his head, your breath coming in short shallow gasps.

"andrew — please, ah— slow down—"

you hiss it through your teeth, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging warningly. your voice comes out shakier than you want it to, breathless, the please slipping out before you can stop it, and you hate that it sounds less like a command and more like a whimper.

he doesn't listen. he never does, not when he's like this. not when he's got his mouth on you and whatever part of his brain handles reason and restraint just shuts the fuck off. he repeats the motion, the long, wet, dragging and groaning low at the taste. his hot tongue pressing the cotton flat against your folds until it's clinging to you, practically transparent, doing nothing to hide how drenched you are. his saliva is mixing with your arousal, making the fabric heavier, wetter, and the obscene squelch of it is quiet but loud enough in the stillness of the room that it makes your stomach clench with panic and want all at once.

"it's gettin' sweeter," he rasps, and when he glances up at you — chin wet, lips glistening, eyes wild, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left — he looks unhinged. feral. and you whimper at the sight of it, a small broken sound from the back of your throat that you couldn't suppress if your life depended on it. "i need more. need to taste your pussy, baby. please, please, please."

he's begging. andrew cody – who doesn't beg for anything, who holds everything tight and close and quiet, who would rather swallow glass than let anyone see him want – is begging with his face pressed against your clothed pussy and his eyes locked on yours and that desperate, wrecked please falling out of his mouth like he can't help it.

he's breathing hard already, chest rising and falling visibly beneath his wrinkled button-down. his dark eyes are wide and dark and starving, locked onto the wet mess between your thighs. you bite your lip hard enough to hurt, knowing that look, knowing exactly what kind of trouble it means.

it has been a while.

pope and the boys have been on 'business' for a week. a total blackout period, no calls, no texts, nothing, smurf's rules. and you were so fucking pent up, running on nothing but your own fingers and a dying vibrator that kept losing charge halfway through and leaving you a whimpering frustrated mess in an empty bed at two in the morning, thinking about him, aching for him.

you glance toward the large windows. everyone is focused on the grill and the pool and the obnoxiously loud chaos of it all. the sheer curtains obscure everything beyond them into a hazy glow. no one could possibly catch them unless they were actually looking.

just a little wouldn't be so bad.

so you part your thighs wider for him. skirt bunching at your hips. the wet spot on your panties glaringly obvious in the dim light. and with a low, shy, sultry voice — one that doesn't sound like you at all, sounds like some version of you that only comes out when andrew 'pope' cody is between your legs — you tell him:

"just a taste, popey."

and he groans — low and broken, almost pained — at that, at the nickname, at the permission, at the way you say it like you're doing him a favor when really you're both already drowning. his big hands grip your knees, squeezing hard enough to bruise through the skin, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows on either side.

the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. almost guilty. completely full of shit.

"that's it. that's my girl." his voice drops, rough and low, barely audible. "my sweet fuckin' girl."

he dives in immediately. no teasing. hooking your panties to the side with one rough finger. you feel the fabric pull taut against your outer thigh, the elastic biting into your skin — and pressing his open mouth right against your bare pussy.

the first thing he does is inhale. long and deep, nose pressed right against your slick, dripping folds, and the sound he makes isn't human, his whole body shuddering between your thighs. then his tongue darts out — just the tip, just a taste — and he pulls back for a half second, lips parted, like he's savoring it, like he's letting it sit on his tongue.

"fuck." it comes out broken. barely a word. more like a breath with weight behind it. "tastes even better than it smells. how's it...taste so good?"

and then he's licking. long strokes from your entrance to your clit, flat and wet and obscene, groaning with every pass like you're killing him softly with just the taste of you. every now and then he buries his face deep and inhales hard, nose bumping your clit, mouth open against your hole, panting, like your pussy is a drug and he's been in withdrawal for a week and this is his first hit back.

"oh— oh, fuck—" your hand flies to your mouth, pressing the back of your knuckles against your lips, and the moan that escapes anyway is thin and reedy and pathetic. your hips roll up against his face without your permission, chasing his tongue, and he makes a low pleased sound against your pussy that just makes it worse.

the sounds are wet, sloppy, filthy — his tongue working through the mess you've made, the slurping wet noise of your pussy against his face, and he's making it worse, so much worse, drooling all over you, mixing his spit with your slick until your inner thighs and his chin are dripping and the couch cushion beneath your ass is probably ruined.

he doesn't care. he'll clean up after his sweet girl like he always does.

his tongue runs flat over your folds again and again. up up up. circling your clit, then back down, dragging through the wetness pooling at your entrance — before he pushes it all inside.

