Pairing: Titus Danforth x personal assistant f!reader
Words: 5k
CW: canon typical violence and gore, explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: possessive!Titus, ownership, control, dark themes, abuse of power, power imbalance, age gap (Titus is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), touch starved, oral (m and f receiving), torture murder, switch!reader x switch!titus, a little foot play, Titus cumming in his pants pathetically
Summary: Titus has an affinity for you, the only woman he cannot have—Ursula's assistant. So what happens when you dare to start dating some guy and distancing yourself from him?
a/n: he's just so weird I love him
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
You don’t bother knocking, it’s always more satisfying this way.
You can hear the strangled moan get caught in his throat, the way his muscles tense as you step into the room, suddenly alert and ready to kill whoever just dared to interrupt him. But instead, his eyes land on you and his facade drops even lower, to one of shame, like a little boy being caught doing he isn’t supposed to.
“Kindly let Miranda get off her knees and go back to her desk, her lunch break is almost over and I would really like to take mine at my agreed upon time.”
Your voice is as unkind as you can possibly make it. Not towards Miranda, never towards her. It’s all venom thrown at him. He knows you don’t like it when he does this, knows it takes her those exact fifteen minutes to make herself presentable and rush all the way to the other side of the floor to where her desk is, knows, deep down, that she’s not the one he craves to have sucking him off at 12:15 pm on a random Tuesday.
You count the seconds in your head as your stare off extends itself. It’s never lasted more than 28 seconds.
It’s exactly fifteen seconds later that he relents.
He always relents.
He doesn’t even break eye contact as he, presumably, pulls her off him finally.
You’d had to learn really early on that he likes to be watched, gets off on it and you would not be surprised if his staring is directly linked to how long it takes him to cum once you’ve entered his office.
You’ve never been able to prove it, however, for he doesn’t show it on his face.
He’s always calm and composed, unbreakable.
You fucking hate it.
You wait, impatiently, as Miranda makes herself presentable enough to do her walk of shame back to your side of the floor, to Ursula’s side.
Titus slowly rolls his chair back, the imposing mahogany desk the perfect size to hide a full bodied person underneath it, the leather chair just adding to the old money aesthetic of it all.
The model looking second assistant finally gets up on shaky legs, gaze cast directly towards the carpeted floors as she scurries out of the room, not daring to even cast a glance in your direction.
You simply step aside, letting her flee, knowing fully well you both know this will be her last day working with you. Such a shame, she wasn’t completely useless, not like the girl you had the misfortune of working with two assistants ago.
You shiver at the memory as Titus fixes up his slacks, his unforgiving hazel eyes still on you.
“So,” he begins. “Lunch?”
You roll your eyes, stepping into the room as he sprays cologne all over him. To mask the scent of sex on him or within the room, you don’t know, but you’re soon enveloped in a smokey, honeyed scent that instantly has you just a little more pliant than you were mere seconds ago.
You sit across from him, as is routine now, and the door to the service elevators swings open to Anthony, his private work chef, walking into the office with your usual chicken Caesar salad and his borderline still alive, rare stake. Diet cokes for you both, a rare indulgence that you share.
You don’t say anything as his desk is set up to resemble a dining table. You don’t spare “the help” any kindness, not since the first time you dared utter a thank you in his direction and he came back with a purpled eye the next day.
No, Titus is absurdly particular when it comes to who you address and how you do it. He’s fully aware you don’t belong to him, that claim is his sister and his sister’s alone, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t hurt those that do work for him to reprimand you.
So you don’t even breathe in the young man’s direction, you simply wait, patient and kind, the clock on the wall ticking quicker than it ever has before.
Titus knows you’re cutting it close, knows he shouldn’t be pushing his luck, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll be on time, he’ll make sure of it even if he has to shut down the elevator when Ursula’s one o’clock shows.
He doesn’t bother you with small talk. He doesn’t have to, you both know he knows exactly what you got up to over the weekend.
You know what kind of man Titus Danforth is, know his quirks and…questionable desires, know just how tight of a leash he likes to keep his playthings on.
And that’s exactly what you are.
Not in the "traditional" sense, Ursula would have your head for it.
But you are…entertainment.
He has your location.
He has cameras in your apartment.
He has vetted every single one of your friends and even…taken care of those he didn’t approve of.
He’s met your parents. Met every single romantic interest you’ve had in the two years you’ve been working for his sister, always disapproving.
Titus Danforth takes up the other half of your life unapologetically.
It’s in your contract, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He’s never once asked why you don’t push back against him, why you let him get away with so much. In his eyes, he’s entitled to it, much like every spoiled child is entitled to their every whim.
He’s gotten into a new habit as of recently, however.
It had started whenever you left the office late. A text message lighting up your phone when you made it home safely and didn’t let him know right away. If it were up to him, he’d be sending a car to pick you up and drop you off every day, but alas even he could not force you to accept the offer.
So instead he settled for you telling him you’d gotten home.
But then…he started messaging you all the time.
If he saw you struggling to find your lipstick because you’d forgotten where you’d put it
It’s on the coffee table.
If he saw you walking out for your morning jog without a proper jacket.
It’s flu season, do not make me send a carrier over.
If you put on a lingerie set he didn’t necessarily love while getting ready for work.
Wear the white one I got you last week.
And the worst part?
You do exactly what he tells you.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Without question. Without fuss.
It makes Titus’s blood buzz with excitement each and every time.
He knows he can’t have you.
But he can have this.
“I won’t be going straight home after work tonight.”
You tell him suddenly, breaking the gentle hum of a spell that has fallen over your meal.
His brow furrows slightly, leaning forward in his chair, as if assessing a request for time off from an employee.
“Where will you be?”
You’ve done this dance with him before. There’s even a pre-approved list of people and places you’re allowed to go and be with, which is why you know he won’t be too happy with what you’re about to say to him.
“I have a date.”
If you didn’t know him as well as you do, the intensity of his stare would’ve definitely made you pee your pants. It almost had the first time he looked at you this way, like a child being scolded for setting fire to the family home.
“No you don’t.” He hisses, looking down at his calendar and finding the day’s square absolutely empty.
You shrug, trying to keep your cool as much as you possibly can.
“Spur of the moment.”
You keep eating as if you’ve done nothing wrong but you know the man before you is seething.
When you finally swallow, “He texted me a few hours ago. I said yes.”
The scowl on Titus’s face is piercing as he holds out his hand expectantly and you swiftly move to hand over your phone.
He doesn’t even have to ask for your password anymore. It’s his birthday, he’d chosen it.
You watch, a little masochistic, as he goes through your recent texts. You don’t save their names, there’s no need to give him more information, he’ll know everything about him from the number alone five minutes after you leave the room.
“No,” he says simply, setting your phone down next to his.
“I wasn’t asking for your permission,” you reply, soft yet firm. “Ursula already gave it.”
The mention of his sister having agreed to this is what pushes him over the edge. He stands up abruptly, causing the desk between you to almost tip over your drinks.
You don’t flinch, you’ve honestly lost the ability to when it comes to Titus. You simply stare up at him, devoid of any care or emotion, almost daring him to go against his sister’s wishes.
He doesn’t give you his consent. You don’t back down.
The clock ticks in the background, ominous, haunting.
There’s a knock at the door.
You both know who it is without having to turn, still stuck in that exhausting staring contest.
“We’re starting in five,” Miranda’s voice is meek now, almost a whisper. You cringe at just how much her confidence has plummeted in the past half hour. “Ursula asked me to get you.”
You set your empty plate back on Titus’s desk, wiping the corners of your mouth demurely before you stand back up, smoothing your pencil skirt against your plump thighs and picking up your phone from where he left it.
“I’ll be home around nine,” you tell him, matter of fact.
“I’ll know if you’re not,” he says through gritted teeth. “And there will be consequences.”
You nod, once, curtly, turning towards a practically tomato red Miranda and walking past her as if nothing has transpired.
“Um…sir?” Miranda tries, she desperately tries to be normal about what transpired earlier but fails miserably.
He casts her a glance, stone cold and intimidating, the one that used to have an effect on you but now doesn’t even chip away at your icy exterior. She practically leaps in fear, closing the door swiftly and running after you.
At least he still has an effect on someone.
You’re back home at exactly 8:59 pm.
Titus watches as your body sways lightly, your legs shaky beneath you. You didn't change after you left, still in that sinful skirt. Your hair is a little rustled, your lipstick just barely smudged, your shirt open just one more button than normal.
That's when he spots it, a tear in your sheer black tights, a gaping hole near the inside of your thigh, intentionally made.
It makes his blood boil.
He picks up his phone, calls you. He leans in, pupils dilating as he watches you search your bag, cursing pathetically as you fail to locate your phone.
You're too drunk for this and he has half a mind to make his way over to your apartment to reprimand you for it. How could you have let yourself go this way? Don't you know what men are dangerous, especially in the presence of a beautiful thing such as yourself?
After a few more seconds of futile searching, you give up, tossing your bag to the floor like a fussy child and letting the phone continue to ring into the night as you clumsily make your way to your room.
Titus switches the camera, following you along until you flop onto your bed and seemingly pass out.
He's seething now, morning cannot come fast enough, your punishment hot and delicious on his tongue.
He find himself waiting, impatiently, by your desk for ten minutes after you're supposed to be in. Last he checked, you were getting on a car and driving towards the office but that was twenty minutes ago. Even accounting for traffic at this hour, you should've been here by now.
He has half a mind to call, to scream, to let you know what's waiting for you, but he doesn't. No, his victory will taste sweeter is he can just wait—
"Mr. Danforth?"
A male voice snaps him back to the present. His thunderous gaze meets that of a lanky man in a suit holding out an iPad. Weird, he's never seen this man before in his life.
"Are you waiting on something?" he asks Titus, checking the device in his hands for something to explain the younger Danforth's lingering near his sister's office. "Your sister just departed for Barcelona but if you're having trouble getting a hold of her I can—"
"What?" he hisses.
To his credit, the man keeps his composure, but that doesn't stop Titus from catching the slight flash of panic that crosses his face.
"For the conference?"
Titus doesn't think, he just leaps, grabbing the pad forcefully as he looks through the shared calendar on it, one that he doesn't have access to, one that you've hidden from him.
Barcelona. Resort conference. Five days.
Five fucking days.
You have got to be kidding.
You don't answer a single one of his messages.
Your work email is in constant do not disturb mode.
Out of office.
Yeah, now he fucking knows.
Instead he's been forced to endure the ungodly display of affection your mystery man—Jackson Cooper Jr, heir to the Cooper Media empire—is determined to show, practically turning his office into a fucking flower shop.
Every morning when you're supposed to be getting into work and every night when you're supposed to be leaving, in comes a courier with the largest floral arrangement that he's ever seen.
He catches them walking in from the elevator, almost always making a bee line for his office, to his assistant, before they're redirected to the other side of the floor.
It's absurd, it's ridiculous, it's—
Why the fuck does he care so much?
It's not like he wishes he were Jackson Cooper. Why would he ever want to spend thousands of dollars in flowers?
What a pathetic sight indeed.
And yet...Titus can't help but linger in the obnoxious display of affection. Can't help the way his blood boils every time he thinks about what your reaction will be when you come back to this.
He selfishly hopes, deep down, that you'll find it weird and borderline psychotic, but he knows in his heart that you will be elated. And Titus hates that you'll have such a visceral reaction to another man's affection that isn't his.
So much so that he plans on not being at the office when you do return.
But because everything is about him and the universe is set on torturing him, you're back a day early.
He can hear your angelic voice echo through the empty floor, your excitement and glee, the little shy giggle that escapes you because you think no one is there to hear it.
"...no, I'm sorry. Work just got the better of me," you sigh into your phone. "I do love them, wish I could take them all back to my apartment—no! No, you don't have to, you've already—fine, thank you."
Titus has never seen you give into an argument so easily. Whatever jealousy he's been harboring triples at the mere thought that someone other than him has made you submit with such ease.
He steps further into the room, a selfish thought crossing through him as he weighs his options.
He should take you now, throw your phone in a ditch, carry you by force back to his apartment and keep you hidden there until you're just as addicted to him as he is you.
"It's really no trouble, beautiful."
Titus's blood runs hot with anger as he hears his voice creeping up from the elevators up towards where he's hiding.
Jackson Cooper, in the flesh.
Titus instantly steps into the shadows, a hunter making sure his prey falls into a false sense of security, yes, definitely that.
"Are you still at the office?"
Titus can't hear you answering, far enough away now that your voice is no longer the main course. He can only imagine what's going on now as you squeal loudly, excited and joyful. Can only imagine the type of kiss you're engaged in as the silence goes on for more than a few seconds.
He can only imagine where you're going as the two of you walk out of the office, hand in hand, sporting similar sheepish expressions on your faces.
Titus watches you go, let's you get away, because now he's got only one thing on his mind—
Jackson Cooper is a dead man.
The muffled screams of agony tickle every nerve in Titus's body.
He's never felt this fulfilled in his life, no drink or drug could ever make him feel as high as he's feeling right now.
The blood has soaked through the carpet, definitely; the rope has chafed through the woof of his antique chair.
The curtains are drawn, the office settled into a sensual warm hue of secrecy and comfort.
Jackson Cooper had come to pick you up for lunch and suddenly, all the planning and stalking and fantasy had gone out the window.
He doesn't even bother explaining, he simply put him in a headlock, incapacitating him as Ursula's new second assistant, as he's come to accept, watches in horror.
A shame, really, he was the first one that he hadn't gotten to have his way with before he got fired. Oh well.
He revels in the fear, the thick and heavy fog that has settled into his office, the pungent smell of iron and definitely other bodily functions. All normal, nothing to be ashamed of when you're being tortured.
And yet Titus soaks it all in, doesn't dare make his prey feel any kind of comfort.
Only the inevitability of death. Slow and painful.