"oh, popey, there." you sigh, falling back completely into the couch, eyes rolling back. the angle is awkward, his face mashed between your thighs on a narrow couch, but he's tongue-fucking into you as deep as he can reach, swirling against your gummy walls, mapping the inside of you with nothing but the wet muscle of his tongue. his thumb comes up to circle your clit — the calloused pad dragging over the swollen bundle of nerves with just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

"mmnh— ah— andrew, that's— oh my god—" you're whimpering now, openly, shamelessly, any pretense of composure dissolved the second his tongue pushed inside you. small, hiccuping little sounds that spill out between gasped breaths, your free hand fisting tight in his hair, pulling, guiding, your hips grinding up against his mouth in stuttery rolls you can't control.

he moans into you when you pull his hair. a high, breathy, pathetic sound — mmhh — vibrating against your walls, and you feel it in your spine, in your toes, in the tight coil of heat building in your lower belly. his hips are grinding against the couch cushion now, shamelessly humping the fabric while he eats you out, and knowing that he's so turned on that he can't keep still makes you clench around his tongue.

"taste so good, baby," he mumbles against your pussy, pulling back just enough to speak, his mouth still on you, lips brushing your folds with every word. "so fuckin' sweet. been thinkin' about this — ah — been thinkin' about this the whole trip. couldn't stop thinkin' about it." he dives back in, tongue pushing deeper, and the words are lost in the wet obscene sounds of his mouth working. then he pulls back again, gasping, chin dripping. "every night. in that shitty motel bed. thinkin' about your pussy. made myself fuckin' crazy."

"popey i—i—" your voice cracks on his name, high and thin, and you're so wet you can hear it, can hear the slick sounds every time his tongue moves, and you should be embarrassed but you're too far gone, too deep in the heat and the filth and the risk.

"i know, i know," he breathes, and his voice is so tender it almost breaks you more than the filthy things he's doing with his mouth. "i know, sweet girl. i got you. been so long for you too, huh? gonna make you feel so good."

he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, tongue working in tight fast circles, and a moan tears out of you — loud, too loud — and you slap your hand back over your mouth, eyes going wide with panic toward the window. the party noise continues outside. nobody heard.

he pulls back just enough to spit a thick, warm glob landing right on your clit, and then dives back in to lick it up with a broad, flat stroke that makes your whole body seize. a high, thin whine escapes your throat, muffled by your palm, and your hips buck up off the couch.

"quiet, baby," he murmurs against your clit, and he has the audacity to sound amused, lips curving into a smile you can feel against your flesh. "gotta be quiet. don't want craig comin' in here, do you?" he sucks again, gentler this time, and you whimper behind your hand, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the effort of staying quiet. "though i dunno... maybe i don't care. maybe i want 'em to hear. want 'em to know you're mine."

"asshole—" you hiss behind your hand, but it comes out broken and breathless and more like please than an insult, and he laughs — actually laughs, low and warm, right against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs snap shut around his head.

he seals his mouth back over your pussy and sucks, hard, tongue working your clit in tight fast circles.

"oh fuck, popey—" the little nickname slips out of you, wrecked and desperate, barely recognizable, and something about it makes him growl against your pussy, a low rumbling sound that makes your thighs shake. "popey, i'm— i'm about to—"

"i know." he mumbles against your pussy between filthy wet slurps, his voice completely destroyed, barely recognizable, thick with you. "'can feel it. feel you gettin' tighter. squeezin' my tongue—" he's whining now, actually whining, these high desperate sounds that are almost pitiful, vibrating against your pussy. "please. need it. need you to cum for me. wanna taste it. wanna taste all of it. every drop. give it to me, please, please—"

the please is what does it. andrew cody saying please, andrew cody whining into your cunt like he's the one falling apart, andrew cody begging for it like he needs it more than air — it unravels you completely.

you cum with a muffled cry, teeth sinking into your own hand hard enough to draw blood. your thighs clamping shut around his head, suffocating him, your back arching off the couch, your pussy pulsing against his mouth in thick rolling waves.

"ah — ah — fuck, fuck, fuck—"

the words spill out in a whispered frantic chant behind your bloodied palm, your body shaking, your vision going white and then blurry and then nothing but static and heat.

but that doesn't stop him. doesn't even slow. fucks you through it with his tongue buried deep, pushing against that spongy spot inside you that makes your legs spasm and your stomach clench, swallowing every pulse of it, drinking your slick down with these greedy gulping sounds, and you can feel his throat working against your thigh, feel him swallowing you, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you cum harder, a second smaller wave crashing through you that pulls a broken sob from your chest.

"oh god — popey, 's too much — ah — too much—" you're whimpering through the aftershocks, small sounds. your hips twitching away from his mouth, your thighs are shaking.

he moans at that, low and pleased, like you telling him that is like music to his ears. and with that he finally, finally slows. his tongue gentles from frantic to lazy, drawing long slow passes through your folds, licking up the mess all nice and clean, unhurried like he has all the time in the world. like his jaw isn't probably aching. like there isn't a full blown pool party twenty feet away.

when he's done, he leans forward and kisses your inner thigh. soft, a strange tenderness after all that filth. and then bites down gently, teeth sinking into the soft flesh just hard enough to make you flinch, hard enough that you know there'll be a bruise there tomorrow, a pretty purple, shaped like his mouth.

then he lifts his head.

your slick shines on his chin, his jaw, his cheeks. his lips are swollen and glistening and utterly wrecked, bitten red. his breathing is ragged, chest heaving, his auburn curls disheveled and matted from where you've been pulling at them, strands sticking to his damp forehead.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but it doesn't do anything. there's too much of you on him. his face is a mess but he doesn't seem remotely bothered by it. if anything, he looks satisfied. like a big puppy that finally got his doggie treat.

but there's something deeper, a primal want that still burns behind his eyes, the throb of his cock still evidently hard pressing into the side of your leg.

"need more." he murmurs watching the mess between your thighs, and his thumb drags through your soaked folds, possessive.

"andrew, i just–"

"know you got more for me, sweet girl. always got more for me." he cuts you off, his thumb circling over your clit carefully and your breath catches. your thighs tremble.

you should say no.

you should pull your skirt down and find your book and go back to 'relaxing'. but his thumb is still inside you, still moving, still there. his face is still wet with you, and he's looking at you with a hunger, like the only thing that can feed it is you.

so you ask him before he even says another word:

"is your bedroom free?"

author note: okay i will go back to dr. jack abbot now hehe :3

[andrewmiinyard]

hi everyone!! sorry i've been a bit inactive, i've moved this week and i just have a lot of personal stuff going on so i haven't had a minute to myself to write yet. once everything settles down i promise i will get some writing out to you soon!!!

[ididcrytoday]

eyes on me.

dr. jack abbot swears he's not a panty sniffer. unless they're yours ofc.

mdni, 18+, panty sniffing, mutual masturbation, patheticsubby!hudband!dr.jackabbot x slightlydom!wife!reader, that one scene from animal kingdom iykyk listen to this ♬.ᐟ

the key turned in the lock at 4:47 am.

dr. jack abbot stood in the doorway of his own house like an intruder. a man who'd forgotten how to live in it.

his grey scrubs were wrinkled beyond salvage. he reeked of antiseptic; that sharp, clinical smell that clung to everything, embedded in the fibers, ground into his skin like a second layer. there was something on his sleeve that he didn't want to think about. his eyes burned with the particular brand of exhaustion that two weeks of back-to-back shifts, three code blues, a pediatric trauma that still made his hands shake when he thought about it, a patient who flatlined twice before they got her back, a few patients who they couldn't—

robby had been watching him with those too-knowing eyes during rounds. until he pulled him into a corner and sat him down through a whole lecture:

"you're a danger to yourself and your patients. go home, brother. i got this."

jack had argued, of course. his pride was a stubborn thing. but the truth was undeniable: his hands were trembling, and an hour ago, in a haze of fatigue, he'd nearly hung a bag of vancomycin on the wrong pole. a fatal error, prevented only by dumb luck. and besides, robby had already forged his signature on the cover sheet.

so here he was. home.

for a moment it was dark, heavy and quiet. but as soon as the door clicked shut, the air changed. it smelled like that vanilla bourbon candle you'd been burning lately, too sweet, too warm, and something else. something that was entirely soft and comforting. a scent that reminded him what a home actually was.

the particular, curated warmth of a space that had been lived in by someone who loved gently.

you.

he felt like he hadn't seen you in a lifetime. the last few times he'd managed to drag himself through the front door, you were already asleep, or he was too comatose that he barely registered you kissing him on his forehead and slipping him out of his scrubs before passing out.

you were an angel. a saint. anyone else would have left him by now, fed up by a husband who was a ghost in his own marriage, absent and hollowed out, smelling like disinfectant and existential dread half the time. but there you were. still with him. always.

he passed the kitchen on his way through. stopped. on the counter—a plate covered with saran wrap, food still faintly warm. and on top of it, a note in your pretty, looping cursive writing: be a good boy and eat. hearts all around it. little doodled hearts in the corners and beside his name and one big one at the bottom.

he stared at it for too long. his throat got tight. he set the note down carefully, like it was something precious, and kept moving.

his chest ached.