"Titus?" the door to his office opens then, the freshness of your perfume blending into the pungent darkness from within his office. "Have you seen—oh."
Titus stiffens, his hunting knife suddenly feeling heavy in his hand, the leather handle uncomfortable for the first time in his life. He watches as your face falls, dread overtaking him without reason.
But then you don't devolve into hysterics, don't start screaming, instead, your face contorts into one of annoyance?
Your head falls back, a groan escaping your lips as you step into the room, closing the door swiftly behind you.
Titus watches you in awe, mouth barely hanging open as Jackson Cooper begins to scream against his gag and thrash against his restraints.
You turn to him and scowl, such an evil sight directed at such a pathetic man. Titus beams.
"Shhh," you tell him, holding out your hand to stop his squirming as you take out your phone and dial.
On his desk, Jackson's phone begins to ring, loudly.
No one mores, confusion causing the delirious man to settle into silence.
And then, his voice mail message fills the room.
You wait, impatiently now, as it ends.
The beep blares, definitive. You open your mouth—
A sob escapes, fake and pandering, your expression remaining as unbothered as ever.
"Um...okay, I see how it is. It's okay, I just...I didn't think—get it together, fuck. I'm not used to being ghosted sorry. I'm..." you swallow, catching Titus's gaze from across the room, entranced and practically salivating. You shoot him a sly smile. "I guess I'm gonna go have lunch with Titus then—you know, you could've just told me you didn't want to see me again, it's...it doesn't matter now."
With that you end the call.
The room settles back into a heavy silence, the only sound being Titus's obnoxious grin and Jackson's distressed panting as they both realize what you've just done—
An alibi.
"Little dove—" Titus starts but you stop him immediately.
"Don't even start," you've never been this short with him. "I'll deal with you in a second."
To pretend like his pants don't tighten, a thrill of excitement shooting down to settle in his stomach, causing his already painful erection to twitch against the fabric.
You dial again. It rings once before the call connects.
"Mistress," you speak again, completely dry and composed, the voice Titus knows you have reserved for his sister. "There's been a change of plans."
Titus doesn’t hear whatever his sister says in return, the impatience ringing in his ears. Even now, even when he’s got a man strapped to a chair, bleeding to death, you’re still not giving him your undivided attention.
You nod along to whatever is being said. "Yes, he...got ahead of schedule..."
You wince, it’s subtle, minuscule, but Titus catches it.
“Do I have to?” You shiver. “Yes, ma’am.”
You reach out swiftly, like pulling off a bandaid. Barely shaking hand pulls open the table side drawer of the piece of furniture next to his couch.
His eyebrows raise in silent knowledge as he watches you pull out his gun, a sleek, silver 9mm, point it and shoot all within a single breath.
Jackson Cooper never even had a chance to battle with the knowledge of death, not when the bullet had already gone through his skull and dented the bulletproof glass behind him, all before the sound had ene processed through the room.
Blood splatters over whatever whiteness remained of Titus’s button down, the hot speckles of crimson tantalizing against his skin.
It’s only when the body tips the chair backwards and the stain spreads that you end the call, tossing both your phone and the gun onto the couch beside you.
Titus licks his lips then, savoring the taste of your first kill as his gaze glosses over with a carnal need to devour you.
He doesn’t wait for the shock to wear off, for you to start screaming at him for his impulsiveness.
No, he won’t waste another second.
He pounces, crossing the room swiftly and enveloping you in his arms. His lips are on yours, the remnants of iron and a taste so uniquely his invading your taste so easily you can't help but lean into it.
You whine into his mouth, opening your lips in search for more. He obliges instantly, tongues and teeth clashing against each other aggressively.
You bite down hard on his lower lip, drawing enough blood to startle him. Titus whines into your mouth, his eyes shooting open like a kicked puppy.
And then you do...kick him.
He falls to his knees, pathetic and broken, eyes practically fully dark as he watches you pant above him.
"You—you fucking asshole," you practically spit. "You couldn't have waited a few more weeks before you decided to kill him?"
Whatever confusion that lingered burned up into blinding anger.
"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
You scoff, running a hand through your hair, throwing it back over the crown of your head.
"I just needed him alive for a few more days."
Now it's Titus's turn to scowl, deeply offended. "How dare you!?"
He goes to stand, bending his knee to get up but you stop him by stepping forward, your crotch dangerously close to his mouth now.
"Don't."
Oh.
Oh.
A terrifying smirk curves Titus's kiss-swollen lips.
He catches the slight quiver of your mouth, the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your legs shake ever so slightly.
He's dizzy with excitement, his ego growing the size of his bank balance.
"Oh little dove," he coos, condescending and pitying, his large, warm hands grabbing at your ankles and slowly making their way up your legs.
He watches as your body tenses, as you clench around nothing. He hums contently, grabbing at the hem of your skirt and slowly rolling it up your thighs neatly.
Your hands shoot down to settle on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you swallow back a needy sigh.
In response, Titus leans forward, placing a kiss over your clothed mound.
"Ursula must be so...disappointed in you, huh?" he leans back enough to finish rolling your skirt, his hands now sliding to cup your ass. "Don't worry, you'll always have a job with me when she inevitably fires you."
That little entitled piece of shit.
His words light a fire throughout your body.
Defiance.
He's not the only one that can play dirty.
You step forward slightly, kicking his bent knee with your stiletto and sending him off balance back down on his knees. Before he can even process what you're doing, you press the sole of your shoe against his crotch.
He whimpers deliciously at the contact, shifting you closer to him, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh.
"Shut the fuck up, Titus," you sigh. "I'm never gonna work for you," you're heaving, panting, so strung up you just—"Now make yourself useful and make me cum."
And for the first time in his life, Titus doesn't get offended by the command. He simply does.
His hands rip through the sheer fabric of your tights, carving a hole bigger than the one he'd noticed a week ago.
You moan at the sheer roughness, his possessiveness always having been something that never made you uncomfortable but rather—
"I can smell how wet you are, little dove," he leans into your damp underwear, inhaling deeply. "My sweet girl, so turned on by all this carnage."
He chuckles, the vibrations making your head fuzzy already.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of you."
And unlike Jackson Cooper, he doesn't torture you further. One hand pulls your legs apart, shifting himself so that he can settle comfortably between your legs and hump your shoe while he pulls your underwear to the side and bury his face in between your glistening folds.
The sinful noises that explode from you suddenly make everything worth it, your taste a sweet wine against his tongue. He doesn't take his time, no, he goes straight for the kill, mouth latching onto your clit, tongue lapping aggressively.
You buck your hips against his face, not worried that you'll suffocate him, he's got a deal with the devil anyway, he'll be fine.
Titus chuckles against you, reveling in the way your slick drips onto his chin and travels down his neck. Just when you clench around nothing again, he lets you go, a heaving cry leaving your lips then.
Before you can complain, he's trailing his tongue up and down your slit, finally relenting to lazy discovery and appreciation.
"Titus—" you mewl. "Please."
His cock twitches against your stiletto then, his hips bucking into you needfully. Your hands tangle into his hair, scratching at his scalp in response, a treat to show him just how good he's making you feel.
"That's it..." you whisper. "Right there, please, I need—"
He knows exactly what you need. He doesn't even have to ask.
He lets go of your soaked underwear, no longer needing to keep it out of the way himself. He swiftly licks two fingers sloppily before he thrusts them inside of you, your warmth swallowing him whole with no resistance.
He groans against your heat, gasping for air as he looks up at you through his lashes. He's so far gone, so beautiful like this, actually doing something worthy of his time.
You reward him by rubbing his raging erection in tune with the movements of his fingers, slow, steady, sharp.
Your chest heaves, air difficult to process as he speeds up, hooking his fingers against that little spot inside of you that makes you see stars.
You clench around his fingers, the fit now incredibly tight, only spurring him forward.
Your foot stops its movements, mind more concerned with the pleasure building within you to bother to keep up with his.
It doesn't matter though, as Titus takes it upon himself to keep up for the both of you.
"Don't you dare cum before I do."
Your voice isn't your own anymore, it's feral and broken, demanding yet desperate. Titus nods his head, lips returning to your clit to speed up the process.
The room explodes into a symphony of moans and screams, the absolute debauchery of your wetness spraying out between his fingers as you come undone, your legs snapping shut over his head.
He drinks it all up, every shiver, every breath, every sharp tug of his hair.
He's gotten a taste now and it's even better than he could've ever dreamed of.
His fingers slow down, working you though your orgasm as he detaches from your clit, his expression of pure adoration and satisfaction one that will definitely remain etched into your memory forever because...
Titus Danforth does not beg.
And yet...his eyebrows quirk in question, silent and heavy, directed towards you.
You nod feverishly, your entire body still buzzing as you watch him use your leg to get himself off.
To say the sight is unholy would be an understatement, even for a devotee of the devil himself. He doesn't dare break eye contact, doesn't dare pretend like he's not cumming desperately in his pants, doesn't hide his own pleasure from you.
You're so overcome with emotion your vision blurs with tears, your hands soothingly raking over his scalp and down his neck as he holds you so tight against him that you're unsure exactly what just actually happened.
You remain stuck like that for a while, your own fluids reminding you that you're alive, a stark contrast to the death that permeates the other side of the room.
The spell is broken when your phone rings, a shrill that sends a shiver down your spine as Titus begrudgingly allows you to detach yourself from him so you can reach over for the offending device.
You answer, nodding along hazily to whoever is on the other side of the call.
"Yes, I'll be there in twenty," you blink away the fantasy of it all, the coldness of reality weighing heavy. "Please call Pernilla and bring myself and Mr. Danforth a change of clothes. Thank you."
a/n: this will most definitely turn into a series. he's just so damn bad and there's so many more places they can come into contact muejejejeje. if you've got any thoughts or requests hit me up!!
dividers by @/enchanthings
all images taken from Pinterest
because americans are not very good at space they directly killed 17 people in preventable deathtraps, but westerners do not care about people like they do dogs
𓏵 ┊ younger girlfriend squirting with jack abbot . 18+
you tell jack who’s been knuckles deep inside your pussy for the past hour that something feels weirder than usual, as you’re sitting in between his legs — your back pressed against his chest with your thighs parted giving him the perfect amount of access needed to pleasure you.
“what’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs against your temple with a gentle kiss as his calloused digits are rhythmically plunging in and out of your hole. curling his fingers sweet into that spongey spot inside of you, it’s almost cruel the way he knows exactly how to make you lose it. “it feels weird.” you testify, eyes fixated on the recurring disappearance of your boyfriend’s fingers inside of you.
“yeah? tell me what feels weird, hm.” he hums, feeling you shift and squirm against him as he holds one of your legs open by the backside of your knee. and you can barely utter the words from your mouth, “your fingers keep pressing against my bladder, its making me feel like i have to go— go to the bathroom.” you bite down on your bottom lip.
every time jack’s fingers plunge back inside you, it feels as if you’re peeing yourself already. as if the motion of his fingers are forcing that specific release from you. “that so?” you feel his chest rumble against you as he lets out a gruff chuckle, “that’s good then. that’s the feeling you want when it starts feeling good, sweetheart.” he reassures, as your walls pulse around his fingers.
you whine, throwing you head back against his shoulder. each drag of his digits bringing you closer, and closer towards the edge as you let out soft moans.
jack let’s out an impressed whistle once he starts to feel your hips rock into hand. “fuck— it feels good.” you moan warm against the side of his neck, “so good i might actually pee.” which earns a low, amused groan from jack.
“mhmm, you gonna make a mess on my hand?” he lifts his thumb up, before pressing mean against your swollen clit making you jolt. “w—wait!” you stammer, throwing your hands towards jack’s forearm in attempt to halt his movements as he shakes his head in disapproval. “uh-uh, can’t have you telling me to stop now.” he rasps, pressing circles around your nub as it twitches under the pad of this thumb.
“c’mon and show me how messy you can get.” his breath fans warm against your cheek, before your body’s involuntarily letting loose. your body is shaking, and your walls are caving in around jack’s digits as you’re whimpering. “thaat’s it, baby— give it to me.” he groans, targeting that sweet spot inside of you, before you’re making a wet mess all over yourself.
“mmgh, jack— jack.” you’re whimpering as slight humiliation fills your chest, though the pleasure is far too euphoric as he coaxes every last drop out of you. “atta girl.” he nudges his mouth against the side of your head to whisper in your ear. “i love nasty girls.” he groans.
pope the type to laugh at you struggling under his grip as he chokes you out w his bicep😭😭😭😭😭😭 #ineedthatsobadyoitsnotevenfuckingfunny
sick & twisted because he rarely laughs or even cracks a grin but the second you’re at his mercy, everything is funny …
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, meanie!pope, manhandling / mentions of play fighting, breath play / choking, dirty talk, pet names.
“i wanna try something,” pope grunts above you, in the middle of working you full of his cock. you whimper at the interruption and he squeezes your waist under his heavy palms to settle you. his eyes rake down your bare frame— the arch of your hips, the way you’re laid out on your tummy and waiting for him to make any kind of move. when you peer at him over your shoulder with a pout, he speaks again.
“don’t worry, brat. i think you’ll like it.”
the last thing you’re expecting is one of his beefy arms hooked around your neck. you gasp just as he squeezes a little, eyes fluttering shut and lashes fanning over the tops of your cheeks while you go dizzy. he’s choked you before after you begged him to, but this is different. this is something he’s been thinking about. something that he’s only done a few times during some play fighting, not with actual intent.
his grip tightens. his bicep presses on your throat as his hips finally move against the fullness of your ass once again. deep thrusts that knock the sense out of your brain, all while you’re getting just enough oxygen to remain conscious so he can still hear those mewls and whimpers falling from your glossy lips. you hiccup his name out once, then twice— your hands come up from the sheets to claw at his arm with manicured nails, leaving little scratches and crescents on his freckled skin. only for him to laugh all breathy and deep over your ear.