not in a clinical sense. this was worse. this was the dull, spreading ache of realizing he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation with his wife that lasted longer than forty-five seconds. the last time he'd looked at you, really looked, instead of glancing at you over a coffee mug while his brain was already back at the pitt, replaying lab readings and imaging results. even now, even here, in the quiet of his own hallway, his hand drifted to his hip where his pager sat clipped to his waistband—habit, muscle memory, the phantom itch of obligation. he caught himself doing it. stopped. his fingers hovered there for a second, trembling, before he forced them away. forced himself to leave it there. just in case.

he dropped his bag by the door. toed off his shoes. didn't bother with the lights.

the bedroom door was open a crack. warm, faint streaks of moonlight from outside spilled through the curtains, painting a pale stripe across the bed.

and there you were.

jack stopped breathing in the moment.

you were asleep on your side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped over the mattress. your hair was spread out, messy and soft against the dark sheets. and you were wearing one of his old tees; from his first years as a war medic. the faded olive green one with the frayed collar that he'd had since his second deployment.

it was too big on you. the neckline hung loose, sagging forward, and in the low light he could see straight through the thin, worn cotton. the bare swell of your breast. the shadow of your nipple, perky and soft against the fabric. the shirt had ridden up exposing the flat plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the gentle curve of your hips where the fabric bunched. and below that, lace. white lace panties, barely anything, just a scrap of fabric over the place he'd been thinking about for fourteen straight days.

fuck.

jack braced one hand against the doorframe. his one good leg failing him. his other hand hung useless at his side. he could feel it, the insistent heat and the weight and the need, starting to build low in his gut, spreading through his pelvis like a fever.

you looked divine.

and, god, he wanted to touch you. he wanted to crawl into that bed, slide behind you, press his bare chest to your back and pull you into him until your plump ass was right against his aching cock. he wanted to push the shirt up and put his mouth on the curve of your spine, taste the salt of your soft skin. he wanted to hook his fingers in that lace and pull it down slow, the way you liked, inch by inch, and bury himself so deep inside you that he could feel every pulse and twitch of your pussy around him.

he wanted to fuck you the way he'd been dreaming about in the on-call room between codes—slow and hard, your legs wrapped around his waist real tight, his forehead pressed to yours, while he whispered filthy, sweet things that made you whine all low and needy for him.

but you were sleeping. you were asleep, and you looked beautiful and peaceful, too pure, untouched by the horrors he'd seen today.

you'd been alone in this bed for two weeks while your husband worked himself into the ground, and you were probably wearing his shirt because you missed him, because you wanted to be close to him even in sleep. and he was not going to wake you up just because he got hard watching you sleep.

so he backed away from the door. quietly. one step, then another.

the bathroom. he'd go to the bathroom. he'd splash water on his face. he'd get himself under control. he'd take a cold shower. he'd—

he saw it the moment he stepped through the bathroom door. the hamper, wicker lid was slightly open. and poking out from beneath a towel was a flash of fabric—soft, pale pink, the kind of thin cotton panties you wore when you were just lazing around the house.

jack stood there for a long moment. his reflection in the mirror looked feral. flush creeping up his neck. jaw clenched so hard he could hear his own teeth grinding.

don't.

he reached into the hamper.

don't do it.

his fingers closed around the panties; lighter, softer than he expected. they were still warm. still faintly damp. he brought them to his face before he could talk himself out of it and—

oh, fuck.

you. it was you. that smell, musky and sweet and unmistakably, devastatingly you.

the scent flooded his senses and something in his brain just short-circuited. his eyes fluttered shut. his shoulders dropped. a sound came out of him that he didn't recognize; low and wrecked and desperate.

his hands were already moving. he pulled the pager from his waistband and threw it onto the bathroom counter where it clattered against the porcelain, the screen flickering once before going dark. scrubs shoved down. briefs next. he was already half-hard and getting harder by the second, and when he wrapped his hand around himself, he groaned through his teeth like a depraved man.

he dragged his fist up the length of his cock, thumb pressing against the underside just below the head, and his hips stuttered forward into his own grip. the panties were pressed to his nose, pressed to his open mouth, and he breathed you in like oxygen. them started stroking his cock.

slow. real slow.

that was the whole point. that was what he'd been craving. not the rushed, fumbling quickies in the dark before his alarm went off, not the half-awake hand jobs that left him feeling more empty than satisfied. he wanted slow. he wanted to feel every stroke. imagining himself fucking into you.

he pumped himself, deep thrusts, his hips rolling forward like he was buried inside you, like his fist was your pussy, tight and wet and warm pulsing around him. he closed his eyes and imagined it. the way you'd clamp down on him. the way you'd whine when he went too deep. deep enough that he was grinding deliciously against your cervix. the wet, filthy sound of skin slapping against skin. the way you'd say his name all pretty when you begged for more more more.

"fuck—" his voice was wrecked. his neck was flushed, blotchy red spreading down from his jaw to his collarbones, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. "oh, fuck fuck fuck."

his hand twisted on the upstroke. his thumb swept over the tip, smearing precum, and he used it to slick the shaft, making everything wet and hot and obscene.

his head dropped back. his mouth fell open. the sounds coming out of him were pathetic—whimpers, really, thin and shaky, the kind of sounds that would humiliate him if anyone at the pitt could hear them. dr. jack abbott, former combat medic, and attending physician reduced to a trembling mess in his own bathroom with his wife's underwear pressed to his face like a perv.

he pressed his tongue to the cotton, licking into the fabric, chasing the ghost of a taste of you—salt and musk and something sweet that made his eyes roll back. just a little taste. just enough to make him tip over the edge.

in that moment morals were the last thing on his mind, what was right or wrong. how he looked utterly desperate and pathetic.

he didn't care. couldn't care.

all he could think of was his hand over his cock and the scent of your panties at his nose while he moaned pathetically to no one: "baby—" the word came out broken. "oh, baby—"

"honey?"

his entire body locked up.

the voice was soft. thick with sleep. coming from the doorway.

his eyes flew open and there you were; leaning against the frame, the olive green shirt still hanging off one shoulder, your hair a mess, your eyes heavy-lidded and confused. the bathroom light caught the curve of your body; breast through the fabric, the bare skin of your hips, the lace panties failing terribly to cover your pussy.

"what are you—oh." your voice caught in your throat as you finally sobered up and saw what was in front of you; in his right hand, your pink panties to his nose. in his left, his cock, slick and flushed and leaking a copious amount of precum.

the silence lasted approximately one thousand years.

"i—" jack's voice came out strangled. he tried to drop the panties. tried to cover himself. ended up doing neither effectively and instead just stood there like a deer caught in headlights, neck burning, chest heaving, looking at his wife with an expression that fell somewhere between mortification and pure arousal. "i can explain, i just—the last two weeks, and you were sleeping, and i didn't want to wake you, and i—"

you sighed, "jack."

"—the thing is your panties looked so pretty and they were just there and i—"

"jack."

he stopped. his mouth hung open. his heart was going to explode.

you looked at him. eyes trailing over his body; his flushed neck, his bitten-raw lips, his swollen cock, his shaking hand. your gaze was unhurried. assessing.

then you said something that made his brain go completely, totally blank.

"keep touching yourself."

he blinked. "what?"

"keep touching yourself." your voice was calm. steady. but there was something underneath it—a current, a heat. "don't stop. i want to watch."

"what do you—" he gestured vaguely at himself, at the absurdity of the situation. "you want me to just—"

"mhm" you hummed, a small grin playing on your lips. "you heard me just right, jackie."

his hand twitched. his cock jerked in his grip. that nickname—it always got him. always. it didn't make sense, not logically, not for a man his age, not for a man who ran trauma bays and made life-or-death decisions before breakfast. but something about the way you said it—soft and sweet, a little mocking, like you knew exactly what it did to him—stripped away every layer of authority and left him raw.

you stepped closer, into the bathroom. bare feet on tile. the shirt swayed against your plush thighs. "keep touching yourself for me."

so he did.

because what else was he going to do? when you, his beautiful wife were standing three feet away telling him to touch himself all sweet and pretty and he had no other choice but to submit.

his hand was already moving again before his brain could form a coherent objection. slow stroke, base to tip, the way he liked you touching him. his thumb dragged over the head again and he hissed through his teeth, his hips rolling into it. the wet sound of it filled the space, obscene and raw.

he gave you a desperate look, awaiting praise, anything that told him this is what you wanted to see.

and you simply watched him.

your eyes tracked every movement—the flex of his forearm, the twist of his wrist, the way his abs contracted with every slow thrust into his own fist. you watched his face, the way his brow furrowed, the way his mouth fell open, the way his jaw went slack when he dragged his thumb just right over the ridge beneath the head.

and lower, his cock was huge, flushed dark and heavy in his grip, curving up toward the silver-streaked happy trail running down his belly. a prominent vein along the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing with each stroke. the tip was blushing rose, shiny and wet, precum leaking in slow, steady beads every time his thumb swiped over it. each pass made a soft, sticky sound that echoed off the tile.

"yeah, just like that," you said quietly, encouraging. "you're doing so good, honey. keep going."

he made a pathetic sound from the praise. a desperate whimper that cracked in the middle, his chin dropping to his chest, his whole body shuddering.

then he heard a familiar beep. his eyes flicked, just for a second, to the counter. to the pager. dark screen. silent. it must have been in his head but his hand still faltered. the rhythm broke.

"eyes on me." your voice came out low, a little commanding. "stop thinking about anything else right now. just us. just this."