“hey, hey— what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he grunts, kissing the side of your face as if he isn’t applying more pressure. he gives your throat another good squeeze and although you’re struggling to take in a breath, your cunt flutters around his shaft like silk, “are you puttin’ on a show for me? because your pussy never lies t’me, she’s loving this … think i can make her cum before you pass out?”
alpha!jack abbot x omega!fem!reader. a/b/o au and dynamics, references to omega discrimination, scenting, instincts, penetrative sex, fingering, sex at work, power imbalance, brat taming, praise, possessiveness, unprotected sex.
word count: 2.4k
a/n: I dont feel great about this one tbh... i dont think i captured the dynamic quite as well as i'd hoped to. but hopefully ya'll enjoy :')
Jack’s really not sure what your problem is.
You’re stubborn, headstrong, overly ambitious, and oftentimes just shy of rude. All of which are things Jack has come to expect from omegas after years of working with them in such a high-stakes environment— most take on an overly-harsh exterior to counteract the stigma they face. It’s a survival mechanism, a necessary precaution in order to be taken seriously and have any chance of success in a profession that’s dominated by alphas and deals with countless assholes day in and day out.
Jack doesn’t begrudge them. He knows that working in the Pitt— or in emergency medicine, or in any medical setting, for that matter— isn’t easy for omegas. He tries to keep that in mind and act accordingly. He works hard to foster a good work environment for everyone on his crew.
He likes to think he does a halfway decent job. And, seemingly, most of the omegas that have passed through his supervision over the years would agree. Once they see how he runs things they usually start to let their guards down a bit. They stop entering every situation with their teeth bared and hackles raised. They speak their minds with confidence rather than nervous aggression. They accept his teaching without assuming he’s trying to undermine them.
They even start to give in to their instincts a bit, without fear that he’ll think of them as weak or take advantage of their vulnerability. They allow themselves to preen under his praise, submit under his command, and settle under his comfort.
Not you. You’ve been here for 3 months now and he can still feel your eyes tracking him through every room like you’re waiting for him to pounce. You still respond to everything he asks through clenched teeth, like you’re bracing for backlash that never comes. You still roll your eyes at every one of his jokes and question every one of his orders.
Tonight is no different. If Jack took a shot every time you rolled your eyes, scowled, or talked back to him, his name would be up on the patient board.
He should find it infuriating. Part of him— the most basic, primitive part— does. You give him the urge to snap his teeth and growl, make you show him some respect.
The rest of Jack finds you… interesting. Exciting. Jack loves a challenge, and you pose a very fun one. He’s determined to figure you out.
Jack tracks you down after shift change. He finds you in the empty room of the last patient you discharged. You’re hunched over your rolling computer cart, finishing up some charting.
When he walks in you look startled, then cornered, then extremely irritated.
“You know, I came in here for some peace and quiet.”
“Do you have some kind of problem with me?” Jack asks, choosing to ignore your snide greeting. You eye him for a moment, like you’re deciding whether you want to tell the truth or not. He raises a brow and waits.
“You clearly don’t trust me with the patients.” You eventually say, stony. Not true. “You’re always— hovering. Like you’re waiting for me to slip up. But I’m not gonna slip up”
Anxiety and vulnerability roll off you in waves, souring your scent. When Jack smells it he desperately aches to soften. To gather you in his arms and rumble out assurances. I know you won’t, little omega. You do such a good job. You’re so good. It takes everything in him to stifle the urge.
“I’m your attending,” he says calmly, careful to keep his voice even. “It’s kinda my job to keep an eye on you. Y’know, to attend.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re not my attending.” You grind out the words, and maybe Jack’s reading into it, but you sound… bitter? Jealous? “You and Shen are the attendings. Supervising me isn’t your personal little pet project.”
“You want it to be?”
You look taken aback. Just for a second. Jack can’t help but revel in it– you’re not easy to shake.
“I just want you to fuck off and stop breathing down my neck so I can actually do my job!”
Jack doesn’t respond for a moment. He barely manages to stifle his surprise at the fact that an omega just, essentially, cursed him out and spat in his face. He stares down his nose at you, intentionally allowing the silence to feel thick. Studying you.
He sees you catch on. You straighten up, even puff out your chest a bit, trying to look strong and sure and unbothered.
It’s a good attempt, he’ll give you that. You’d have plenty of alphas fooled.
But Jack catches the way your head tilts back for just an instant like you’re about to bare your throat. Sees the flash of doubt in your eyes, like your instincts are begging you to just give this up already, roll over, and show him your belly. Oh. That’s new. He feels his cock swell.
“Yeah? You want me to fuck off?” He lets his voice drop an octave. You make a choked, barely-there sound that he’d like to call a whimper. Your scent shifts sweeter.
Jack steps towards you, big and slow and imposing, and is surprised again when you don’t back up. Ballsy little thing.
“You know what I think?” His voice is smooth, low, almost a purr. Dripping with alpha condescension.
Jack sees your throat bob as you swallow. You just glare up at him without a word, and he knows it's because you don’t trust your voice not to waver. He smirks.
“I’ll tell you, sweetheart.” He watches you shiver. He’s so close now that he’s almost touching you. “I think you know that I’m good at what I do. I think you respect me. Maybe even like me a little. And all this attitude you give me…” he raises a brow and leans down, letting his breath fan over your face, “Is you trying to overcompensate for the fact that what you really want is to be bent over and put in your place.”
It’s bold, Jack realizes. Might be too much. Could make you turn tail, but he doubts it. You’re braver than that.
He watches you stiffen. There’s a flash of blatant hunger in your eyes— bingo— but it’s quickly snuffed out by stubborn defiance.
“I’m not just some needy ommie who’ll give it up to any alpha with a pulse.” Your voice only wavers a little.
“Oh, I know.” Jack nods. He feels, looks, and smells painfully smug. His voice is like velvet. “But you’ll give it up to me, won’t you?”
That breaks you. You practically collapse in on yourself, all small, and breathe out an involuntary “alpha.”
“There it is.” Jack coos. The praise makes you preen, and you extend your neck, baring your throat for Jack to brush his lips against. You smell fucking delicious. “Sweet little omega. You don’t have to fight it.”
“You’re such a douchebag.” You bite out. Sure, it’s weak and shaky, but it impresses Jack regardless. He has his nose pressed against your gland and you’re still talking back.
“Ooh, you don’t quit.” He rumbles. He pulls back slightly, his big hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His eyes rake shamelessly down your body, not even trying to hide his desire. He’s sure you can smell it on him anyway. “What’s it gonna take, baby? Do you need my cock inside you to finally start behaving yourself?”
“You tell me, Abbot.” You sneer. “What’s it gonna take, in your professional opinion?”
Jack smiles, challenging and predatory in a way that would make most omegas wither. But not you. Your lip curls up, showing off cute little canines. He can’t help but groan and grind down against your abdomen.
“Fuck, baby.” Jack growls. “So cute when you act all tough.” He grips around your hip with a big hand and backs you up against the hospital bed while the other works hastily at the waistband of your scrubs. Once he has them loosened, he shoves his hand right down the front of your panties.
The second he gets his fingers inside you, you melt. Slick practically pours onto his hand. The strong, heady scent of it is overwhelming. It makes his nostrils flare.
If the way you’re squirming around on the bed and whining incoherently tells him anything, it’s that he’s not gonna need to get his cock involved to make you behave. The realization hits him like a truck, right through to his ego.
“There you go, little omega. You like that?” He taunts.
You nod, finally eager and obedient. It’s like a victory after all the fight you’ve given him. Jack didn’t know that submission from an omega could feel quite this good. It usually comes too easy.
“Yeah. Good girl. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
“D-Dr. Abbot— alpha— please.”
You sound fucking broken and Jack can’t stand it. His instincts whir— make her happy, make her feel good, fill her up.
“I’ve got you.” He repeats in the low, steady voice he reserves for omegas in distress. He pulls his fingers out of you, and it’s only so he can free his cock from his scrubs, but you whine anyway.
“Fuck— hurry up.”
“Shh. Easy.” Jack murmurs. His free hand reaches up, intending to stroke soothingly across your cheek— but he has to yank it away when you turn your head and nip at his fingers like a kitten. Fucking brat.
“Settle down.” He growls. The tone squeezes you tight, wrings out any fight you have left. You’re left lax on the bed below him– boneless, pliant, willing. Good, his alpha purrs. “That’s better. Just take what I give you.”
Jack slides his hard cock through your slit once, coating it in your slick, before he pushes into you.
You feel like heaven— the hottest, wettest, tightest fucking pussy he’s ever had. And the sound you make when he stretches you. That high pitched, keening moan of pleasure. Jack wants to bottle that sound.
“Good omega.” He purrs, leaning down to press hot kisses along the column of your neck. He’s possessed by the need to ensure you smell like him for days.
You arch into it, exposing your throat further, pushing your hips down on his cock.
“You feel so fucking good. You were made for this.”
You whine at that, and Jack can see your mind wrestling with the sentiment despite the way it makes your pussy gush and your instincts sing.
Jack hushes you. “It’s okay.” He holds you still by your hip and litters more wet, soothing kisses across your jaw. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it, sweet girl. Let yourself enjoy this.”
“Abbot—“ when you say it, Jack can’t stifle his choked laugh— “feels so good.”
“Call me Jack, baby, my fuckin’ dick’s inside you.” He shakes his head before he briefly connects his lips with yours. “Jesus. I woulda done this ages ago if I knew you wanted it this bad.”
His cock sponges over your g-spot and his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust. He can feel you getting close— your pussy’s clenching, you’re whimpering louder, slick is dripping down your thighs and onto the bed below. Your hands grapple desperately at his freckled sides, arms, and shoulders, nails leaving indented crescents in their wake.
“Come on, sweet omega.” Jack purrs in your ear. His hand finds your breast so he can thumb circles on your nipple as further encouragement. He fucks into you relentlessly. “I want you to cum for me. Milk my cock.”
“Jack— Alpha— fuck.” You sound broken as your orgasm washes over you. You shake below him on the table— lips parted, brows furrowed, eyes locked on his. Jack growls.
“There you go, that’s it. You’re so good.” He means it more than he’s ever meant anything. You’re so fucking good. You look good, you smell good, you feel good, you sound good. Jack’s not gonna last much longer. “You’re such a good omega.”
“Yours,” You keen— and fuck, you’re still cumming. “Your omega.”
“Mine.” Jack nods. His hips falter. “My good girl. Doing so well for your alpha.”
Jack lets his teeth ghost over your mating bond, grazing the tender, unbroken skin there.
The whimpery sound you let out sends him over the edge. His hips snap forward one more time and he spills inside you with a long, low groan. It takes everything in him to hold back and not bite you right then.
“Babygirl,” Jack grits out once he can speak, breathless. Your walls are still fluttering around his softening cock. “You’re fucking incredible.”
You don’t say anything. He lifts his head from the crook of your neck. “Hey. Look at me. You okay?”
“Jack…” you murmur. You’re looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars, and he feels like he could start glowing. Still, your scent sours with uncertainty. “Jesus, this is— we shouldn’t have—“
“Why not?”
“This is completely unprofessional—“
Jack scoffs. “Yeah, doll, we’re well past that.”
“This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid!” Your voice is raised. “And you make it very difficult!”
You’re clearly dismayed, and Jack shouldn’t grin, but he does.
“Do I?” Jack leans down to nose against the gland on your neck again. He smells only himself there, mingling with your scent, and goddamn he could get hard again. His tongue darts out to soothe over the area, and you melt. “Do I make it hard for you to conduct yourself?” He lets a mocking lilt bleed into his tone. “Is that why you insist on being such a pain in my ass all the time?”
“Don’t be mean.” You grumble. You're trying, and failing, to maintain your contempt. The words come out far too pleading.
“Attagirl. Now you’re getting it.” Jack coos. He leans down and gives you a kiss. “If you want me to be sweet on you then all you have to do is ask.”
You scowl at him. You still smell anxious, and that won't do at all.
Jack's expression softens. He deepens his scent to match, radiating protective reassurance. "Everything's gonna be okay, doll. I'll make sure of it."
established!Rabbot X Reader, Jack Abbot X Reader, Michael Robinavitch X Reader
Summary: Robby ‘hates’ his new resident so much that he notices something very interesting about her
Warnings: Praise kink, BDSM in a non-sexual setting, non-sexual submission, non-sexual intimacy, very soft jack abbot, small bit of an asshole michael robby robinavitch,so many pet names, mentions of workplace bullying, mentions of suicide and medical procedures
Wordcount: 4,021 words
A/N: This is all disgustingly self-indulgent. I am writing this while very sleep deprived and very lonely and just in need of a little comfort. Please let me know if anyone is too OOC!! Also i stole samira's case from ER 😭😭
Abbot gif is from @ho-ii and i'm not sure where Robby's is. If anyone knows lmk!!!
Robby wanted it to be known that he really, really, really did not want to like you.
You, who was headstrong, stubborn and particular. You were a Presby transfer, one of their prized senior residents who just didn’t get along with their team. It was hard and impacted your ability to work and after one too many cruel schoolyard jokes, you jumped ship. You took to the teaching hospital’s ways and its momentum quite quickly. You didn’t hesitate to correct an intern or med student. You never gave a second thought to questioning an attending or fighting a call someone made that you didn’t agree with.
You, who was also patient and kind. You took extra time with struggling interns, calling them into labs to practise sutures or to go over procedures they couldn’t seem to crack after your shift - time you knew you wouldn’t be paid for. Any mistake a student made during procedures was gently amended, be it by putting your hand on theirs to guide them or just by giving additional verbal instructions.
This was all mostly fine to Robby. Really, he told himself he could handle it for someone Presby was borderline crying over losing.
It was all fine until you walked in on him absolutely whaling on Samira Mohan.
You stood at the door, expression changing immediately. You gawked at him when he told you he was busy, and to ask Dana if you needed something.