"but i heard–" his gaze drifted again. the pager sat there on the counter like a accusation. his jaw tightened. his hand slowed—

"jackie." softer now. but firm. "focus. don't think about anything except my voice. can you do that for me, jackie? can you stay with me?"

oh, now he was a gone man.

"i—" his voice cracked. "'m so sorry-yeah, i can—"

"good boy." the words hit him like a physical blow. his cock jerked in his grip, a fresh bead of precum spilling over his thumb, making everything slicker, wetter. the sound of his hand on himself grew filthier. "just listen to my voice. just feel how good this is. nothing else exists right now."

then you reached for the hem of the shirt and pulled it over your head.

you did it slowly. teasing. fingers curling under the frayed cotton, lifting it inch by inch, letting the fabric drag up the plane of your stomach, revealing your skin bit by bit like you were unwrapping a gift. just for him.

he watched as the fabric skimmed over your ribs first — the ones he'd trace with his lips when you were half-asleep, counting each one with a kind of care that made your breath hitch. then the soft underside of your tits, where he'd bury his face after a long day, nose pressed into the warmth of you, breathing you in. then the shirt cleared your head, and your hair came with it, mussed and wild, falling over your pretty face. you dropped it somewhere behind you without looking. didn't care.

jack's hand faltered. the panties fell to the tiled floor.

you stood there in nothing but those white lace panties, and you were stunning. soft stomach, the way your bare tits spilled over your chest, nipples already peaked in the cool bathroom air. the bathroom light painted you in gold and shadow and jack thought, distantly, that he might actually pass out.

"keep going, jackie," you whispered. "need you."

"yeah—okay, baby." his hand started moving again. slower now. his eyes roamed over you—your collarbones, the dip between your breasts, the way your ribs expanded and contracted with each breath. you were breathing harder now. he could hear it.

then your hand drifted up. over your stomach. over your ribs. and you cupped your own breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and your lips parted and your head tipped back just slightly and—

"fuck," jack groaned. his hand tightened. his pace stuttered. the wet sound of his fist on his cock grew faster shlick shlick shlick frantic and shameless.

then you hooked your thumbs into the lace and pulled it down. stepped out of it. kicked it aside.

and he could see everything.

your pussy was glistening. swollen and slick, your folds shining with wetness. you brought two fingers to your lips, parting them slow, pushing them past your teeth. your tongue dragged heavy against the pads, cheeks hollowing as you sucked, coating them with saliva. he watched, chest heaving, panting low and ragged.

his mouth was practically drooling at the sight, a low, wrecked moan slipping from his throat, his cock twitching violently in his hand.

you pulled your fingers free, a string of spit connecting your lips. then you trailed the wet fingers down slow, leaving a wet streak trailing down your sternum, sliding over the curve of your navel, and disappearing right down between your thighs.

you dragged them through your already sopping pussy—slow, deliberate, showing him exactly how soaked you were just from the sight of him—and the sound it made was obscene. a soft, wet schlorp that seemed way too loud for the quiet bathroom. then you slipped them inside deeper. just to the second knuckle.

his mouty parted, jaw slack, a low moan rumbling out of him. "oh baby, you're so–." the words came out broken, barely held together. "so fucking hot."

"come closer," you breathed. barely a whisper. barely a command. but it hit him like a freight train. "jackie, come here."

he shuffled forward, no hesitation. one step. then another. until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating off your skin, close enough that the wet sounds of your fingers filled his ears. nothing else.

"can you feel me?" your voice was thin, ragged, barely holding together. your fingers kept moving, slow and deliberate, dragging through your own wetness with a sound that made his vision blur. "can you feel my heat, jackie?"

you pressed the heel of your palm against yourself and rolled your hips into it, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, letting out a filthy moan, the sound of his name, jack thought he saw god.

"uh huh," he moaned low at the sight. the sound came out feral. barely human. "yeah, fuck baby, i can feel you—"

he watched you intently, his adam apple visibly bobbing in his throat. and he took note of how your hands moved. commited the act to memory, taking mental notes he would use on you next time.

"i'm so fucking wet for you." you dragged your fingers out, and he watched a thick, glistening strand of slick stretch and break as you pressed them against your clit, circling slow, and your whole body shuddered. "imagine how this tight i would feel wrapped around your cock." your eyes found his, dark and half-lidded and burning. "imagine sinking into me raw."

you were dripping, actually dripping, down your wrist. he could hear it. each tiny wet squelch of your fingers working inside yourself. your thighs were trembling, your stomach clenching, little ah ah ah sounds punching out of you with every curl of your fingers.

"oh, fuck—" his hand tightened on his cock, his pace turning sloppy, his hips snapping forward into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles. "i'd fuck you so deep, baby—stretching you up real nice around my big cock. filling you up all the way to the hilt—i'd make you take every fucking inch and then i'd keep going—"

"ah ah— more jack" you whimpered. your fingers thrust back inside yourself, and the sound it made was pornographic, your pussy sucking at your own fingers. "tell me more. tell me exactly what you'd do to me."

"i'd—god—i'd pin you down," he groaned, his voice cracking. "fold you in half, thighs pressed to your chest, put you in that angle that makes your pretty pussy clench down on me so tight—"

"yeah?" you moaned low and needy, eyes rolling back. "go–ah–on."

"i'd burry my cock so fucking deep in your pussy baby and fuck you until i got you squirting all over my cock just like the last time, make a mess everywhere—"

"oh–fuck–jack!" you pressed your fingers impossibly deeper inside you and rolled your hips into your fingers, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, your tits bouncing with the shift of your hand.

jack almost came at the sight of it, his restraint wearing thin with every stroke, every moan, every second his hands are not all over you.

"can i—" he reached for you with his free hand. desperate. needy. pathetic. "please baby let me just touch you—" he breathed it out like he didn't even know he was saying it. "please, please—"

"uh uh, jackie" you shook your head. "keep touching yourself."

"but, baby, i—"

"just keep your eyes on me." your eyes found his and they were dark now, pupils blown wide, and your voice was still firm but had a tremor in it that hadn't been there before. "just–just a little more, mmkay?"

"okay, baby." he obeyed you easily.

and he watched.

he watched your chest flush, spreading down between your breasts, and he matched his strokes to the rhythm of your breathing without even thinking about it. in and out. slow and steady. the wet slap of his fist working his cock mirroring the wet slide of your fingers inside yourself.

he wanted to put his mouth there. he wanted to taste it. he wanted to bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you had to physically pull him away.

but you said don't touch. so he held back.

when he thought of it, there was something almost intimate about it all. the physical ache of wanting, and the sheer, agonizing will to stay perfectly still. it made a religion out of restraint. just two people laid bare in the quiet, watching each other with a mutual, burning, want. almost as if your souls were already committing the act before your bodies. like this was the truest form of your desire. it was all too much.

and far from enough.

he could feel your breath now. your exhales were skating over his sternum, over his collarbone, up the column of his flushed throat. and as his nose skimmed just above the curve of your shoulder he could smell you—that same scent as the panties, musky and warm and wet, your pheremones rising off your skin in waves, mixing with the vanilla still clinging to your hair.

his mouth was right next to your cheek. close enough to kiss. just mere inches away, you could almost taste him then, his breath brushing over your lips with each sigh.

but he pulled back.

you whimpered then. your head fell forward, your hair curtaining your face, and your shoulders curled inward like the pleasure was too much to hold upright. like some part of you actually hoped he'd give in.

take over and fuck you like you both yearned for.

"oh, fuck—" jack's voice was wrecked. absolutely destroyed. his neck was crimson, his chest blotchy with flush, sweat beading at his temples. his hips were fucking into his fist now—chasing something, building toward something, the slow rhythm he'd tried to maintain falling apart. the sounds his hand made on his cock grew louder, wetter, more desperate. a staccato beat that matched the frantic pulse of his heart. "oh, fuck, baby, you're so—i can't—you're so pretty—"

his hand slowed. his breath hitched.

a sound tore out of him—something caught between a groan and a sob. his whole body shuddered, hips snapping forward into his fist.

you lifted your head. looked at him through half-lidded eyes. his lips were swollen from biting them. his cheeks were wet.

had he been crying?

god, he looked so pretty.

"baby, please—" the word came out whined and fractured, tears streaking his flushed face, barely holding together. the wet sounds of his hand on his cock had reached a fever pitch. "wanna cum, please let me cum—"

your name fell out of his mouth like a prayer. then again. and again. each repetition more broken than the last, each one punched out of him with a thrust of his hips. his hand working frantically now, thumb pressing hard against the underside of his cock his other hand playing with his balls.

he was asking so sweetly. so needy. it almost tipped you over the edge right then and there. it was a rare sight—jack like this. he had his moments of softness with you, achingly tender ones. but this—begging, pathetic, wrecked, stripped of every ounce of control—it fed something in you that you didn't even know was hungry. something primal and dark that liked seeing the man who held other people's lives in his hands come completely undone in yours.