Mohan’s case was not too complicated, all things considered. A lady came in after being hit by a car. The car wasn’t going all that quickly, so she wasn’t too badly injured. You had overseen Whitaker doing some of her sutures and knew they had it handled. No internal bleeding, great GCS level, maybe a minor concussion at most.
Nobody had accounted for her general melancholy throughout the procedure. She was lamenting about how late she’d be for work. There wasn’t much anyone could say to that, she needed treatment and she was getting it in a very busy, very understaffed ER. Mohan ran it by you afterwards and you approved the discharge.
She was back in maybe an hour later. She had jumped from a three-storey height. It was hopeful when she first arrived, but things turned complicated and she never even made it to surgery. Time of death, 6:12PM.
Robby’s brows were so furrowed they were pretty much touching. He was going on and on about missed signs and how the car accident had clearly been a suicide attempt. You stood up and argued back - how could she possibly have predicted someone would do that? Her sadness was chalked up to the adrenaline leaving her system, and why wouldn’t that have been the answer? She was just in a car accident!
You sent Samira out, and he reminded you that you had absolutely no authority to do that. You told her to go, anyway. The two of you went back and forth and back and forth until he finally relented. This wasn’t anybody’s fault. You’re doctors, not mind-readers.
After that ‘blatant disrespect’ he had suffered, he was doing everything he could to try and find fault with you. He needed something to write you up, to ride you about. He needed to even the score, and remind you he was top-dog around here.
He followed you from case-to-case, watching how you spoke to everyone and did everything. This was when he noticed something about you.
You were very, very quick to dole out praise.
Whitaker assisted you in a really clean intubation? “Good man, that’s exactly what we want.”
Javadi catching a small symptom that could have turned fatal? “Amazing catch, we’d be lost without you.”
None of it was sarcastic or felt over-the-top. It was warm and fond and real. You loved teaching them, you loved seeing them gain their confidence.
You were shy, too. Not usually, but sometimes. When you got a taste of your own medicine with a ‘good save’ or a ‘nice job’, you got so bashful. All red and quiet, for once. He filed this information away, although he really didn’t know why.
You weren’t warm to him. You were strictly professional after you caught him with Mohan. You seemed to be good friends with her. He liked Samira, he really did. She was talented and could be brilliant if she applied herself like he wanted. Maybe he pushed too hard, she seemed to perform perfectly with you.
Abbot really liked you as well. You worked a double in your first week and you - unsurprisingly - got along just as swimmingly with the ‘night crawlers’ as you did with the day shift. It was starting to piss him off at this stage.
Every time he and Abbot met up at home, you were the first topic of conversation. He ranted and raved about what you did and what you didn’t do and why it annoyed him and why he didn’t think you were gonna be a good fit in the long run.
His husband listened, of course, and empathised with him. It’s hard to work with someone you don’t seem to like at all. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. This time, when Robby started, Abbot had to intercept.
“Mike, baby. This is becoming an obsession." When Robby opened his mouth to argue back, Abbot couldn’t help but take notice of the slight flush on his cheeks. The same flush he had had every time he brought her up recently.
At first, he had assumed that he was just getting worked up about you, but now…
“Honey, I think you might have a little crush.” Abbot said softly. Robby scoffed in response.
“Well, I’m hardly gonna leave you at this stage.” He put his palms on his eyes and pressed hard. Abbot leaned over and gently lowered them before he hurt himself.
“She’s fake as fuck, brother. You should hear how she talks to the others. It’s like a fucking kindergarten.” He groans, squeezing Abbot’s hands.
“What, all this ‘cause she won’t call you a good boy?” He joked, but he smiled when Robby blushed harder.
“Ohhhh, brother.” He laughed, scooping Robby up into his arms and squeezing him. “You got a crush, it’s okay.”
“I’m married.” Robby whispered into his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know, champ. I was there.” Robby raised his head to glare at him.
“I wouldn’t want her to be anywhere else. I mean…” Abbot looked down at Robby, wiggling his eyebrows emphatically. “I wished she’d have preferred nights for a while.”
Now, Robby’s head flew up.
“You’ve thought about her?” He asked.
“Not as much as you, hon. But, yeah, I have.” Abbot squeezed him gently again.
“W- why?” Robby’s question was fair. They’d swung for a bit, yeah. But Abbot didn’t go for women. Not after his late-wife. Robby fiddled with Abbot’s blackened out band, resting underneath their matching ones.
“Well, she’s pretty. Seems like she’s a good girl, too.” Abbot said, shrugging off his concern.
“Don’t tell her that.” Robby huffed, rolling his eyes. “It fucks with her flow.”
“Does it now?” Abbot intoned. He found that very, very interesting.
It had been a few weeks since you last ran into Jack Abott. Robby was off and Shen had covered the day. He did a hand-off and ran for the hills. Abbot is secretly glad he doesn’t prefer the days. He’s a pretty vital part of his crew. Abbot met you just as you were surveying the board for the last time.
“Anything you need to warn me about?” He asked. You laughed, this guy was a sucker for gossip.
“Nothing too interesting. Central 12’s a biter, though. Relative distance is recommended.” You supplied, lips thinning even with your smile.
“Doin’ anything for the night?”
“Nothing, just sleeping.” You responded, sighing. This little tell was the closest to complaining he’d seen you. Abbot nodded. You looked like shit.
“Eat something nice and go straight to bed.” He didn’t quite order you to do it, but it definitely wasn’t a suggestion either.
“Sir, yes, sir.” You gave him a mock salute, standing up straight.
“Good girl.” He said, patting your shoulder and walking away. He looked back after a moment to look at you and sure enough, you were short-circuiting.
Like Robby had been doing for you, you very much actively tried to avoid him. Which didn’t typically work. You couldn’t seem to stop running into him.
Your frosty demeanor didn’t waver with him, but his had softened greatly with you. He had taken to sticking around for your procedures again, nodding affirmatively when you did the right thing, or offering a gentle “ah-ah” when doing something he thought wrong.
He often went to you after a tough patient, asked if you needed anything or if you wanted to talk. You tried to be open to it, you really did. But he got under your skin. You were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You had spoken to Samira about how Robby was when first started, kind and encouraging. How quickly he turned cruel and empathetic when he found a new ‘star student’. You didn’t want to be his star student, but you seemed to have had most of his attention recently.
You knew he’d turn on you again, and when he did the others would follow. It happened at Presby, and it’ll happen here. You could feel it in your bones, you wouldn’t let them get the leg up on you like that.
The day finished up and like always, you searched the board. You wanted any reason to stick around for a bit, to chat to someone, to be useful to someone else. Robby walked over and prattled on about his weekend plans. Him and Abbot were both off, something that almost never happened.
“C’mon, you got here early. I’m not gonna let you do any overtime.” Hands on your shoulders, he gently steered you towards the exit. You hadn’t brought in anything other than your worn hoodie and your phone, both of which were in your possession, so you had no excuse to not follow.
“You got a ride?” He asked, eyeing your lack of keys.
“Car’s at the shop.” You admit sheepishly. “I’m walking today.”
Robby frowned.
“No, you’re not. I’ll give you a ride.” He shook his head, hand going to your shoulder to hold you in place before crossing the road. He used the same hand to lead you across the road. You couldn’t help but relax a little at the action. You liked just following along with whatever people wanted at the end of the day. I mean, your whole job revolved around making choices to save lives, who would want to make a decision about themselves after that?
“You really don’t have to, Dr. Robby.” You murmured.
“He’s not, I am.” A gravelly voice caused you to look up. Jack Abott stood by their car, dangling the keys until they made a jingleing noise. You clearly weren’t the only one surprised. Robby’s eyebrows shot up. He went over and kissed Abbot on the cheek.
“We actually had a question for you.” Abbot spoke, hand rubbing Robby’s back.
“If you don’t have plans tonight, would you have dinner with us?” Your brows shot up this time.
“But- you…” Your eyes shifted between Abbot and Robby several times.”
“Want you to have dinner with us? Yes.” Robby finished off what he assumed your sentence would have been.
“I- I’d hate to intrude.” Was all you could think to say, because one part of your brain immediately wanted to say ‘yes!’.
“Good thing you wouldn’t be, then.” Abbot smiled at you, winking. “Look, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. We want you to, but your word is final. We won’t be offended.”
“We can pretend this never happened. We drive you home and we don’t talk about it again.” Robby confirmed softly.
“No, I- I don’t have any plans. Dinner would be nice…” You admitted, stomach starting to grumble. Robby’s did too, causing Abbot to laugh.
He ushered both of you in the car and drove to what you could only assume was their house. A real nice, big townhouse a little ways outside the city. It was quiet, but thoughtfully decorated. The lawn was stunning and the colour pleasing to the eye. You were invited inside to see the gorgeous interior. The kitchen was a mix of modern furniture with retro colour schemes - reds, blacks and blue used interchangeably. The house seemed to be lit according to mood, with the kitchen lights on full whack and the dining room a little dimmer.
“I actually have it all ready, just sit down anywhere.” Abbot instructed, not caring that he admitted he assumed you were going to say yes.
“Can I help?” You asked.
“Yes, by sitting down.” Robby replied, pointing to one chair in particular. Right to the head of the table.
Abbot’s voice rang out again - “Do you drink wine?” - Upon hearing your affirmative, his head popped through the doorless frame.
“White or red?”
“Red, please. Will I help set out the drinks?” You asked for the second time.
“You can stay right where you are, please.” You are told for the second time.
After what feels like an eternity (it was 5 minutes), a small bowl is placed in front of you and your wine is topped up just slightly. Robby took the seat in front of you and Abbot beside you, at the head.
All three of you ate in relative silence, before you broke it to compliment the soup. It was potato and leek, so creamy and starchy that you didn’t even feel the crunchy onion-y texture.
“Thank you, you’re very sweet.” Abbot smiled at you. You tried to control your blush, ducking your head modestly.
“Isn’t she just?” Robby agreed, as you hurriedly spooned another mouthful of soup into your gob.
The first course passed quickly after that. Robby collected the bowls, pushing you down in the chair when you got up to help him. He disappeared into the kitchen.
“You don’t know when to give up, do ya?” Abbot asked, laughing slightly.
“I’m not good with being idle.” You admitted, laughing along. He stared at you for a bit.
“You can relax, you look so tense. Did you have a bad day?” He asked kindly.
“No, no. Everything went very well. I’m just… I’m just like this.” You laughed again, albeit a bit more nervously this time.
“Uh-huh, well, I want everyone who walks in here to feel better when they walk out. Is there anything I can do for you?” His gaze followed yours, ducking his head to look you in the eyes. It’s hard to ignore the husky undertone in his voice.
“Look up at me, please. It’s not good to slouch.” He gently corrected and you rushed to remedy yourself.
“Sorry, Dr. Abbot.”
“You’re okay, I just don’t want your back to get sore. And, call me Jack when we’re not working.”
“Yes, sorry Jack.”
“Good girl, you’re okay.” He doesn’t miss the way the tension leaves your shoulders. You stare at him for a moment, your eyes almost glazing over before Robby returns.
“Roast should be ready in 20.” He murmured, squeezing Abbot’s shoulder as he passed him. Him and Abbot exchanged a few looks before Robby began again.
“You’re a very smart girl.” He stated simply, you couldn’t help but whip your head over to him.
“Settle.” Abbot huffed a small laugh.
“I’m sure you can see we didn’t call you just to eat with you.” You didn’t know what to say to that. You simply hummed and nodded for him to continue.
“Jack and I have a particular… void that needs filling. And you seem to be the perfect candidate.” Robby continued, watching your face very closely. He saw your brows furrow.
“We aren’t asking you to have sex with us.” Abbot spoke very quietly, “That isn’t what we want.”
“Then what is this ‘void’?” You asked cautiously, not sure if you felt relieved or disappointed you attendings didn’t want to have sex with you.
“We’re old men, who make a lot of money and don’t have family to look after. We want someone to take care of.” Robby informed you.
“You want me to be your sugar baby?” You asked, a bit incredulously.
Simultaneously, you heard a ‘no’ and a ‘sort of…’. Abbot glared at Robby.
“Are you familiar with BDSM dynamics, honey?” You tried not to react when Abbot called you honey but judging by the way he looked at you, you failed.
“I-yes, I am.” You mutter, looking down again.
“Ah-ah, look up.” Abbot couldn’t help but remind you. Robby gawked at him, but you looked up automatically. Abbot tipped your chin encouragingly.
“Have you had any experience with it?” He asked and Robby turned his attention back to you.
“Uh, a bit, yeah.” You admitted in a whisper. God, this was so fucking embarrasing. Robby reached across the table for your hand, which had clenched around itself. He unwinded your fingers and placed his hand on top of yours, rubbing circles onto it.
“Can you tell us what you were doing?” He asked softly. Suddenly, it was hard for you to remember why you didn’t like Robby.
“I was- I was a submissive. Sometimes for sex, but usually domestically.” You murmured, feeling a bit lost in his gaze.
“Thank you for answering. You had a regular dom then?” He asked. You blinked up at him slowly.
“No, I was a part of this, like, group. You texted in and someone usually responded. I knew a few of them well but not all of them. I just… I just needed to be out of my head.” You shared, feeling a bit like a common whore. You went to look down again, but Robby clicked his tongue.
“I believe Jack asked you not to do that.”
“Sorry, Dr. Robby.”
“Michael, please.”
“Sorry Michael.” You murmur automatically.
“No apologies necessary, sweet girl. That must have been hard to tell me.” You nodded without thinking. Abbot piped up again.
“That’s exactly what we want. A submissive. You don’t have to fuck us. We want to feed you, bathe you, dress you up. We want you to listen, and do as you’re told, and to feel free.” Abbot took your other hand, thumb rubbing up and down your wrist.
“You don’t have to even try it. If you’re not interested, we eat dinner, drop you home and pretend none of this happened.” Robby promised, squeezing your hand.
“No pressure. If you want to think about it, then same thing.” Abbot assured.
“I… I do want to try. I haven’t done it in a bit, I might be a bit shit at it.” You admitted, feeling a bit exposed.
“You have been doing absolutely wonderfully.” Robby reassured you quickly.
“You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, we’d do that for you.” Abbot added.
“Okay, I’ll try it with you. But if I don’t fall deep, don’t be upset.” You warned
“Stop getting in your own head about this, we’ll take it as we go, babe.” Robby brought your hand to his lips, kissing each finger between words. You revelled in the attention for a moment, and you knew they knew. You felt yourself settle down, the weight rolling off your shoulders.
You didn’t notice Abbot getting up beside you, so you jumped when a plate was placed in front of you. Abbot petted your hair soothingly.
“Hush, it’s only me. Here, Mike…” As he passed Robby his own. He placed his own down and quickly plucked the cutlery from your hands.
“Would you like it if I fed you, hon?” Abbot asked quietly, waiting for your response. You nodded slowly.
“Brave girl.” He noted you must have been wrecked to give in so easily.
The plan had initially been to just ask you tonight. Talk to you a bit about it, get to know you. You’d talk about expectations and fears and all of you would set a schedule. Which would still need to be made, but tonight was not the night. Abbot really hadn’t meant to start domming you before you’d even discussed it, but you were plain irresistible. It irritated him how you couldn’t see it. He could see you needed it tonight, Robby could too. You were barely hanging on.
“Do you like to try everything separately first or do you usually go straight in with your meal?” Robby asked before Abbot began.
“Separately, if it’s not too much trouble.” You disclosed, reaching to take the fork from Abbot’s hand preemptively. Abbot gently lowered it.
“Hands on your thighs or on the table, please. Thank you for telling me, I’d like to feed you.” They had a feeling you would need more than a simple instruction. You seemed to be a lot more insecure in yourself than they originally thought.
Clear instructions, easily-won praise often, and many reminders of the initial order or rules. They could remedy that, if you would let. They could only hope you would.
Abbot handfed you every bit, stopping every few to take some himself. When he was eating, Robby took the opportunity to feed you some of his own.
“You are taking this so very well.” He murmured, rubbing your cheek after a bit.
You had cleared the plate before you knew it, and Abbot smiled wide.
“Very, very good. Do you want anymore?” You shook your head lightly, muttering a small ‘no thank you’.
“Thank you for being so polite, sweet girl. You are doing so well. It’s hard to let someone take care of you, isn’t it?” Abbot asked empathetically, taking both of your hands in his own and kissing them. He turned to Robby, who was only watching.
“Mike, could you…” He asked Robby something, but you didn’t quite catch it. You watched him stand up and walk around to you.
“C’mere… That’s a good girl.” Robby spoke, bringing you into the living room. He plopped himself down on the middle of the couch and when he went to pull you into his lap, he was surprised to find you on the floor. You knelt between his legs, not needing to be told to get into position and falling into total habit for the first time tonight.
“Aren’t you a high achiever?” He crooned into your ear, petting your hair. He grabbed a pillow from the end of the couch and quietly ordered you to move for a moment. He could see the panic in your eyes and dropped the pillow. He brought his hands to your hips and looked up at you.
“I just wanted to move this underneath you so you’re not in any pain. You’re not in trouble, we’re all okay.” He assured quickly, thumbing circles onto your hip bones. You nodded and lowered yourself onto the pillow when he had it placed.
“Is that much better, honey?” He cooed at you from above.
“Mhm-hmm. Thank you, Michael.” You instinctively leaned against his left leg. He continued cooing at you until Abbot came back in. They said something to each other, but you weren’t listening. You didn’t feel like you needed to. You weren’t told to pay attention to anything.
“Feeling okay, baby?” Abbot looked down at you, gently tugging your chin upwards to meet his eyes. He was sitting on Robby’s left side. You nodded slowly, eyes glazed over. You smiled softly at him and he released his hold, letting your head fall back to where it was.
“Best girl.” He said, scratching your scalp, while Robby’s leg supported your body weight.
In the morning, you would hope and pray tonight was not a fluke and that you impressed them. But tonight, you weren’t worried about that. You weren’t worried about a thing at all.
jack forcing you to hold the vibrator that you’ve gotten quite attached to against your clit while you’re bouncing on his lap and mewling—
it’s not your fault that he got it for you to play with on your extra lonely nights and that’s exactly what you use it for … kind of. the agreement is that you ask for permission each and every time, and jack didn’t anticipate that his sweet girl would be sneaky and use it night after night without bothering to ask. didn’t imagine that you’d overstim yourself on the toy until you’re borderline stupid with cotton between your ears and you’re ready to completely pass out.
that’s why you haven’t taken your melatonin in weeks, he realizes.
he only catches on because you were admittedly dumb and clumsy one night. you forgot to hide the pink wand before you allowed yourself to float off into dreamland like usual. you left it out and inevitably kicked it off of the bed in your slumber, only for jack to find it on the floor the next morning after work with furrowed brows. that’s all it took, and your punishment was decided right then and there.
it’s clear that you won’t have his permission to cum anytime soon. he’s already denied you three times with no intentions of relenting.
your hips and thighs burn as you move, rocking yourself on his cock whilst you’re panting and drooling against his beefy shoulder. soon enough he has to bat your trembling hand away and hold onto the toy himself with a groan falling from his lips as you babble uncontrollably. your big teary eyes find his and he raises his free hand to caress your dewy face, swiping a rough thumb over your spit slick lips. you kiss the pad of the digit, letting it muffle and slur your words as he feigns a frown and stares at you with faux pity, “daddy, please! please lemme cum, won’t ever use it again without asking!”
“oh, sweetheart.” he begins, swallowing down a grunt as your syrupy cunt hugs around him like velvet and threatens to milk him dry. he’s grabbing your throat in the next second. he forces you to listen real good, he leans in and his lips brush against your wet cheek as he speaks, “y’can cum when daddy says so, like a good girl. but— hey, listen t’me— this is your last time using your vibrator for awhile. you need to learn some serious self control before you get toy privileges.”
saw this tweet and thought... wouldn't this be such a good one-shot prompt. so here is this !! wc: 1.2k... minors dni
Ovulation brings forth a different demon that is unlike you in many ways. You go out wearing revealing clothing because you feel extremely sexy – unlike when you’re in luteal and have to sheathe your eyes every time you come across a reflective surface. You make goo-goo eyes at people in a manner that almost comes off as flirtatious, even if you’re only trying to be nice. You make eye contact, and you never fail to strike up a conversation with random people. You’re also criminally horny, and with that comes a strange bit of evilness.
You’ve been lying in bed all evening with a glass of wine, listening to the crime documentary you turned on a while ago. You were eagerly watching it a half hour ago, but now you’re growing a bit paranoid with how violent it’s getting.
Jack picked up a day shift today, even though you wanted him home with you, and you’ve decided that instead of doing something productive, you’d rather get scared over some really shitty crimes.
You chug the rest of your wine and reach for the remote to change the show before they enter traumatizing territory. Right as you lift the remote, the apartment door jiggles, and a groan follows two seconds later.
Paranoia sneaks up onto your shoulders, and you say the only thing you can think of. “Jack? Is that you?”
No one answers. There is only more shuffling and groaning. You don’t move, though.
“Jack?” you say, louder this time.
He steps into the room a few moments later, donned in his wrinkled scrubs and an amused smile. “Hey, darling. Is there something wrong?”
You shake your head. “Why didn’t you answer when I first called you?”
He shrugs. “Were you scared?”
You roll your eyes and sink into your bed. “A little.”
Jack steps further into the room and pulls his scrub top and undershirt over his head. “I told you to stop watching those crime documentaries. They freak you out,” he tells you. He then pulls his pants down, takes the clothing pooling around his feet, and dumps them into the hamper in the bathroom. “I don’t want you clutching onto me tonight over something you could have avoided watching.”
“So you hate me?” you ask as he starts the shower.
“I do not hate you,” he says, enunciating each word.
“Right,” you reply, then turn away from him.
He lets out a ‘humph,’ then continues to undress for his shower. You swear you can hear him say things under his breath, but you don’t pay attention. Or at least try to.
You’re not really mad at Jack. You agree with him, really. You shouldn’t be watching shows or movies that freak you out because you end up losing sleep and getting into such a terrible mood that the weather shifts.
Your annoyance is simply because Jack might not cuddle you tonight – a time when you’re incredibly needy and desperate for his hands touching any part of your body. It doesn’t matter if he’s sweeping hair off your shoulder or running his fingertips along your forearm for you to go to sleep. You just need him, but he might not be into it tonight.
You watch the wall as Jack showers and goes through his night routine. When the lights shut off, his bedside lamp flickers on, and his weight sinks into the mattress, you grip your sheets and lift them higher up your face.
“Good night,” you mumble, then pretend to go to bed.
“Are you seriously mad at me?” he asks.
You shrug.
Jack turns off his lamp and then scoots closer to you. One arm curves along your head, his hand resting inches away from your eyes. His other arm drapes over your side and pulls your body into his chest.
You think about squirming your way out of his grasp, but the little devil crawling out of your ear and plopping itself on your shoulder is telling you something else…
You scoot further into his chest and push your ass into his crotch. You grab his hand that rests on your collarbone and place it on your tits. He most certainly feels how hard your nipples are, and he massages them over your thin sleep top before moving a hand under the fabric and groping your tit.
You breathe out a whimper and continue dragging your ass along his growing erection.
“Feels good?” you whisper.
He groans. “You feel so good. You smell so good…”
“I got some new body wash and lotions. Do you like them?”
“I fucking love them,” he whispers. He keeps pushing his concealed and very hard cock into your ass – your almost bare ass, considering your shorts are very loose and thin. Jack needs more of you, you can tell. He moves his hand that was once steady on your tit and heads for your cunt. “I want to feel you, baby. Please.”
You grab his hand and push it off your hip. You roll onto your back and tilt your head towards the wall. “Not tonight.”
“What?” he exclaims, his voice sounding like it’s on the verge of tears. “Please, baby. Let me touch you.”
You pretend you’re asleep. He doesn’t fall for it until you completely twist your body around and sink your face into your pillow.
That’s when he groans like someone trying not to throw a tantrum.
“Whatever,” you hear him mumble. “I need to take care of this.”
A second later, the bedsheets rustle and Jack gasps. Then he moans.
There’s a quiet movement in the sheets you hear. Like someone is beneath them, punching them over and over again, as if they might float up and away like a hot air balloon. However, no one is there. Well, except for Jack’s hand that’s fisting his extremely hard cock.
You don’t think he might actually be stroking himself until you hear one of his mangled moans. You heard those moans back when you first started dating and would fuck anywhere and everywhere. In bar bathrooms, in concert venue alleyways, or in the car. Jack would bite down on his lip – or yours – to stifle his moans but end up failing. They would sound lethargic, like he had just run a marathon, and it would always rile you up.
You hear those moans over and over again as the movement beneath the sheets gets faster.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. “My cock could be inside you right now. I could be hitting that spot you like, deep in your fucking pussy. If you had just let me.”
You don’t say a word. You keep quiet and only clamp your legs shut, even if you’re already really wet and it’s uncomfortable keeping this position.
“Yeah… yeah… I need to come,” you hear him mumbling. You can imagine his hand tight around his cock, pumping fast and hard, squeezing himself around the base like you usually do – something that typically pushes him over the edge. “Thinking about your pretty tits and that fucking cunt.”
The noise of the sheets gets louder, and so do his moans. When he comes, he whines.
You hear the snap of his boxers, then the sound of someone smacking their lips together. “All of this cum could be on your pretty little lips if you had just let me.”
Even though listening to him fuck his fist was enjoyable, you’re left upset knowing you didn’t even get to fuck him. Maybe tomorrow night, when the evil leads you to near BDSM.
Hi!!! Can I request for some Robby x reader where our favourite doctor has hyperspermia? 🤭 Please and thank you! x
yes, you ABSOLUTELY may!!! sorry this took so long, hope you enjoy.
visual learner
(hyperspermia!robby x f!nurse!reader)
synopsis: you flirt your way into getting robby to teach you all about hyperspermia, a rare condition he just so happens to have.
wc: 5.3k
warnings/tags: nurse!reader, hyperspermia!robby, mentions of medical conditions, inappropriate workplace conduct honestly, unspecified age gap, power imbalance mentioned, groping lowkey (m!), flustered robby, unprotected piv, facial, reader gets absolutely drenched in cum if we’re being honest.
the day so far had been hectic, it was case after case, trauma after trauma and you were exhausted. trying to balance work and studying for your NP exam had been more difficult than you expected, so when dana told you to take 30 in the break room to catch up on your studying you all but kissed her.
you hurriedly grabbed your personal ipad from your locker and made a break for the break room, before any of the very needy doctors in the pitt could catch you and pull you away.
that’s how you found yourself 15 minutes later down a rabbit hole researching rare medical conditions. none of which you were sure would come up on your exam, but you were finding it very difficult to concentrate on your actual studying through the hustle and bustle of the ED.
and you’re not exactly sure how you ended up on the hyperspermia page on the healthline website but your eyes widen in shock as you read out the information in front of you.
“jesus christ! that’s a lot of cum! there’s no way” you shout out to the empty room, or so you thought until you hear a deep, unexpected but familiar voice respond, making you jump in your seat.
you had been so locked in to your research that you didn’t even see robby enter the room and he let out a small chuckle at your reaction.
“woah! what was that, sweetie?” he asks, turning away from the brewing pot of coffee to face you. heat rushes to your cheeks immediately upon hearing his endearing nickname for you, which he only ever called you by when no one was around—your little secret.