"oh jack, i'm about to—" you whimpered it. low and desperate. more air than voice. "about to–"

"yeah, yeah, give it to me, sweet girl—" he could feel himself getting close. he could feel you getting close. could hear it in the way your breathing went ragged, in the tiny, desperate sounds escaping your throat, in the way your hand was moving faster, your wrist angling just—

"jack—"

he kissed you.

he didn't touch you with his hands. not once. but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. the warmth of your bare chest millimeters from his, the flush of your body bleeding through the air between you, your nipples almost brushing his stomach with every shuddering breath you took. it was like standing next to a fire.

and oh, he wanted to burn in it.

his mouth against yours was all desperation. sloppy and hungry. his tongue pushed past your lips, found yours, licked over it, then dragged against the roof of your mouth. his nose pressed into your cheek. his teeth clicked against yours. he couldn't think straight. couldn't do anything but kiss you and stroke himself and—

you came first.

he felt it. your whole body seized against him—a full-body shudder that started in your shoulders and rippled down through your chest, your stomach, your thighs. you moaned into his mouth. loud. helpless. wrecked. and he swallowed it. every gasp, every broken sound—he drank them down like communion wine as you trembled apart. he could hear it. the way your fingers kept moving through the wettest part of your orgasm, the sound changing, growing thicker, sloppier as your release coated your hand and dripped onto the tile.

that did it.

the taste of you. the sound of you. the feeling of you shaking apart against him while your orgasm rolled through your body—jack's hips jerked forward once, twice, and then he was coming with a groan that came from somewhere deeper than his throat. it ripped out of him, muffled against your mouth, his whole body going rigid, his hand working through it.

he came all over you. hot, thick ropes of it striping across your bare belly, pulsing against your stomach with every wave, the head dragging through the mess he was making of you. and he kissed you through all of it. through the peak and the aftershocks and the slow, trembling come-down. he kissed you until his lungs burned and his legs shook and his hand finally stilled.

the sound of his fist on his cock slowed. each stroke more labored, more sensitive, until he finally stopped, his shaft twitching against your cum-slicked stomach.

when he pulled back, a string of spit connected your mouths. it stretched. broke. his lips were swollen. his eyes were glassy. he looked absolutely, thoroughly destroyed.

and then you both leaned in. slowly. like your bodies just gave up on holding you upright and decided to hold each other instead. noses brushing, breath mingling in the small hot space between your faces.

his fingers came up, tentative, careful, and skimmed over your bare skin. just barely there. light enough to raise goosebumps in their wake, trailing over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip. then his toned arms settled around you, large hands pressing flat against the small of your back, pulling you against him. not tight. just there. you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours, both of you breathing ragged and uneven, still coming down from the high.

your arms wrapped around him, fingers splaying across his firm back, feeling the warmth of him, the dampness, the way his muscles still twitched faintly in the aftershocks.

a beat. his thumbs drew slow circles against your lower back.

then you leaned back. just enough to look at him.

"hi, honey." you said and you smiled at him. soft. sweet. ruined and impossibly pretty. like you hadn't just watched your husband fall apart in front of you. completely ruined to only the sight of you.

"…hey, baby." his voice came out shy. small. a ghost of the man who barked orders in a trauma bay.

then a little sheepishly he added, "sorry for sniffing your panties like that i was just really...pent up. didn't wanna wake you up, baby."

"it's okay, honey. i don't mind." you laughed all soft, too sweet. your manicured fingers drifted up to trail through the salt and pepper hair on his bare chest. featherlight. just barely there. but you could feel him pulse under your fingertips.

"actually..." suddenly you were flushed, smiling a little shy now yourself. "i've also been…pent up this week. been sniffing your shirts too."

"have you now?" that admission woke something raw in him. his jaw tightened. his throat bobbed. then, suddenly, it dawned on him at that moment, tonight when he found you wearing one of his shirts. "wait does that mean–tonight you were–"

you flushed a shade deeper.

"fuck." he groaned. he twitched against your belly, thick and hot and unmistakable. impossible to ignore.

his eyes trailed over you. the way your lips were swollen, slick and kissed raw. the way you were still panting, your chest heaving. your pupils blown wide, dark and hungry, your lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him through the haze. you looked thoroughly fucked and you hadn't even been touched.

his thumb came up, without a second thought, pressed against your lower lip. just resting there.

you opened your mouth, muscle memory. sucked it in slowly, your tongue pressing flat against the pad of it, your eyes never leaving his.

something shifted behind his eyes and he let out a low pleased groan deep in his chest. that hunger—the one you thought was sated—reared its head again. licking its lips. because this wasn't enough. it was never going to be enough. not when you looked at him like that. not when he had spent two whole weeks without you and burried in work at the ER.

you looked at him like you wanted him just as much too.

you released his thumb with a soft, wet sound. looked up at him through your lashes and asked, all pretty and needy and barely above a whisper—

"so you gonna fuck me now, dr. abbot?"

he was already getting hard again.

"fuck yeah."

author note: i think about that scene from animal kingdom alot. had to write it down somehow lol. i'm working on part two of misconduct btw :3