“shit, sorry I didn’t see you there mikey, i’m just studying ignore me” your heart settles back down in your chest as soon as your eyes land on the familiar figure, he shakes his head and turns back to the now finished coffee.
it wasn’t a secret in the department that you and robby were close, and that he had a soft spot for you, everyone saw it but no one seemed to mind. perhaps they thought that having a sweet little thing like you to dote on would do robby some good, rather than being alone with whatever’s going on inside his head.
you’d been calling him mikey since your first day when he gave you 3 options: dr robinavitch, robby or michael, you being you decided to ignore all 3 and mikey just stuck. and he loved it, you were the only one in the place that ever referred to him by his first name, it felt personal to him, intimate, something that was just between himself and you—his sweet little nurse.
“it’s fine honestly, how’s your studying going?” he takes the seat opposite you and sips on his freshly brewed coffee. robby was a very busy man and rarely found time to take 5 but whenever you found yourself in the break room he wouldn’t be far behind, he always had time for his favourite girl.
“uhhh, well i’m currently stuck in a random medical condition rabbit hole rather than doing my actual studying so i would have to say…not well” he laughs at that, robby always did find your wit and sarcasm incredibly endearing—hell, he found all of you endearing.
“i’ve been there. you know when it’s the middle of the night and you can’t sleep, i end up hours deep into reading about something i never wanted to know about” he shudders slightly at the thought of whatever he may have stumbled upon one night, “i’m not disturbing you, am i sweetheart?” he asks.
“no, no of course not mikey” you blush as he smiles at your response and settles into his seat more, allowing himself to relax, your presence alone was always enough to wash his anxieties away—so much so that your co-workers went through a phase of calling you ‘robby’s chill pill’
“so what is it you’re reading about?” he pulls his glasses out his pocket and puts them low on his nose, you have to force yourself to look away as your thighs clench together under the table—that old man and his sexy old man reading glasses, many times you had imagined how he’d look wearing them in many compromising positions late at night, though you’d never admit that to anyone, least of all him.
robby peers over your screen slightly to read the page and you remember that he’d actually asked you a question, one you immediately forgot upon seeing him in his readers.
“hyperspermia, apparently, ever heard of it?” as soon as the word leaves your mouth his entire expression changes, red flushes his neck and he looks away from you, staring deep into his mug.
“oh…yeah, i’ve heard of it” he mumbles nervously, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, as though he was attempting to self-soothe—you noticed he did that a lot, it was always one of those things he did that you found so sweet.
“it’s kind of crazy actually, imagine ejaculating more than 6ml’s like…what would someone even do with all of that? the clean up would be insane” your crass, unabashed attitude towards talking openly about quite personal/taboo subjects at work had gotten you into trouble more than once. a fact which you had seemingly forgotten as you discussed ejaculating with the man who was kind of your boss.
“yeah…i-uh…wild” he’s flustered, noticeably so, which you pick up on immediately as robby is never one to get flustered around you usually.
sensing something was amiss, you press further.
“so….how have you heard of it?” you shut your ipad off and close the case over it, leaning forward with your elbows on the table, as though you were a cop in an interrogation room and robby was your suspect.
robby doesn’t reply immediately, he subconsciously leans further back in his chair as if he was trying to get away from you and it only confirmed your suspicions that he was hiding something. something that you were going to get out of him one way or another.
“…a medical journal” he lies, obviously so and you raise an eyebrow at his poor response.
“which?”
“oh..uh-you know…a fertility journal?” his voice is wavering and his answer comes out more as a question.
your lip tugs into a smirk as you realise that he hadn’t at all read it in some mysterious medical journal, he had real life experience with it. robby has hyperspermia.
“oh yeah? and what were you doing reading a fertility journal, mikey? it’s not exactly required learning for your department” you tease, making sure to add extra honey when you say his name this time—you know he can’t resist when you use your soft flirty voice on him, which you used regularly to get your way with him on shift.
“i uh…i like to study” his coffee was now all but abandoned on the table as he discarded it to fiddle anxiously with his hands, picking at the skin by his nails. you had never seen robby so shy in all your time of knowing him and it set your heart alight, and set something else off in you.
the power dynamic between you and robby had always been obvious, traditional. he was older, and an authority figure he’s the one who holds all the power, the dominant one and you’re the cute little nurse who’s younger, and more submissive—and you liked it that way, you love the way that he takes care of you at work, makes sure you’re always safe and looked after.
but as the dynamic changed in this moment and he was the nervous, flustered, shy one you couldn’t help the heat that began to pool in your stomach and the wetness that began to coat your underwear. and it emboldened you to take your usually flirty banter a bit further.
much further.
you knew robby was absolutely nuts about you, everyone had told you about his feelings for you hundreds of times over the last few years, and you definitely had strong feelings for him too, but you never had the courage to explore it. but as you stared into his deep brown eyes and saw the bashfulness within them you knew that you had to have him, and you would.
the roles had been reversed, you were the hunter, he your prey.
and it was delicious.
“you know…i like to study too” you smirk as you get up from your seat and take the empty one beside him, purposefully edging just too close to him. he turns to face you but immediately wishes he didn’t as he catches the wicked glint in your eye.
“yeah?” it comes out strained, preceded by a nervous gulp.
“yeah, maybe you could help me study, huh?” you place your small hand on his thigh and feel the warm muscle twitch beneath your touch. he looks down at it for a moment, wondering if this was really happening, thinking perhaps this was just one of the many dreams he had about you and that he’d wake up soon.
but it wasn’t. and you move your hand higher up his leg, rubbing up and down, squeezing lightly.
“you wanna help me study, mikey?” you whisper close to his ear and he shudders, electricity coursing through him and unfortunately for him electricity isn’t the only thing rushing through his body, so is blood—leaving his dizzied head and going straight down to his hardening cock.
which again, unfortunately for him, is very noticeable through the material of his cargo’s. you clock it immediately and your eyes light up at the sight, you’ve got him.
“i uh…i guess i could help you study–if you want” he meets your eyes once again and watches as a pleased smile forms across your face, wide, almost evil.
“I would love that, your place? after work?” your hand slips down to massage the inside of his thigh, he throws his head back and lets out a stifled groan, not stifled enough though and your stomach flutters at the sound of it.
robby nods, too lost in the feeling of your hands on him to formulate a real response, “uh-huh”
he’s biting his lip, an attempt to mask his now very ragged breathing as your fingers inch closer to his incredibly prominent erection. your eyes don’t leave it for a second and you take in just how thick it looks even through his pants, or the way you can see it twitch every time your fingertips nearly reach it.
“great!” you jump up out of your seat suddenly, leaving him completely untouched, the loss of contact startles him back upright, frantically looking to see where you’d gone.
you begin to gather your belongings off the table, throwing them in your bag before hauling it over your shoulder.
you walk away as if you’re about to leave the room without another word but stop and turn to him as you go to pass where he’s sat, “oh and by the way” you lean down, putting one hand on his shoulder, your face inches away from his.
“i’m a visual learner, mikey” you whisper into his ear, grazing just beside it with your lips. and he whimpers, michael robinavitch actually whimpers for you.
your hand leaves his shoulder and brushes over the rigid outline of his cock, it’s fleeting and robby tries to to grab your wrist, desperate for more than just a brush of your fingertips but he’s too slow and you’re already skipping out of the door before he even realises what happened.
the rest of the shift goes by pretty quickly, and for once you’re not glued to robby’s side. you keep your distance wanting him to stir a little longer with the last thing you said to him bouncing around his head, ‘i’m a visual learner, mikey’ you hoped he’d been fixated on it, wondering what you meant, trying to figure out if you had really meant it—which of course you did, but he didn’t have to know that.
after handover you spot robby waiting for you in the ambulance bay, you can see him through the clear doors, he’s got his fists balled up by his side and he’s bouncing his knee almost furiously. shit did something happen? was he still up for your little ‘study session’? cautiously you approach him and place a hand on his back, making him jump slightly.
his body stops moving as soon as he feels your hand and he turns to face you with a wide smile, which is odd because robby hardly ever smiles.
“you okay, mikey?” you furrow your brows, unable to look away from the almost sinister looking smile plastered on his face.
“mhm, you ready?” he asks, his voice is so calm like he’d taken a sedative or something, a slight unease washes over you.
“uhhh….yeah, are you sure you’re okay?” you ask again, following behind him as he speed walks in long strides to where his car is parked.
“never been better”
he unlocks his car and opens the passenger door for you to get in, which you do throwing your bag in the backseat as robby slams the door behind you. you watch as he rushes to the drivers side, fast like he’s on a mission and your heart beats fast in your chest, what the hell is going on with him?
“mikey, what’s up with you? you’re being-” you start as he closes his own door but you get cut off by robby grabbing your face and crashing his lips against yours, completely catching you off guard.
“shit!” you curse into his mouth before your brain finally catches up to what’s happening and you kiss him back, his arms wrap around you, pulling you across the center console so your practically half in his lap, half on the console.
“what’s up with me?” he huffs out an exasperated laugh when he pulls away to let you catch your breath.
“this is what’s up with me! all day i’ve been dealing with this” he grabs your hand and places it over his rock hard cock, holding your warm palm down on top of it. you can feel it throbbing under your touch even through the material of his pants, which you notice have a nice dark wet spot on them.
“mikey, i’m s-” you go to lift your hand but he holds your wrist tighter not letting you move, he’s grinding himself up into your palm, using your hand to alleviate some of his frustration.
“fuck! all day i’ve been replaying what you said to me, all day! when i was talking to patients it was all i could think about, when i was running traumas, fuck i even had to tell a woman her husband died and still all i could think about was you and your fucking words and your fucking hand! do you know how embarrassing that is? having to tell someone their loved one died whilst i’m fucking leaking pre-cum in my pants like some fucked up, horny teenager!?” he rants, still rolling his hips against your warm hand, pushing you down harder, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut.
“i’m sorry, mikey” you giggle, you know really that it’s not funny and that it probably was embarrassing for him to have to deal with that, but you can’t help it coming out as you think about how he’s been thinking of you all day, how his body never forgot that brief moment in the break room.
he kisses you again, this time it’s messy and he’s groaning into your mouth as he rolls his hips faster against your small hand, you wrap your fingers around the outline of him, squeezing slightly on every thrust upwards.
“don’t be sorry, just hope you’re ready for this” he finally releases your hand and you settle back into your seat. flushed and out of breath.
the truth is you were ready, more than ready as you’d been dealing with your own arousal all day too. all you had been able to think about was how big his cock had looked and how thick it felt when your fingers brushed it in the break room, multiple times you had to go to the bathroom to wipe yourself and your soaked underwear. which immediately became wet again when you thought about the fact that you were going home with him tonight and would finally get to have sex with him after all these years.
the ride to his place doesn’t take very long, his large hand creeps up your thigh the entire ride, his pinky grazing against the seem of your scrub pants—you know he can feel how wet you are through them, and he lets you know he can when he presses his finger in a little harder and lets out a soft ‘shit’ as he focuses on the road.
as soon as you’re inside the door he’s pushing you against it, he leans down and wraps his arms around your waist urging you to jump, which you do wrapping your legs around his mid-section and your arms around his neck.
“i’ve wanted this for so long” he groans against your neck, kissing and sucking on your flushed skin, you giggle and throw your head back opening the area up for him. he kisses down your neck, biting softly right where it meets your shoulder and you let out a soft moan that only encourages him to bite harder.
“fuck! mikey!” your arms around his neck tighten, pushing his face further into you, the hair of his beard scratches against the sensitive spot his teeth have definitely left deep marks on.
“need to be inside of you right now” he carries you to his bedroom, his mouth never once leaving you as he navigates his house.
“please, need you so bad mikey” you moan, your voice needy and breathy as he lays you down on his mattress. you unwrap your limbs from around his body and he kneels between your legs, just looking at you for a moment.
“you gonna just sit there staring or are you gonna fuck me, robinavitch?” you tease and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
“careful what you wish for sweetie” he bends down and makes quick work at taking your top off. reaching around your back he unclasps your bra, tossing it off to the side. his lips find your nipple immediately as he sucks it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it whilst using his hand to roll the other one between his fingers.
your back arches up off the bed, forcing yourself further into his mouth and he groans around the hard, sensitive bud. the vibration rolls through you and your desperate cunt clenches around nothing, aching for him to fill you up.
“mikey, please, can’t wait any longer” you writhe underneath him, rolling your hips up against his, chasing any kind of friction you can find.
he releases your nipple with a wet pop and kisses down your body, hot open mouth kisses all the way from your breasts down to the waistband of your scrubs. he hooks his fingers underneath and looks up at you before pulling them down.
“you sure about this, sweetheart?” he asks, he already knows the answer of course he just wants to hear you beg for it. beg for him the way his body has been begging for you all day.
“yes, god, please, need you so bad” your already lifting your hips up off the bed, desperate for him to take them off of you and he obliges. he hooks his fingers beneath your underwear as he passes them, taking them off with along with your pants.
he looks down at you, taking in the sight of your naked body.
“fuck, better than i even imagined” he muses as he works on pulling one of your socks off, he places a small kiss to the side of your foot, making you giggle and blush.
“oh yeah? been imagining me naked have you, mikey?” you tease, propping yourself up on your elbows.
“since the day that nickname first left your lips” he admits, pulling off your other sock, discarding it with the rest of your clothes. he kisses all the way up your leg, stopping at your inner thigh, sucking and nipping at the soft, plush skin.
he sits up on his knees between your parted thighs, his fingers hooking underneath the neck of his scrub top to pull it off.
“wait!” you scramble up onto your own knees and sit facing him, his brows knit together as he watches you, “let me do it”
you wrap your arms around him, your own fingers tugging on the hem of his top gathering the long-sleeved layer underneath, your fingertips graze the warm, soft swell of his belly as you begin to pull up. robby lifts his arms above his head and you reach up to be able to take the garments off, discarding them on the floor with the your own uniform.
settling back on your knees you take a moment to let your eyes explore his body, the thin splattering of hair that adorns his sternum, the way his nipples harden under your gaze, the soft plush of his belly and the dark trail of coarse hair that runs down the middle below his belly button. he’s perfect.
“i’m sorry, i know i’m not much to-” he starts, his voice low and that shy part of him from earlier comes out again, but you don’t let it.
placing a finger to his lips you let out a breathy, “shut up, mikey”
you lean down and place a delicate kiss to his sternum, your hands run up and down his side, nails digging slightly, scratching softly. a moan leaves his lips as you kiss down his torso, barely there kisses that leave goosebumps in their wake, you follow the curve of his stomach down with your lips. nuzzling your nose into the dark trail of hair that leads down to where you’re desperate to see most.
“may i?” you ask as you settle yourself so you’re sat with your legs curled up beneath you, your fingers fiddle with the button of his cargos and he knows exactly what you’re asking permission for.
“y-yes” he nods and slowly you pop open the button and carefully pull down the zipper, which is more difficult than you expected with how strained the fabric is due to his tented erection. you hook your fingers below the waistband of both his cargos and his underwear, slowly pulling them down together.
as soon as the fabric passes mid-thigh his heavy cock springs free, slapping his stomach before dropping back down to where it hangs between his legs. with beads of pre-cum already leaking from his flushed tip, you run your fingers along the length of him, smearing the fat beads of clear liquid around the head, he twitches under your feather-light touch and lets out a shaky groan.
“shit, mikey” you gasp under your breath as you take in the sheer size of him, he’s girthy, obscenely so.
“what’s up, sweetheart? think you’ll be able to take it all?” he coos, tangling his hand in your hair forcing you to look up at him.
you shake your head in response, looking up at him with big doe eyes through your long lashes, you look so innocent and it makes robby throb. rivulets of pre-cum drip from his tip, a steady flow that drop down onto the sheets beneath you.
“it’s okay, i’ll be gentle with you, i promise” he guides you back up onto your knees with his hand on the side of your face, cupping your cheeks as he pulls you into another kiss. it’s gentle this time, deep and slow, butterflies gather low in your belly and before he’s even touched you, you can feel that dull pressure bubbling inside.
he wraps his arms around your waist and gently guides you down onto the bed, his lips never leaving yours for a second as your back hits the plush mattress below you. he gets up off the bed, only to kick off his pants before he’s crawling on top of you again. his sliding his hands up and down your body, squeezing your breasts when he reaches them.
“you’re gorgeous, sweetheart” he breathes, his eyes devouring every single inch of your naked body.
your cheeks flush hot red at the compliment, robby had complimented you a thousand times before but it felt different this time, intimate, as you lay before him completely bare for the first time.
“you ready?” he asks, settling between your legs, using his knees to spread your thighs apart to accommodate the width of his body.
“yes, please, need you so much” you whine as he takes his cock in his hand and slides his tip through your glistening folds, your eyes roll back on each pass as he catches your clit and your hips involuntarily buck up to meet him—your body already so needy for him.
“big breath in okay” his voice is gentle as he lines himself up at your dripping entrance, he pushes in only slightly and already the stretch is intense. you gasp as his swollen tip breaches you, sucking in a big gulp of air as you unknowingly bear down around him.
“shit, need you to relax f’me, angel” he hisses through gritted teeth as your cunt chokes his length. you focus on managing your breathing, in and out, slow and calm—trying not to think about the obscene splitting feeling between your legs.
robby gives you a couple of seconds before he pushes himself in further, half way in. your eyes slam closed and your hand wraps around his forearm, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.
“you’re okay, sweetheart, half way there” he leans down and kisses your forehead, pushing his hips down slowly until finally he’s bottomed out inside of you. you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close and bring your legs up around his waist to open up your hips—an attempt to give him more room to manoeuvre inside of you, anything to relieve some of the harsh pressure.
“fuck, s’big mikey” you whimper, feeling so stuffed full as if he’d split you open if he moved.
“you’re doing so well, baby” he kisses you softly, tangling his fingers in your hair, you do the same, gently scratching the back of his head in the exact spot you always catch him rubbing himself.
his eyes roll back as your nails softly graze that area, that’s his self-soothing spot and the way you touch it has him folding for you in seconds. “don’t stop doing that” he groans against the crook of your neck, biting down lightly.
and you’re so caught up in trying to make him feel good that you almost don’t notice when he starts gently rolling his hips against yours, raising his lower half back until he’s almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in. a slow gentle rhythm at first, you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock drag against your oversensitive walls, every stroke sends pleasured waves rolling over your body.
you dig your nails into the back of his head slightly on every forward stroke where his tip brushes your cervix, it’s a sharp sting but not painful, just right. He moans against your neck, a deep sound muffled by your sweat-slick skin, every low vibration sends another wave through you and that deep pressure that’s been building in your stomach all day comes to a bubbling, boiling point.
robby knows it too, he can feel the way your cunt clenches around him every time he pushes upwards, his head tapping that spongy spot just inside your entrance every single time. he can feel the muscle surrounding his length contracting, pulsing and the way your own stomach tenses beneath the soft, but heavy weight of his own on every pass.
and he’s close too, he’d been teetering on the edge of his own orgasm all day, your words and the memory of your hand against his crotch had been enough to have him almost cum untouched at multiple points throughout the day—it’s truly a wonder that he didn’t.
“mikey, ‘m gonna cum” your legs tighten around waist and he untangles himself from your arms, sitting up on his knees grabbing you by the hips and pulling you further onto his cock. his thrusts get faster but they’re more shallow, barely moving, just enough to hit your top wall over and over again, his hand reaches down between your bodies to rub hard side to side motions on your clit.
the internal and external stimulation mixed together is a lethal combination, and the final nail in your coffin as your band snaps and those hot, dizzying euphoric waves crash over your body. your toes curl, your eyes slam shut and your body involuntarily convulses around him. moans and gasps tumble from your lips, unable to control any part of your body, robby doesn’t let up his speed. riding you through every single wave until your body becomes limp and your legs finally fall to the mattress.
“f-fuck, sweetheart s’good, i-im gonna pull out…o-okay” robby warns, his hands still gripping your hips as he pistons in and out of you, you nod, fucked so dumb that you can’t even form words.
but he doesn’t pull out straight away, he waits. waits until he’s sure he’s about to cum, doesn’t want to waste a single moment he could still be inside of you. and he would stay inside of you, fill up the deepest corners of you, have you leaking him for days—but he said he’d help you study, and he’s a man of his word.
in all fairness somewhere along the way you had completely forgotten all about robby’s condition, you know the entire reason you were even here in the first place. so when he finally did pull out and you felt warm, thick, sticky ropes of his release splatter against your chin, dripping down your neck, it’s a shock.
and it’s an even bigger shock when you prop yourself up on your elbows and another stream of the milky coloured liquid hits your chest in a solid line that crosses both breasts. and again, another rope that lands across your ribs, and your stomach, pooling in your belly button.
“fuck mikey, what the-” your cut off by another just as thick strand hitting your face, right across your lips, and you swallow as another lands on your tongue.
“shit, i-im s-sorry” robby cries out, his fist furiously pumping his still leaking cock, and your eyes light up as you watch stream after stream coat your body. painting your skin in streaks of creamy white, his masterpiece.
“don’t be, please, so fucking hot” you beam as you watch the length of the spurts get shorter, the distance gets smaller until he’s just leaking a steady flow from his tip to your cunt. and you close your eyes as you feel the warmth of it run down your soaked folds, feel the way it’s instantly cooled by the air, how it runs down from your entrance to your asshole pooling on the sheets below.
after about a minute he’s finally done, his breathing uneven and his stomach heaving from the strenuous release. he sits back on his feet, his eyes wandering over your body, taking in the path of destruction he left on your skin, its obscene, you’re ruined—he can’t help but admire his work, not when you look so pleased with it too.
“so…” he huffs, still trying to catch his breath moments later, “anything else you wanna study tonight?” he laughs his voice strained, collapsing on the bed beside you.
“oh yeah, much much more” you giggle, taking two fingers and running them across your stomach, collecting a generous helping of his release before popping them in your mouth with a wink.
“you know, you should really look at getting your prostate checked” you muse, causing robby to splutter slightly at your outburst. it’s hours later and you’re all cleaned up and cuddling in his bed, the dull sound of some random tv show fills the pitch black of his bedroom.
“i’m sorry?” he asks, clearly dumbfounded at your seemingly random advice.
“it said on that website that hyperspermia can be caused by inflammation of the prostate and you know you’re getting to that age where you really should be getting checked out every now and then” you lean up on your elbow, you can only just make out his wide eyed expression in the low glow of the room.
“i’m going to pretend you didn’t just call me old” he rolls away from you, pulling the covers up to his face to hide from you.
“mikey! i’m being serious, there could be something up with you” you press yourself right against his back, he’s right at the edge of the bed and can’t escape any further.
“there isn’t!” he claims, it comes out much more defensively than he had hoped for, but it doesn’t convince you.
“how do you know? i really think-” you start, but swiftly he turns around, pulling your arms so your face is pressed flushed against his chest.
“because abbot is a very good doctor, and if he says it’s fine, then it’s fine” he huffs, it was a joke of course, obviously jack hadn’t actually checked robby’s prostate for him—right?
“very funny mikey, but i’m being serious” you roll your eyes, pushing against his chest to try and find room to breathe but he just holds you tighter.
“so am i” he kisses the top of your head, “now go to sleep, sweetheart” and now it was your turn to be a confused, spluttering mess, he’s joking, yeah just a joke…
“mikey, tell me you’re-”
“goodnight”
bruhhh this took me so much longer than i thought it would, hope it was okay, why was the ending lowk my favourite part. all bros check each others prostates…right? stay mad. stay mystified oomfs 🤭
So what if Michael keeps dirty photos of you in his wallet?
warnings: established relationship. taking photos of each other. smut. blowjobs. creampie. obscene amount of the word 'baby' used. male masturbation in the workplace. in this household we believe that robby babbles when he's about to cum and we believe in praise kink for reader and robby <3 minors dni. as always, let me know what you think!
word count: 2.5k+
robinavitch masterlist | masterlist | ask
Michael Robinavitch will never admit it but he was a romantic. A man straight out of the old black and white movies. He would never admit it but he’s always wanted to keep a photo of someone special in his wallet. It always felt wrong to put someone there. His past girlfriends never being allowed the place. His seven week flings, as many people called it, never even got close to having the honour.
Until you.
It was a beautiful photo. He remembers it well. It was taken at his height, aiming down at you, a big cheesy grin on your face as he took the photo. On the days where the ER was more than he could handle, he often took it out, just admiring you and feeling the weight of your relationship ground him.
It was well known within the ER that he’d happily take out his wallet and show it to anyone that asked about you. He puffed up his chest as he talked about you, your job, your relationship, everything and anything. He was proud of you, proud of himself to be able to called yours.
It was sweet, and everyone thought it. From the gushing of the older ladies that came in, to the incessant gossip fodder that Robby gave the pitt, everyone loved it.
And so what if behind the innocent photo of you he has two worn and well loved photos that aren’t so innocent? What if he happened to take them out during the brief breaks that he gets when he’s at work - when the ER was weighing him down in a different way and he needed an outlet?
-
“Michael,” you panted, fingers tightening on his chest, you leaned your body reaching for something.
“What’re you doing, baby?” Michael watched, as best as he could as he saw you grab your phone.
“Memento,” you clenched, as you shakily opened up your camera. Focusing as best you could while swivelling your hips, you focused on his chest, your hand in the frame softly clutching his stomach.
Grinning when he realised you were doing, you aimed your photo up, trying to capture the look on his face. Balancing yourself, you placed your other hand on his face, softly caressing his face, moaning lowly when he began kissing up your hand. Taking a couple of photos, you threw your phone somewhere on the bed and planted your hands on his chest.
“You’re dirty,” he grinned as he wrapped his arms around you, bringing you down flush to his chest. Placing his feet on the mattress, he thrusted up earning a particularly loud moan out of you. “That’s it, baby.”
Feeling your panting on his neck, Michael moved his lips until he could reach you. Messily placing his tongue in your mouth, he could feel the combination of your drool slowly slithering down his neck.
He could feel you getting close, your walls clenching around his cock and your mouth falling from his, his name coming out in pants. Rolling your hips, you dragged your nails down Michael’s chest, squeezing until your felt release come.
“Fuck, I love you,” Michael grunted into your ear. “Love you, love your fucking pussy, love my girl,” he choked out the praises as he finished in you. Wrapping you in his embrace tighter, you couldn’t help but whimper as you felt his cum flood inside your pussy.
“You okay?” He gently moved the hair stuck to your face, placing a gentle kiss on your lips.
“Can I see?” Michael kissed your cheek as you laid on his chest, the heat and sweat a bit uncomfortable but you both couldn’t bear to leave each other.
Finding your phone, you accessed your photos, tapping on the first one. It was blurry, as you expected. You could barely make out that there was a person in the photo. Frowning, you swiped to the next photo which was better.
“Look at that,” you said in appreciation, eyes roaming the photo, landing on the glisten of his chest and soft swell of his stomach. “Fuck, Michael, you’re beautiful.”
You turned your phone to show the man below you, watching as a bashful flush creeped up to his cheeks.
“Are you going to be pissed if I have this as my background?”
Ever since then Michael’s been quite a bit obsessed with the thought of taking photos of the two of you together. But he was always too enthralled with whatever you were doing that he forgets to pick up his phone and take a photo.
The first one was an accident.
It was an off day for Michael, you were both lazily laying on the couch. You turned to him, and you were a bit awestruck at just how handsome he was. Sure, he was just sitting on the couch, with his reading glasses on and wearing a t-shirt but you were sure that there wasn’t a man who was more handsome than Michael Robinavitch.
Gazing downwards you bit your lip as you saw the grey sweats that he was wearing, and if you squinted your eyes right, you swear you could see a bulge. Fidgeting in your seat, you somehow managed to turn yourself on, sliding down to the ground, you placed yourself in front Michael. Placing your hands on his knees you slid your hands up until his waistband.
Pawing at the band of his sweats, Michael looked down at you in amusement, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing?”
“I’m bored,” you whined, as you began tugging down his pants. “And you look beautiful.”
“Oh?” Michael leaned back, paper forgotten as he tossed it to the other side of the couch. You could see the cocky smirk on his face but beneath that the small red flush that your compliment brought on.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so handsome,” you nodded, tugging his waistband down. You watched as his cock came to view, half-hard but still always so impressive. Michael’s cock flopped to his left thigh as you continued to push his pants down. Peppering kisses from his knees to his inner thigh, you smirked as you saw his cock twitch and begin leaking.
Placing one hand on one knee, you began leaving little bites, occasionally flicking your eyes to Michael whose chest was now heaving, his hands clenched on the cushions. Finally reaching your prize, you didn’t hesitate to start kissing the side of his cock with an open mouth, your tongue trailing the multiple veins.
Kissing his tip, you looked back up at him. “So pretty,” tapping the head a few times on your tongue, you languidly licked him from base to tip. “Love you,” you muttered against his cock before parting your lips and taking him down your throat. Gagging as you pushed him down slowly, you felt his cock fully harden as you reached the back of your throat.
Putting his hand on the back of your head, Michael watched as his length disappeared in your mouth, your nose brushing against his pubic hair before going back up, sucking in your cheeks when you hit his tip. Then repeating the actions, each time more hurried than the last. He felt his balls tighten and willed himself to just hold out a little bit longer.
Wrapping his hands around your hair, Michael regretfully pulled you away from his cock, a sympathetic smile on his face as he heard your whine. “Beautiful,” Michael praised as he saw you; face flushed, teary eyes and a mixture of his precum and your saliva. Caressing your cheek, you automatically leaned into his touch, a soft and adoring look on your face.
Feeling around for his phone, Michael shakily opened the camera. You moved slightly, trying to see what he was doing, “Stay still, baby,” Michael warned, pulling your hair a bit. “Look at me,” aiming the camera, you smiled as you grasped his cock.
Showing off to the camera, you placed the head of his cock back on your tongue, a cheeky grin on your face as you heard the shutter.
“Wait,” Michael rasped, his hands gently tugging on your hair. “Can you hold my cock against your face?”
You chuckled fondly and followed his instructions. Placing his cock against the side of your face, you smiled dazedly at the camera. Taking multiple photos, Michael began to tremble as you tightened your grip and began stroking him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, “so beautiful.”
“Show me how to print it out later,” Michael groaned as he felt you swallow around him. At his statement you couldn’t help chuckle around his cock. “Shit, you okay?”
Pulling away from him, “You’re such an old man.”
“Well this old man just has a photo of you with his cock on his phone,” Michael twisted his phone before throwing it somewhere on the couch. “Now come on, baby, come up, want to cum in your pussy.”
You rolled your eyes but nonetheless stood up and placed yourself on his lap. “Such a romantic.”
The second was more intentional. Michael felt insatiable that night, asking you if he could just use you, and of course you said yes.
“Best girl,” Michael thrusted, “best fucking pussy,” this time he manhandled your legs so they were over his shoulders. Leaning over you, you groaned at the full weight on him on top of your body, “Fucking love you,” he panted against your ear, biting across your jaw until he placed an open mouth kiss to your lips.
Wrapping your legs around him, you felt each and every thrust of his cock, your walls tightening with each movement. Slackjawed, all you could do was run your nails down his back, clenching when you heard Michael hiss above you. Nipping your lips, Michael moved down your neck before licking back up to your mouth.
Moving his hand to feel around for his phone, Michael didn’t relent in his frantic thrust, his other hand reaching for his phone. Quickly opening it, he leaned back and you whined at the loss of his weight. Angling his phone down, he couldn’t help but wrap one hand around your neck, gently closing his grip.
“Stay,” and as he began taking photos, his hand drifted down, splaying it across your lower stomach. There was something about watching you through your phone that got Michael heated more than usual. Maybe it was the vulnerability, the trust that you give him.
Leaning back, he felt you slip your legs down, wincing as it reached his thighs. “Stay still, sweetheart,” pulling back a bit, he aimed the photo again. This time his cock in frame, zooming in he couldn’t help but buck his hips, entranced in the way your pussy engulfed him. Tossing his phone by your side, Michael slammed back in, causing you to arch your back, your tits practically jumping in his face.
He increased his pace, his forearms by your neck, mouth on yours. “Gonna cum baby,” he warned against your mouth.
“Inside,” you pleaded, tightening your legs around him. “Please, Michael, fill me up.”
“You first,” reaching down, he balanced on one forearm, one hand reaching to your clit to rub tight little circles, and his mouth finding home on your neck. Feeling him bite down where your neck meets your shoulder, Michael groaned as he felt your walls flutter around his cock. Squeezing once, he felt you pulse your hips as his name came out as a silent scream.
Cursing Michael chased his release, his hips losing any rhythm he had. Knowing that he was closed, you clenched as hard as you could, Michael bit down harder and with one last muffled grunt of your name, you felt him empty inside of you.
Hissing as he removed himself, Michael reached to grab his phone. Aiming it down to your leaking cunt, he snapped a couple of photos. Separating your folds with his fingers, he bit his lip as he saw you clench and pushed out some of his cum. Tutting as he saw some of his release land on the bed, he gave your pussy one last gentle kiss and threw his phone somewhere on the bed.
Laying on top of you, Michael lazily kissed up and down your neck, while you played with the hairs on the base of his neck. Letting out a contended sigh, you felt your heartbeat begin to settle.
“Next time, film yourself cumming side of me.”
-
A particularly loud bang outside of the bathroom brought Michael out of his trance. He looked down, cock in his hand and your photo in the other. Gritting his teeth, he knew that he couldn’t go out with this. Stroking faster, tightening his fist - trying to recreate your wet heat (but failing), Michael thought about you; the way you felt, the sounds that you made. Grunting your name, he threw his head back, his hand squeezing the base of his cock as he pointed his cum to the toilet.
Panting he looked down at his hand and felt a bit of shame run through his veins. But as he looked at what was on his other hand, he could feel the warm thrum up his spine. “Fuck baby, look at what you’ve done to me.”
Leaving the bathroom, he looked at Dana and mouthed ‘taking my five’, and stepped outside into the ambulance bay. Tapping your contact, he placed his phone against his ear.
“Michael? You okay babe?”
“Just missed you,” he silently murmured, leaning against the wall.
“Michael Robinavitch, it’s currently eleven am and you’re jerking off?” You laughed breathily, and he could hear the creak in your chair as you sat back.
He chuckled, feeling hot underneath his scrubs, “I just miss you,” he enunciated. “How the hell did you even get to that conclusion?”
“You get sentimental after you cum, Michael,” you paused and he could practically imagine you connecting the dots. “Did you look at the photos again?”
“They’re very good photos,” he responded instantly and you hummed.
“I think they’re a bit outdated, though, don’t you think?” You teased.
The thrum was back, eagerness filling every crevice of his bones. “What do you have planned, princess?”
Smiling, “I’m thinking that you have two straight days off, and we’ll have plenty of time to update those photos,” you stated coyly. “I have some ideas, if you’re up for it, Robinavitch.”
Michael groaned which caused you to chuckle, “I have eight more hours, you can’t do this,” running a hand down his face, he could feel the telltale sign of his blood rushing to his cock.
“You’re the one who messaged me after you jerked off,” you scoffed. “You started it.”
He rolled his eyes, “Well, I’m sorry for missing the love of my life.”
All he got was a soft cooing noise from you, and a, “Uh-huh, sure. Now go save lives, doc, and when you get home we can replace those very well loved photos with new ones.”
Michael couldn’t help the grin appear on his face, “You’re dirty.”
“And you love me,” you teased, then in a more serious manner, “And I love you.”
“I love you,” Michael replied instantly. “I’ll see you when I get home.”
“Try not to wear yourself out on your breaks Doctor Robinavitch, I’ll need you in tip top shape tonight.”
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!
Brendon Park who’s secretly a little pathetic about you. Some smut, mostly aftercare. Kinda a sub drop?
Brendon Park fucks.
Obviously you expected that. You saw it coming. I mean, come on. You knew the guy. One look at him you knew he was getting laid often and putting it down. Hard. He was a hunky, charismatic, rich doctor. Whose biceps filled out his scrubs and whose ass did the same. Walked around the hospital with a cool and cocky demeanor. You saw it coming.
So yeah. You were sure he got around. And that was proved when he got you in bed.
He must have liked a challenge, that’s what it had to be. He could do better- do easier than you. But he was set on you for some reason. And now you were here, knees in your chest, ankles over those big broad shoulders as that massive fucking dick spears into you over and over again. And it’s good. It’s so fucking good. You’ve come… twice? Thrice? Already. But he’s still going. Still thumbing your clit as he fucking plows you just right. He’ had your hands pinned over your head a few minutes ago, on your knees, face in the pillows before he decided he needed to see you, hear you. He ate you out with his hands around your wrist again, keeping you at his mercy as he overstimulated you with a skilled tongue. You’ve been going for… fuck. A while. You’ve lost all track of time.
“Who’s your daddy, baby?” He panted in your ear, more like a growl. You couldn’t think, truly, not when he had you like this. But you managed to answer. “You are!”
He grunted in approval.
“Good girl.”
You had told him it took you a long time to cum sometimes before this. He said he was in no rush. You told him you didn’t like some things. He listened with an easy nod. Warned him you were the kinda girl who got clingy. He seemed unconcerned. Completely unconcerned. Told him you’ve been known to cry. He looked hungry.
Brendon Park was unfazed by every warning, and went to fucking town on you anyway.
And finally, with your ankles next to his head, he came.
He pulled out gingerly, careful and kind with his movements, easing your legs down for you, carefully rubbing your hips to ease the ache. He kissed your cheek. “I’m gonna go get a towel.” He explained, pushing himself off the bed.
Right.
You sat there awkwardly, unsure what to do with yourself as you waited. You settled on pulling your knees up to your chest against his headboard.
He looked surprised at your change in position.
“You okay?” He worried. “C’mon, lay back down and stay comfy. Lemme clean you up” he insisted, gently tugging on your ankle to coax you down. You let him, shyly. Despite him having you in every position 5 minutes ago, this was so embarrassing.
The aftermath always was.
“Don’t get shy on me, baby.” He insisted, kissing your knee. “Nothing I haven’t seen” as he swiped the towel through your tender folds, muttering an apology, kissing your knee.
He smiled at you. Hair sweat damp and wavy, skin glowing, he smiled at you.
Gone was his trademark scowl, or the focused flushed face he’d had during sex. He was smiling. And yeah, he smiled during the date, but you thought that was all part of the act. The seduction to get you into bed.
Why was he smiling now?
Once he’d cleaned you up, he was back out of bed, walking to a dresser and pulling out a pair of boxers to pull on.
Then another pair, and a tee shirt.
“You should really go pee still, but here. If you want a toothbrush I have the little goody bag from my last cleaning in my top drawer under the sink, and there’s cerave by the sink if you want to wash your face”. He rattled off, extending the clothing to you.
You looked between him and your clothes on the floor unsurely.
“What?”
“I should get going.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t drive here, remember?” He reminded you. His face fell uncertainly. Concerned. Brows creased. He came back to the bed, setting the clothes beside you and running a worried hand down your cheek.
“You feeling okay? That was kinda intense, huh?”
You ignored him.
“I’ll just… get an Uber or whatever.”
“You’re welcome to do whatever you need to but. You really don’t have to do that.” He said explicitly.
“I don’t want you in an uber like this. If you’re really uncomfortable I can drive you home, but I would rather you stayed here.” Brendon insisted.
“You would?”
He looked at you dumbly.
“Yes. Of corse I would. I want you to stay the night. But only if you’re okay with that of corse.” He said flat out.
A little smirk came to his lips.
“What, you thought I was gonna kick you out of my bed or something?”
It was a lighthearted joke to him.
Your face was straight.
His fell.
“Oh my god you thought I was just gonna kick you out of my bed?”
He looked… hurt, almost.
“Well you got what you wanted so…”
You still hadn’t taken the clothes, still naked back up against the headboard now.
He looked crushed.
“Is that the kind of guy you think I am?”
You didn’t know how to respond.
“Look, I know I’ve been known to be kinda douchey at the hospital but. I’m not like that in my personal life. Not with the women I date. I thought- we went out earlier, right? We had a nice date, we came back here and kept the fun going.” He explains, like he’s trying to prove he’s not the guy you think he is.
He looked unsure if his series of events was the same as yours.
“I don’t know how to prove it, but I’m not that guy. Really. I like you. Really like you. Have for some time.” He explained.
“I thought-“
You began. Than stopped.
He looked desperate for you to continue.
“What did you think, honey?”
Honey?
“That I was, I don’t know. Like. A challange.”
He muttered the word to himself.
“Jesus fuck. No. No you’re not just some challenge. Why the hell did you even go out with me- come home with me if you thought that?”
You shrugged.
“You’re very persuasive.”
“I was going for charming.” He dryly laughed.
“That too.”
He smiled softly.
“You’re pretty damn charming yourself.” He flirted.
You smiled shyly, and he felt a little better.
A little.
“Let me say it like this. I want you to stay the night with me. I want to cuddle and kiss you and sleep here together tonight, and in the morning I want to make you breakfast and drive you home like a gentleman, and maybe beg you to go out with me again sometimes. Is that okay?”
Shyly, you nodded.
And Brendon smiled gently.
Sighing in relief.
“We need to talk about this again, sometime. Maybe in the morning. But not right now, sweet girl”.
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